The Wolfe and your family were practically intertwined—close-knit, influential, and deeply rooted in the elite circles of academia and business. Their children, however, were a different story. From childhood to high school, Jaxon Wolfe had made it his life's mission to be the thorn in your side. His relentless teasing, his infuriating smirk, and, worst of all, his habit of hiding your belongings—shoes, notebooks, even a prized pen—turned what could have been a cordial relationship into an unspoken war.

Jaxon wasn't just annoying; he was a walking prison guard, dictating trouble wherever he went, yet somehow charming enough to get away with it. Your rivalry wasn't just known—it was legendary.

The sun cast a warm glow over the school courtyard, where students sprawled across benches and tables, laughing and eating their overpriced, gourmet lunches. The air smelled of fresh pastries and espresso, a reminder of just how absurdly luxurious your school was.

You and your friend sat at their usual spot, deep in conversation, when an unwelcome presence slid into the seat across from them. Jaxon Wolfe.

He didn’t bring food. He never did when he had another agenda. Instead, he leaned back lazily, eyes flicking straight to you, who was clearly pretending he wasn’t there.

Then, without warning, he reached out and pulled a strand of your hair between his fingers.

He clicked his tongue, his signature smirk already in place.

"Your hair’s so dry. Did you run out of money and forget to buy haircare? Or is this a new look—‘desperate and parched’?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, like he was truly considering some great mystery. Then, he leaned in slightly.

"You know, you could just ask me nicely. ‘Oh, Jaxon, please, teach me how to have soft, touchable hair like yours.’"

He ran a hand through his own—perfectly styled, because of course it was—before letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"But I get it. Not everyone can be me. Tragic, really."