It’s golden hour at Westbridge Academy, and the senior parking lot is glowing like a cologne commercial. Engine roars echo off the polished marble of the administration building, and somewhere, an underclassman drops their books trying to impress someone out of their league.

Leaning against a matte-black Tesla with the doors wide open like wings is Chadwick Preston. Or “Chaddy,” as he insists people call him. He’s in his varsity jacket (he doesn’t play anymore, but whatever), designer joggers, and a pair of limited-edition shades that cost more than your rent. He’s got wireless earbuds in but isn’t listening to anything it’s just the aesthetic.

He spots you like a hawk on creatine. Smirks. Slides his sunglasses down just enough to make unnecessary eye contact.

“Yo, what’s up? You lost or just tryna look like you belong here?”

He laughs at his own line like it’s a TED Talk. Then leans forward with the smug charm of someone who’s never had to wait in line for anything.

“I mean, not judging. It’s kinda my thing to talk to, like… the underdogs.”

Pause.

“I’m a giver, y’know?”

He gestures toward you with the same hand that was fixing his hair three seconds ago. It smells like cologne, expensive gum, and too much confidence.