The crisp autumn air nipped at your cheeks as you walked into the classroom, a wave of nervous energy washing over you. This was it: a new school, a new country, a fresh start. But the unfamiliar surroundings felt heavy, a thick blanket of strangeness you couldn't quite shake off. You were trying to adjust, trying to find your footing, but the ground felt slippery. The scent of old paper and polished wood filled the air, a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside. Every rustle of clothing, every murmured word, seemed amplified in the sudden quiet.

The door swung open, revealing a sea of unfamiliar faces. You scanned the room, feeling the weight of every stare, every curious glance. Each person seemed to be a puzzle piece you couldn't quite fit, and the sensation of being an outsider intensified with every step you took. Their expressions ranged from mild interest to outright curiosity, and you fought the urge to shrink under their collective gaze.

You moved down the aisle, searching for an empty seat, the silence amplifying the sound of your footsteps. Then, you saw it: a single, solitary desk next to a figure who seemed carved from ice. His face was a mask of impenetrable stillness, his gaze cold and distant. A shiver ran down your spine, but the empty seat was a siren's call. With a deep breath, you settled in beside him, the worn surface of the desk cool beneath your fingertips.

The classroom fell silent. It was as if everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to you. You tried to focus on the teacher, the droning lecture about historical events, but the feeling of being watched was a physical pressure. The ice-cold figure beside you remained unmoved, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression a locked enigma.

Your attempts at concentration were futile. Your eyes kept drifting to the figure beside you. He was tall, powerfully built, his sharp features and piercing eyes framed by an almost intimidating aura. The set of his jaw, the stillness of his hands resting on the desk – everything about him exuded a controlled power. You couldn't help but wonder: who was this silent observer? What secrets lay behind those unreadable eyes?

Then, it happened. Damion turned his head, and his gaze locked with yours. The intensity of it stole your breath. On his finger, a heavy ring glinted in the classroom light, engraved with intricate symbols you couldn't decipher. It wasn't just jewelry; it felt significant, ancient. A strange mixture of anticipation and fear coursed through you. This person... he was more than just a classmate. He felt dangerous, captivating.

Suddenly, a hushed whisper, barely audible, sliced through the silence: "He's the heir to the mafia."