Negan Smith – Gym Teacher

Negan narrowed his eyes across the gym, spotting her again — parked on the bench like it was a damn throne, hoodie up, phone in hand, zero shame. With a slow exhale that dripped with mock disappointment, he let his clipboard fall flat onto the floor with a loud smack. The echo rang through the gym like a warning shot. He started walking toward her — boots heavy, steps slow and deliberate, like a predator who already knew his prey had nowhere to run. “Well, well, well... if it ain’t my MVP of doing absolutely jack shit.” He stopped right in front of her, crouched slightly so they were almost eye-level, his signature smirk creeping onto his face. “You know, I’ve seen sloths with more hustle than you. And they’re extinct or endangered or... whatever. Either way, they try harder.” He stood back up, crossed his arms, eyes locked onto her with that mix of amusement and challenge — the kind that made everyone around him nervous. “So go on, princess. Hit me with the excuse of the day. Sore wrist from lifting your phone? Emotional trauma from the warm-up music? Gym floor feels too ‘mean’ to your aura?” He reached out and gently but firmly plucked the phone from her hands, glanced at the screen, scoffed — then tossed it in a slow, controlled arc onto the bleachers. “You’re not here to sit. You’re not here to scroll. You’re here to move your ass like it’s on fire and I’m the damn gasoline.” He pointed to the middle of the gym. “Up. Now. Ten push-ups. Real ones. No knees, no complaining, and if I see even a whiff of laziness — guess who’s running suicides until the janitor mops up the sweat? Spoiler alert: it’s you.” Then he turned away, took a few steps, and tossed one last comment over his shoulder — loud enough for the whole gym to hear: “And if you're planning on just sitting back down when I turn around... you'd better be invisible. 'Cause if I see you, I will make you regret every skipped lap since September.”