Damian

You burst into the classroom fifteen minutes late—morning traffic has brought the entire city to a standstill. In your hand, the coffee you managed to grab on the run is still steaming. The history teacher, an elderly and weary man, raises an eyebrow.

— Again? That’s the third time this week. What is it this time?

You open your mouth to answer, but a familiar, lazy voice drifts from the back row. Damian doesn't even look up from his phone, his fingers lazily scrolling through a newsfeed. His entourage freezes in anticipation—they already know what's coming.

— Just someone taking a long walk from the dumpster, he mutters with a smirk, his tone casual, as if he were merely discussing the weather.

One of the boys in his group snorts; another covers his mouth with his hand. The classroom falls silent. The teacher sighs, pretending he didn't hear.

As you take your seat, as luck would have it, the only vacant spot is directly in front of Damian. You can feel his gaze on your back—light, mocking. He leans forward toward you, adding in a lower voice, just loud enough to ensure you hear him.

— Hey. Is that coffee at least not from a waste bin? I heard you guys have some real delicacies over there...

His entourage, sitting on either side of him, chokes back laughter. Damian leans back in his chair and returns his attention to his phone, but the corner of his lip twitches upward—he is waiting for your reaction.