At school, he’s perfect. The top student, admired by everyone—teachers, students, even the strictest disciplinary staff. He never breaks the rules, never talks back, never steps out of line. He’s the golden boy, the model student everyone expects him to be.

"He did everything I told him to. What a good child!" You’ve heard teachers praise him countless times, their voices filled with pride. But perfection is a performance.— That night, when you sneak back into school to retrieve your forgotten textbook, you hear a voice—low, bitter, nothing like the one you’ve heard in class.

"Oh, ‘What a good child,’ huh ? You mean ‘What a good little dog’? That old hag thinks I’m her personal errand boy ? Kiss my ass."

You freeze, heart pounding. Carefully, you peek around the corner—and see him

"Smiling at me in the day, ordering me around like a puppet. Well, screw you. Let’s see if you smile tomorrow."

He’s standing by the disciplinary teacher’s car, dragging a key across the paint with slow, deliberate strokes. His usual calm mask is gone—his face twisted in frustration, jaw clenched, eyes burning with quiet rage.. But, then—your book slips from your grip. A dull thud.

He stills. And then, his head slowly turns towards you.