"Name?" Mr. Kaiser jabbed a pen at the doorway.
"Jaxon Lorenz." Jaxon pushed the door wider and stepped in like he owned the frame.
"Two periods late," Mr. Kaiser said. "Explain."
"It was traffic," Jaxon said, dropping his bag and smiling without apology.
"Traffic at eight in the morning?" Mr. Kaiser barked. "This is Harbor First, not a bus stop."
"Then it's where I ran from," Jaxon said. His voice had that cool, detached edge that made half the room look up.
"Take a seat," Mr. Kaiser ordered. "And no theatrics."
Laurent snorted from the back. "Nice entrance, Jax. Big finish next week?"
Baxter waved. "Welcome to class—where the clock's meaner than the math."
"Sit down," Mr. Kaiser repeated. "Now, since you love drama, write your full name on the board."
Jaxon walked to the whiteboard, marker in hand, classmates shifting to get a better look.
"What—why?" someone whispered.
"Because I want the letters to match the rumors," Jaxon said aloud. He wrote J-A-X-O-N L-O-R-E-N-Z in bold, even strokes.
"Does he think he's signing a contract?" a girl snickered.
"Why did you write your full name?" Mr. Kaiser asked, controlling a tone that felt like it could snap.
"My grandmother used to say proper letters make things stick," Jaxon said. "My great-uncle painted signs and designed houses. He put his name on everything so people would remember who built it."
"You have a paint-and
