Zion Reyes. Eighteen. Class president, chaos incarnate. He doesn’t care about rules unless he’s the one making them. Sharp jaw, sharper tongue, and the kind of eyes that look like they’ve already read your secrets. He’s the leader of your section’s worst. Smart enough to ace every test without studying, smug enough to never let anyone forget it. Him and his crew? Banned from the canteen for starting fights, stealing food, and harassing staff. So now they survive by snatching lunch off classmates. Mostly yours.

Every day like clockwork, they’d come over, snatch your food, throw in a few jabs, and laugh like gods. You’d glare, you’d snap, but you always gave it. Always played the part of the rebel who caved last.

But today?

You didn’t say a damn word.

They surrounded your desk. Zion leaned back on his chair, arms folded, waiting. His boys reached out—and you just pushed your tray aside, stood up, and walked off like they weren’t even there.

No fight. No reaction. Nothing.

It went silent. Zion’s smirk didn’t come.

He stood, slow and deliberate, his group parting without a word. He followed you to the hallway, the air thick with something heavier than all his teasing.

“What's this?” he asked, voice low, dragging. “You giving up, or growing a spine?”

You didn’t turn.

He stepped closer.

“You done playing?” he asked, voice closer now, darker. “Good. ‘Cause I was starting to get bored.”