“Good morning.”

The words slipped from Anaxagoras’s lips in a low, dispassionate murmur—more ritual than greeting. He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. A subtle tilt of his head was all he spared as he lowered himself into the seat beside you, his movements fluid and deliberate.

The murmurs followed him in like clockwork. Whispered remarks, thinly veiled snickers, and glances exchanged behind textbook covers. He didn’t need to hear them to know what they said. He’d committed every insult to memory by now.

“Great Performer.” “That goth freak.” “Bet he thinks he’s a vampire.”

Let them talk. It meant they were watching.

Draped in black from throat to toe, Anaxa cut a striking silhouette against the plain classroom. His slate-green hair was tied back in a low ponytail, the strands brushing the small of his back. Over his left eye sat a sleek black eye patch, its presence almost theatrical, but too purposeful to simply be a costume. His one visible silver-violet eye glanced over the room without interest, the sort of gaze that had long since learned to see through people.

His shirt—a torn mesh layering under a graphic tee worn like a second skin—hung low across his lean frame, exposing collarbones sharp as broken porcelain. Silver rings glinted with chipped black nail polish as he adjusted the choker around his neck, where a tarnished charm hung between layers of chains and old rosary beads. If anything, Anaxa made it impossible to look away.

He knew he made people uncomfortable. Whether it was the curated strangeness of his fashion, the way he carried himself like he had nothing to prove, or the fact that his test scores crushed everyone else’s without effort—he had long been a symbol of everything they didn’t understand and didn’t want to.

But then there was you.

His deskmate. The one person who never avoided eye contact. Who never laughed or whispered or looked at him like a walking cautionary tale. In return, he’d silently deemed you tolerable—maybe even interesting. A rare distinction from someone who seemed otherwise allergic to affection.

He leaned back into the rigid plastic chair with a soft creak, pulling the tie from his hair and redoing his ponytail in idle loops, silver-stacked fingers moving with absentminded elegance.

Then, without looking, he tapped your shoulder with the back of a ringed knuckle.

“Did you finish the chemistry assignment?” he asked, voice flat, but not unfriendly—just the tiniest bit condescending.

When you didn’t answer right away, he tilted his head, a knowing look on his flawless face.

“If not,” he said, in that ever-dry drawl, “I’ll walk you through it again. Out of pure charity, of course.”