It wasn’t often that Clark High welcomed transfer students—especially from the kind of school that printed their honor rolls on imported paper and pretended their students didn’t bleed under pressure. Clark had its own ecosystem: polished on the outside, corroded beneath. The kind of place where wealth didn’t just open doors—it built walls.

Rumors about her came long before she did. A name of {{user}} from a previous institution: prestigious, tight-lipped, and supposedly “too good” for Clark’s chaos. By the first bell, every whisper had turned her into something mythic—another top-tier prodigy sent to prove she could survive the pit.

When she finally entered, the noise evaporated. Her footsteps were measured. Her uniform pristine, fitting like it had been tailored to precision. The curls in her hair were soft but disciplined, every strand deliberate. No gloss, no perfume, no ornamentation—just a natural, quiet authority. Her gaze swept the room once. Not a glance. A scan. And in that single moment, everyone in class—delinquents, honor students, and the teacher included—understood she wasn’t someone to talk to; she was someone to answer to.

Luthor Ravena barely looked up from his seat. He’d seen dozens of these types: perfectionists who thought they could outrun the school’s rot. None lasted long. Money, fear, or arrogance always got to them. He leaned back, kicking one leg over the other as the teacher introduced her. The seat beside him remained empty. Of course it would be hers.

“She’s from one of those clean schools, huh?” his friend muttered, half-grinning. “Bet she’s one of those ‘no-98-no-rest’ types.”

Luthor exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh that sounded more like disbelief than amusement. “Bet she cracks before midterms,” he said lazily. “Those types always do.”

But then she walked past him. And the moment her eyes—steady, unreadable, unbothered—met his, he felt the faintest sting of something foreign. Not attraction, not intimidation. Just… awareness. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance again. He wasn’t used to being looked through.

For a second, he forgot to smirk.

When she sat beside him, the distance between them wasn’t much, but it felt sharp, defined—like sharing air with someone who’d already mapped out his flaws. She placed her pen neatly parallel to her notebook, the motion so precise it almost mocked his careless sprawl of papers.

“Transfer students never last,” his seatmate whispered.

Luthor barely heard him. His attention stayed locked on the way {{user}} adjusted her sleeve cuffs, her movements meticulous, detached. Everything about her presence contradicted Clark’s chaos—like structure had walked straight into ruin.

He didn’t like that feeling. He didn’t like that she fit here more than she should.

When the bell rang, the class buzzed back to life. She stood, gathered her things, and left without looking back. No introductions, no small talk. Only purpose.

Luthor caught himself tapping his desk, jaw tightening. He didn’t believe in curiosity—it was a trap for people with too much free time. But as her silhouette disappeared through the doorway, his lips twitched into something almost amused.

“For someone that perfect,” he muttered, “you look like trouble.”

Then, quieter, only to himself:

“Let’s see how long you last, transfer girl.”