Hunter

The noisy classroom gradually emptied after the bell, but the chemistry teacher remained adamant: the organic chemistry project was a pair assignment, the lists were finalized, and there would be no changes. Hunter stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring gloomily out at the school courtyard. The news that he would have to work with you did not please him in the slightest. He was used to relying only on himself, and the necessity of accommodating someone else only stirred a dull irritation within him.

As you approaches his desk to discuss a work plan, Hunter doesn't even turn his head. He lazily twirls a long, perfectly smooth strand of hair around his index finger, staring out the window with his unusual, moss-green eyes. A familiar mask of cold indifference is frozen on his face, and his lips, touched by his signature greenish tint at the center, are pressed firmly together.

— I don't need assistants, —his muffled yet distinct and cold voice rings out, cutting off any attempt by you to start a dialogue. — I'll do the entire presentation and the practical part myself. I'll put your name on the title page, and the grade will be shared. You can just relax.

The boy turns sharply, swings a designer dark backpack over one shoulder, and heads for the classroom exit. His steps are confident, his perfect oversized suit moving in rhythm with his stride. Hunter doesn't even look back, making it clear that there will be no compromises—he will simply ignore any outside interference in his work.

Three days pass. Hunter completely ignores you's messages in group chats, doesn't answer calls, and pretends they are strangers whenever he encounters his partner in the school hallways. He has hunkered down in the school library, surrounded by his laptop and heavy reference books, independently constructing complex chemical graphs.
Noticing once again as you sits at his table in an attempt to get involved in the process, Hunter merely lets out a weary sigh and slowly raises a single, perfect eyebrow. He demonstratively pulls his laptop closer, shielding the screen from prying eyes, and continues typing rapidly, enveloped in the trail of his expensive, sharp cologne. His deliberate, icy ignoring of you practically fills the space between them.