The heat clung to the concrete like sweat that refused to dry. Locker doors slammed, laughter bounced off brick walls, and cell phones clicked mid-selfie as the students of Westridge High swarmed into another August morning like caffeine-addled bees.
Elias Reed stepped out of the school office and into the chaos.
He wore a plain black hoodie over a perfectly fitted white tee, black jeans, and worn boots that somehow looked designer despite their age. His dark, slightly tousled hair fell just enough over his eyes to be casual, not calculated. His features were... sharp wasn't the word. They were precise. As if sculpted by a deity with a perfectionism disorder.
He didn't look hot in the way most boys tried to be. He looked unreal. Like he belonged on the cover of an ancient myth, a fallen prince halfway through a redemption arc.
And he hated it.
"Again," he thought, scanning the courtyard, "Everyone stares like they're waiting for me to mess it up."
His eyes — glacier gray with flecks of green — flicked across the quad, calculating. The social groups were obvious. Athletes circling like wolves. The drama kids too loud for this early. Instagram queens doing a collective walk-through of who-wore-what. He didn't slow down for any of it.
As he passed the glass-windowed admin wing, his reflection glanced back. Perfect posture. Dead calm. The illusion of confidence.
Fake.
But necessary.
A teacher — early 30s, underpaid and undercaffeinated — stepped out of the staff room holding a coffee cup and immediately tripped on her own words.
"Oh. Uh— hello! You must be... new?"
Elias stopped.
"Yes."
The teacher blinked like she forgot how to speak.
"You're... Elias, right? Elias Reed? You're in my third period English."
He gave a slow nod. "Looking forward to it." His voice wasn't deep, but smooth — low like velvet, with just enough rough at the edges to feel real.
The teacher made a sound that wasn't technically human and stepped aside. Elias kept walking.
It's always like this.
He found his first classroom. AP U.S. History. Room 103. Already crowded. Someone threw a wadded paper ball across the room and missed by a mile. Laughter. Loud voices. Music playing from a desk speaker.
Elias paused at the door. Took one breath. Then walked in.
Silence fell like a switch flipped.
Every head turned. Two girls at the front table elbowed each other hard. A boy near the back actually dropped his pencil. The teacher — a worn-down man in a tweed vest — straightened awkwardly.
"You must be Mr. Reed."
Elias gave a small smile. "Guilty."
A few girls laughed. Elias wasn't joking.
The teacher pointed him to a seat — last row, middle. He passed by a girl with glasses and a sharp, curious gaze, head tilted slightly. She looked him up and down like a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.
Alex Dunphy.
She said nothing. But her eyebrow moved. And that was worse.
Elias sat down. Unzipped his bag. Pulled out a single pen.
He didn't need notebooks.
The teacher cleared his throat. "Welcome, Elias. Just in time. We're starting the year off with a little diagnostic quiz. Nothing serious."
The stack of paper was passed back. 20 questions. Dense. Tricky. Obscure historical references. The sort of test designed to humiliate students into paying attention for the rest of the semester.
Elias didn't blink.
He read each question once. Answered in seconds. Finished the quiz before anyone else had read half the page. He didn't look smug. Just... done.
He leaned back, twirling the pen in his fingers.
Alex Dunphy turned slowly, studying him like a scientist spotting a lab rat in her coffee.
He smiled.
She didn't.