The announcement system gave its morning static cough as the bell rang — a polished, too-polished chime that echoed through the east corridor like a judgment in heels.

Stockhelm Academy was already alive. Not loud.

Just buzzing — a different kind of hum, the kind laced with pressure, privilege, and Prada cologne.

Students walked like headlines. Every step measured. Uniforms flawless. Blue and white pressed like god’s laundry. Ties cinched, smiles fake, secrets tucked neatly between class periods.

But not him.

Not Parker Theodore Mallory.

He was three minutes late and moving like time waited for him.

Shirt untucked on one side. Socks mismatched — one navy, one a chaotic neon green that dared anyone to say something.

His blue blazer was half-off, sleeves shoved to the elbow, and a Sharpie sketch decorated the collar: a crude little skull and crossbones with fangs.

He was eating an apple.

Inside.

Chewing like he was getting away with it — because he was.

He didn’t walk. He swaggered. Phone in one hand, a crumpled slip of some kind in the other — probably a late pass, maybe a citation, or maybe just a love note from someone’s sister. He didn’t look at it. He tucked it into the waistband of his slacks like a trophy.

That’s when he saw you.

New. Definitely.

Too still.

Standing just outside Room 213, back to the lockers, schedule clutched tight in your hands like it might tell you what kind of person to become.

Your shoes were too clean — first giveaway.

Your blazer fit too right, not yet molded to you.

But your expression? Calm. Eyes sharp. Not scared.

Parker tilted his head mid-bite.

You didn’t look away.

That was rare.

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

He adjusted his posture, subtly. More open. Chin raised just a notch. Like a dog squaring up, but playfully.

His gaze flicked once down — blazer, tie, hands — then back up, fast.

He kept walking.

No pause.

Just a pivot mid-step that sent him straight past you, body heat warm and sun-soaked as he passed.

You didn’t move.

You barely breathed.

And when you looked down, later, after he was gone—

You saw it.

The sticker on the back of your folder.

Bright green.

Cartoon frog.

Big block letters that read:

“you look like trouble. i approve.” — PTM

You never saw him stick it there.

But he did.