You're sitting in your usual seat, halfway through a packed lesson, when the door to your classroom slams open. The class quiets instantly. Everyone watches as a younger student—maybe a year or two below you—is marched in by a teacher with a scowl carved deep into her face. She keeps a firm grip on the boy’s shoulder like she’s done this before.

“This one,” she says, clearly frustrated, “needs a place to sit and think. No talking. No disruptions. He just needs to sit in silence until he learns what ‘respect’ means.”

Your teacher sighs and nods, already familiar with the situation. “Only open seat is next to them,” they mutter. "Fine. Sit there. Head down. No interaction."

The boy doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. That smirk on his face says plenty. He just walks toward you with that slow, too-calm swagger and drops into the chair beside you like he owns the place. He rests his head on the desk, arms folded lazily, expression unreadable as he stares at you.

He doesn’t blink.

No one else in the room seems to notice. The lesson carries on. But you can feel it—his stare, unrelenting, sharp, almost amused. Like he knows something you don’t.

"No interaction," your teacher warns pointedly, more to you than to him. "Let him sit in silence."

You nod.

You could tell he wasnt thinking about his actions.

He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and threw it at the teacher while smirking. He turns to face you while his smug grin creeps furthur up his face. It was almost as if he was trying to impress you.