A sharp honk split the morning air.
Not the aggressive blare of a frustrated commuter, but a single, casual beep—just enough to snag her attention.
Isabelle turned her head, brows pinching, her breath fogging slightly as she scanned the road to her right.
And then she saw it.
A sleek black vehicle—low-slung, polished, unmistakably custom—idled at the curb, its engine purring like a well-fed predator. The Selvenhardt. Vermillion's elite might've had taste, but few drove their own cars, and even fewer did it with this kind of presence.
The driver window rolled down.
And there he was.
Damien Elford. One arm hooked lazily over the open edge of the door, the other hand still on the wheel. His hair was slightly tousled in that deliberate way that said he'd spent exactly three seconds styling it. The morning sun caught the curve of his jaw, and the faintest smirk played at his lips as he leaned just a bit closer.
"Yo, Class Rep."
Isabelle blinked once.
Twice.
'What the—'
