The classroom door swung open.
A tall figure stepped in, backlit by the hallway light, silhouetted against the chatter and restless energy of Midtown High's afternoon class.
He wore a black hat that seemed to melt into his dark hair, its brim pulled low over his eyes.
On the podium, Mr. Harrington—his salt-and-pepper hair styled in what he fondly called a "Mediterranean cut"—adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Class, this is our new transfer student. Everyone, please give him a warm welcome. Go ahead, son—introduce yourself."
"My name is Joren Joestar," the boy said, voice calm but carrying effortlessly.
"I'm seventeen. Aquarius."
"I hate violence."
"I live on Ingram Street in Queens. I'm always home before midnight."
"I smoke. I drink."
"I hit hard when I fight—some people are still in the hospital."
"If I ever meet a teacher who's bad at teaching but great at posturing," he added, "I'd be happy to help him retire early."
"It's also pretty common for me to walk out without paying if the food's not worth the price."
"I get eight hours of sleep every night," he continued, as if reading from a wellness brochure. "A glass of warm milk, twenty minutes of gentle stretching—then I sleep like a baby. No stress. No fatigue. Never carry either into tomorrow."
"The doctors all say I'm perfectly normal."
The classroom went dead silent.
Inside more than one student's head, a voice was screaming:
This isn't normal—you absolute lunatic!
"Ahem!"
Mr. Harrington flinched so hard his pen snapped. He swore he felt his hairline retreat another millimeter.
Was this an introduction… or a declaration of war?
"V-Very good, Joren," he stammered, forcing a smile that looked more like a rictus grimace. "Your… uh… introduction is certainly… unique."
He waved weakly toward the back. "Why don't you find a seat? We should, ah—start class."
A hush fell, thick and tense. Then the whispers crashed in like a tidal wave.
"This guy's insane! Absolutely off his rocker!"
"Was that an intro or a challenge to the entire school?"
"Mafia prince doing undercover fieldwork?"
"Warm milk and bedtime calisthenics? What kind of psycho combo is that?!"
Joren ignored it all. He scanned the room, eyes sharp but expression unreadable, until they settled on the last row by the window—far from the podium, far from everyone.
Perfect.
As he walked back, a blond boy in the aisle locked eyes with him. His glare was open, unapologetically hostile.
Lightning Thompson—Midtown High's star quarterback and resident troublemaker—exchanged smirks with his usual crew of henchmen.
Up front, Mr. Harrington buried himself in his lecture notes, silently praying the bell would ring—or that someone, anyone, would drag this kid to the principal's office before things got really weird.
This gave Thompson an opportunity.
As Joren passed by his seat, a subtle tension filled the air.
Thompson swiftly extended his right leg with a deft, practiced motion.
It was a classic campus bullying ritual—the tripping kill.
He'd even rehearsed the scene in his head:
The transfer student in that ridiculous black hat would lunge forward like a clumsy marionette. His cheeks, nose bridge, and forehead would make an intimate acquaintance with the cold, hard floor. The hat would fly off in a humiliating arc—and one of Thompson's henchmen already had a sarcastic line ready to deliver the moment the crash sounded.
But Joren stopped in his tracks.
The instant he registered Thompson's sly movement, a violet blur materialized from behind him.
"Star Platinum!"
"Platinum Star!"
In less time than a single heartbeat, Star Platinum's hands—moving with impossible speed—latched onto the critical screws of the wooden chair beneath Thompson's backside. With a faint metallic creak, the bolts securing the chair's legs and backrest spun seventy-two times in reverse before silently clattering to the floor.
Snap!
Thompson, grinning in anticipation of Joren's fall, suddenly felt the seat vanish beneath him.
The chair's four legs splayed outward like a collapsing spider, and his so-called "throne" disintegrated into kindling.
"Oh—fuck!?"
The 1.85-meter, 200-pound football quarterback crashed onto the floor, ass-first, legs splayed wide—one even jutting into the aisle. The dull thud made every boy in the room instinctively clamp their thighs together.
Thompson's face cycled from normal pallor to liver-red in half a second, then deepened to eggplant purple.
For three full seconds, the classroom fell utterly silent.
All eyes locked onto Thompson, twitching on the floor, and the splintered remains of his chair.
His henchmen's smirks froze mid-gloat.
Then—someone snorted.
That single laugh was the signal flare.
"HAHAHAHA!"
"My God, Thompson! You trying out a new wrestling move?!"
"This chair's carrying weight it was never meant to bear! Maybe you should lose some weight?!"
The laughter swelled into a tidal wave, threatening to blow the roof off. Even Mr. Harrington's blood pressure seemed to spike in real time.
"Quiet! Everyone—quiet!" he barked, rushing toward the chaos.
But it was useless.
Meanwhile, the true source of the mayhem had already reached his destination.
To the rest of the class, Joren had simply walked past Thompson's outstretched leg without so much as a flicker of expression.
He hung his schoolbag on the hook beside his desk and sat down.
Leaning back slightly, he tested the chair's sturdiness.
Good. This one's loyal.
Joren tugged the brim of his hat lower, shading his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the windows. The breeze rustled the leaves outside. The temperature was just right.
Finally… peace.
He unzipped his backpack, ignoring both the teacher's frantic shouting and Thompson's pig-like squeals behind him, and pulled out a thick, hardcover tome thick enough to stop a bullet: Introduction to Marine Biology.
Flipping precisely to the page on dugongs, Joren let the gentle, harmless gaze of the sea cow soothe the agitation from his chest.