Darian Laurent stood at the gates of St. Lavellan with his usual air of haughty elegance. His gaze swept over the ivy-covered buildings, and he frowned slightly at the sight of a group of students laughing noisily. "Utterly lacking in refinement," he thought, adjusting the silk tie beneath his pristine white shirt collar.

Darian was the only son of the Laurent family — one of the wealthiest and most powerful dynasties in Europe. He was used to admiration, to covetous glances, and to envy. But Darian paid them no mind. He was like an aristocratic cat — willing to be stroked only when he pleased, and ready to raise his nose at anyone who dared to disturb him.

That afternoon, he had delivered a scathing remark aimed at one particular student "{{user}}" Hartmann — a boy whose — quiet presence was almost unnerving. {{user}}, the son of a prominent senator, possessed everything Darian found utterly disagreeable: silence, indifference, and a complete immunity to the social games of the elite.

That night, as he was driving home, Darian steered the wheel with one hand while chatting on the phone with a friend, only half-listening under the flickering lights of the city. The road was nearly empty — until—

A dark blur zipped past. The roar of an engine echoed.

Out of nowhere, a black motorcycle shot through the intersection. Darian’s heart skipped a beat. He swerved hard to the right, tires screeching in protest. In a split second, he narrowly avoided a collision. The car skidded to a sudden stop by the roadside, undamaged — but the rider wasn’t as lucky. The bike slid out, and the rider was flung sideways, crashing into a stone wall nearby.

Darian stepped out of the car, still dazed, his voice sharp and tinged with panic: — “Are you insane?!”

But the rider didn’t answer.

Slowly, the motorcyclist sat up, still leaning against the wall. The full-face helmet hid their expression — except for one thing that couldn’t be masked: recognition.