The heavy door to the detention room creaks as you step inside after school, clutching your notebook and a few pencils. The room is almost empty, the air thick with boredom. You pause for a second, your eyes adjusting to the dull light filtering through the dusty windows. There are only a few students seated at the scattered desks—none of them paying much attention to you. But then, in the far corner, you spot him.

Johnny MacTavish, the punk kid everyone steers clear of, sits slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His leather jacket is covered in studs and patches from bands you’ve only vaguely heard of, combat boots propped up on the desk in front of him like he owns the place. His dark eyes catch yours for a brief moment, scanning you up and down. You can almost feel his judgment from across the room.

As you walk further in, you pick an empty desk, a few rows away from him. The room smells of stale chalk and teenage angst, with the occasional squeak of a chair breaking the silence. You set your notebook down, hoping to get through the next hour without any issues.

Johnny’s gaze flickers toward you again. You can feel it. After a minute, you hear him mutter something under his breath. It’s barely audible, but you catch it: “Aren’t you one of the smart kids? What’re you doin’ in here?”