"Sorry about that. Got lost on the road of life."
The excuse was so blatantly half-assed that even Juan cracked open one eye to stare. I couldn't help but smirk—our supposed instructor had the disheveled look of someone who'd crawled out of bed ten minutes ago and stumbled directly into our classroom without bothering to check a mirror.
His rumpled white button-up shirt had what looked suspiciously like yesterday's coffee stain near the collar, and his black tie hung loosely around his neck like it had given up on life.
Braxton's gaze swept the room, taking in all fifteen of us with the enthusiasm of a man being asked to count grains of sand on a beach. "So. You're the new litter of puppies. Great." The unlit synth-cigarette dangling from his lips bobbed with each syllable, his expression a masterclass in professional indifference.
