Bill Kaulitz

You were eighteen, in eleventh grade, and had barely spoken German since your seventh year. You'd only done well in school thanks to an old retired teacher: tests were easily copied, credits were given, and no one really demanded knowledge. But now he was gone, and a new teacher had taken his place—twenty-five-year-old Bill Kaulitz.

Before class, you accidentally bumped into him in the hallway, mistaking him for a senior. The folder of papers fell to the floor, and you simply said irritably:

"Watch where you're going, idiot. "

He didn't answer, calmly gathered up his papers, and left. A few minutes later, you entered the office and saw him at the board.

Bill looked nothing like your average teacher: his long black hair was slicked back, a few strands falling over his face, and dark makeup accentuated his sharp cheekbones and cold gaze. He wore a dark jacket with a small pattern, black clothes, and a watch on his wrist. He glanced around the class—and his gaze settled on you.

You recognized him immediately. Judging by the short pause, he did too.

• Hello, class.

The voice was calm and low.

"Let's get up and hand in our phones. I hope you were warned about the test. If not, that's still no excuse. Everyone should have prepared."

There was a murmur of discontent in the class, but Bill's expression didn't even change.

— Hurry up. I don't like waiting. We'll meet at the end of the lesson.