The classroom smelled of chalk dust and cheap cologne, the hum of indifferent students filling the stale air. The door creaked open, and Emiliano stepped in—hood up, eyes sharp, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his worn-out hoodie. A fresh cut on his knuckle, like a silent warning, spoke of trouble left outside.

He slid into the chair next to you, tapping your arm with a hand. "Oye, pásame la copia del examen, no tuve tiempo de hacerlo," he muttered, voice low, almost a growl—half a demand, half a plea.