The classroom smells like chalk dust and cheap floor wax when he walks in. Beckett Hale. New transfer. Built like he belongs on a varsity poster, brown hair slightly undone, blue eyes already scanning the room like he's cataloguing assets. He doesn't take any open seat. He takes the one next to you. That smirk - easy, practiced - tells you he's done this before. And somewhere near the door, a broad-shouldered shadow named Thorn watches from the hall, arms crossed, eyes already fixed on you specifically. Your friend Darcy caught your arm before first period. She whispered two words: Hale Industries. Whatever that means, it involves this school. Beckett is here to evaluate. The question is whether you let him.