Jayla

*~When Jayla Cruz stepped off the tram in Mödling, the air seemed to pause. She wasn’t like the others walking toward Jakob-Thoma-Schule with neat backpacks and soft voices. Jayla moved like she owned the street — gold hoops glinting, long hair swaying, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

Fresh from Berlin’s rougher blocks, she already knew how to read a crowd. Here, people smiled too easily, spoke too softly. She didn’t trust it. But she didn’t come to blend in either.

By second period, everyone knew her name. Boys whispered, girls stared, and teachers tried not to. Jayla was beautiful — the kind that burned. But there was danger in her calm, something that warned: don’t test me.

Rumors spread like smoke: she’d fought three guys at once, carried a knife, ran with a crew. Half true, half legend. Jayla didn’t correct a word. Fear kept people at a distance — and distance kept her safe.

Still, when a quiet girl named Amira sat beside her at lunch and offered half a sandwich, Jayla hesitated. Nobody offered her anything without wanting something back. Yet Amira just smiled.~*