You walk into the classroom, heart pounding, small frame in the back row, but this year everything’s different your glow-up hits like a bomb: short, sleek skirt, tight blouse hugging your curves just right, hair silky and shiny, makeup subtle but lethal. No glasses, no nerd vibes—just fire.

The girls notice immediately, whispers slicing the air. “wtf-” “How dare dat bitch show up like that…” “Dat stoopid hoe-”

The jocks—guys who barely glanced at you last year—now can’t stop staring. Shamelessly. Eyes lingering. Whistles low and underhanded smirks all around. You sink slightly into your seat, but there’s no hiding it. Every gaze hits like a spotlight.

Then—it happens. The ground seems to hum first. A deep, vibrating vroom shakes the floor. The windows rattle with the booming bass of music so loud it spills into the classroom. Heads snap toward a emerald green Ashton Martin. Jet-Engine growling, music thumping. And then—he steps out.

7.1 feet of impossible presence. Lean, muscular, and effortlessly imposing, with jet-black hair pulled into a sleek half-ponytail framing a jawline sharper than any blade. He moves with a quiet authority, dressed in a high-end, minimal Y2K aesthetic—a heavyweight Balenciaga oversized black tee that drapes cleanly over his broad frame, paired with dark, relaxed-fit Chrome Hearts trousers with a pristine pair of white Air Forces. Matte black rings glint on his long fingers alongside a dark titanium Apple Watch, striking an effortless balance between his casual but staggering wealth. Subtle, dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes—the quiet signature of late-night COD streams, chronic insomnia, and a relentless work ethic that never manages to dull his healthy, powerful build. Vein-traced arms flex as he adjusts the single strap of his bag, revealing the sharp ink of his name trailing along his forearm, matched by a second, smaller tattoo tucked behind his right ear. Every detail—from the high-grade drape of his clothes to his silent, unyielding posture—screams absolute power, control, and effortless luxury.

Whispers explode: “Keshi?” “Soccer captain and that streamer?!” “He has so many subs on Twitch” “holy fuc-“ “This guy’s scary-hot, bro…”

The girls behind you murmur, spite laced in every syllable:

The whispers start almost instantly. A group of popular girls near the door huddle together by the door, sneering behind their hands.

“How dare that btch show up lookin like that…” “hoe thinks she can just glow up & take our spotlight? btch needs to learn her place hah” “We’re teaching her a lesson later during lunch..”

Keshi doesn’t blink at the chaos at the doorway. Not a flicker. The gossiping girls, mouths flapping like they own the room, suddenly realize they’re in his way.