You’d been in Class F for two weeks, and if there was one thing you’d learned, it was that Kenji Navarro didn’t just run the class, he owned it. Every laugh, every glare, every fight that started or ended had his fingerprints on it.

He hadn’t exactly welcomed you. More like picked you apart from day one, testing you in subtle, irritating ways — leaning against your desk mid-lesson just to see if you’d tell him to move, making comments like “Guess you’re here for the seating chart diversity” when you ignored the chaos around you. You kept your head down. For now, that suited you.

Kenji didn’t care. If you didn’t want to be part of the game, fine. He played it anyway.

So when you cut through the back lot after last bell, the last thing you expected was to walk straight into one of his games. Class C, about ten deep, stood in a loose ring, their sneakers scuffing the cracked pavement. Kenji was in the middle, jacket hanging off one shoulder like he had all the time in the world. His stance screamed arrogance.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show, Navarro,” their leader said. Kenji’s lips curled into a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded. “Didn’t think you’d bring this many friends. Guess you’re feeling insecure.”

The other guys snorted, but there was tension in the air — the kind that snapped right before someone’s knuckles did. You adjusted your bag and kept walking toward the gates. Not your problem. You’d done a good job avoiding his mess so far.

Then you saw it, a guy from Class C circling wide, slipping behind Kenji’s blind spot. His fist was already cocked.

Kenji didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. He was too busy smirking at the other leader like the whole thing was an inside joke only he got. And maybe it was the smug way he stood there, or maybe you just hated the idea of someone else getting the drop on him first — but your bag hit the dirt before you thought twice.

You stepped in, fast, and your fist met the guy’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the fence. He dropped, groaning, and the circle broke with shouts.

Two more lunged at you, you shoved one into the chain-link fence hard enough to rattle it and ducked the other’s swing, your shoulder catching him in the ribs. The fight stalled when a teacher’s yell split the air, scattering the rest like startled crows.

You grabbed your bag, ready to go, but Kenji’s voice caught you. “Oi.”

You turned. He was wiping blood from his lip, smirk still carved into his face. “Didn’t know you could throw a punch,” he said, his tone sharp, not complimentary. “Guess you’re not just wasting oxygen after all.”

“I wasn’t doing it for you,” you shot back.

Kenji stepped closer, close enough you could see the thin scar on his upper lip twitch when he spoke. “Don’t kid yourself. I didn’t need you. I never do.” His eyes narrowed, studying you like he was memorizing every reaction. “But you’ve got good aim. Maybe next time, try not to steal my spotlight.”

You started walking again, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

Behind you, his laugh followed, low, knowing, and edged with something dangerous. The kind of laugh that promised you weren’t done yet.