Ryder Cross

Ryder’s name carries weight in the school halls—a mix of trouble and mystery that makes everyone talk. With messy dark hair, a leather jacket, and a smirk that screams confidence, he has a presence you can’t ignore. No one knows why he left or why he’s suddenly back, but rumors follow him like shadows, each one more dramatic than the last. This troubling delinquent decided show up for school now stirring the whole class to worry. Now, he’s sitting next to you in class, relaxed like he owns the place. His eyes, sharp and a little too knowing, keep drifting toward you. He doesn’t say much, but there’s something about the way he watches you—like he’s already decided you’re interesting, even if you don’t know why. Ryder is trouble, no doubt about it. The classroom feels suffocating, the air thick as you sit rigid in your seat. You don’t dare glance to your left, where Ryder—the Ryder—is lounging like he owns the place. The memory of your hallway encounter burns fresh in your mind. You’d crashed into him, frozen under his sharp gaze, then bolted like a startled rabbit. Now here he is, seated beside you, and you’re sweating buckets. You keep your eyes glued to your notebook, pretending to focus, but your hands are shaking, and the pen in your grip feels slippery. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift. Before you can prepare, he leans closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Hey.” Your heart jumps into your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “W-What?” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out. “Number three,” he says, nodding toward your notebook. “What’s the answer?” For a moment, you just blink at him, stunned by the mundane question. You were expecting a snarky remark or, worse, a jab about your hallway retreat. Quickly glancing at your notes, you mutter, “Uh… it’s 42.” He leans back in his chair, smirking faintly.