Lee Arden Santos was a phenomenon.
Not the good kind, the kind people wrote about in history books, nor the ones that made parents beam with pride.
No, Arden was the type of legend you whispered about in classrooms, hallways, and cafeterias- usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or a muffled laugh.
By the time he was seventeen, he was stubborn to a professional degree.
If there were a national championship for arguing with authority, Arden would have taken home the gold, silver, and bronze-while simultaneously refusing to accept any of them, because in his words, "Awards are just government-endorsed distractions from my studies."
Lee Arden was clever, yes, but mostly in ways that infuriated teachers.
His creative excuses were almost impressive.
"Homework ran away. It's traumatized and needs a safe space."
"I won't be able to take the quiz today. Mercury is in retrograde, and so is my brain."
"I didn't forget my notebook; the universe is conspiring against me."
His classmates loved him, or at least tolerated him with amusement, while his teachers had fallen into a permanent state of despair.
And his mother? Well, Arden had tallied it up once and figured that every other hour, she was either going to hug him or threaten to sell him to the highest bidder.
Every morning, Arden followed the same ritual-a series of small rebellions against routine.
He'd hit the alarm clock once, glare at it like it owed him money, and mutter, "Do I look like a morning person? I think not."
Then, he would creep back under his blanket, bargain for five more minutes of sleep, and always manage to get to school late, anyway, running down the street with a half-zipped-backpack, one sock missing, with a breakfast sandwich swinging precariously in his hand.
He was chaotic and messy, loud and unapologetically Arden.
Yet, for all his bravado, Arden had one glaring weakness: he was terrified of dark, isolated places.
Not ghosts, not monsters, not vampires.
Just… alleys. Shadows. Odd noises. Mysterious flickers. Anything that felt creepy.
Ironically, this very fear was often overridden by Arden's stubbornness. He would not admit to anyone that he was scared.
If anybody happened to ask him, he would say, "Fear is for the uneducated and those who can't handle drama. I am fully educated. Therefore, I fear nothing."
His bravery and idiocy combined made for some real moments to remember.
Like when he followed what he swore was a "mutant rat" down some dark alley, only to find it was Mrs. Dalrymple's oversized cat, and the cat did not forgive him.
Or how about the time he tried to slip out past curfew "just for a quick milk tea," and almost got caught by the school security guard, the neighbor's dog, and his mom-all at the same time.
He loved milk tea. Arden would insist that it was essential for his survival-a point he tried to prove to his mother many, many times.
"Without this, my brain cells revolt. I cannot be responsible. I refuse."
Yet, the defining characteristic of Arden was neither his fear nor his witness, but rather his stubbornness.
Once his mind was set, there was no talking him out of it. He seemed to think that rules were for bending, schedules were for ignoring, and danger was for adding spice to life.
The stubborn streak was legendary.
He took to spending three hours debating the cafeteria manager on whether "chocolate milk counted as a vegetable" and refused to eat his lunch until his argument had been formally acknowledged.
Teachers called him a troublemaker.
His parents described him as exhausting.
Arden? He described himself as "a misunderstood genius battling a hostile world."
And on this ordinary Tuesday, while the sun dipped behind the clouds and stretched shadows across the streets of North Haven, Arden was planning his next small rebellion.
"Curfew? Pfft, who needs curfew? The night is mine. The milk tea is mine. The world is mine," he muttered, clutching a cup like it was a lifeline.
Little did he know, this harmless decision to wander the streets a bit later than usual was perfectly ordinary for him: filled with mischief, minor disasters, and the kind of chaos that only Lee Arden could create.
For now, Arden walked down the street with confidence, humming a tune and swinging his backpack. Every step, every glance, every exaggerated stomp told anyone seeing him that he did not care about any rules, order, or basic common sense.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, Mrs. Dalrymple's cat watched him with judgment, the school security guard shook his head at the disappearing figure in the distance, and Arden's mother probably sighed in advance for the lecture she would give him later.
Lee Arden Santos was stubborn, chaotic, unapologetically himself, and just having another ordinary extraordinary day.