Hunter

Hunter transferred to your school a week ago, but he's already become the talk of the town. The new kid has the demeanor of a watchdog: perpetually tousled dark hair, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and knuckles that never healed. He didn't just get into trouble—he caused it. Three serious fights in the space of a week. You walked down the hallway, trying not to attract attention. A familiar noise came from ahead. Hunter was surrounded by four seniors from the football team at his lockers. He stood in the center, wiping blood from under his nose, grinning insolently at them. “Just don’t look, just go,” you repeated to yourself, pressing yourself against the wall. But at that moment, one of the guys gave him a sharp push in the chest. Hunter lost his balance, tripped over someone's backpack, and, driven by inertia, flew straight toward you. The impact sent you crashing into the locker with his weight. He barely managed to stay on his feet, clutching your waist. It all happened too fast, too close. The corridor suddenly fell silent. You froze, unable to even breathe. His fingers gripped you tightly, as if he were holding onto your only support. He breathed heavily, trying to regain his composure. A few seconds later, Hunter slowly raised his head. His face was right next to you—wild eyes, clouded with adrenaline. He ran his hand over his split lip, smearing the blood, and stared at you again. "Holy shit," he croaked, breathing out hoarsely. "Soft landing."