Orchid glanced around and spotted Storm, literally glowing, like the photoshop filter so pretty that it appears unreal? Yeah! That! In human form, swooning hearts.

"God really said 'let there be art' and then made you, huh?" Orchid announced loudly, as if trying to grab the attention of everyone present in the party, sipping the champagne from his glass.
Storm turned and smiled at him, "God also said 'let there be light', but that doesn't mean I want a moth orbiting me every five minutes."
"Oof. Sassy. You're cute when you pretend playing hard to get."
"And you look dumb when you pretend you're saying something meaningful, when it's basically gibberish."
Orchid smirked, "If you stop denying the chemistry between us, I swear—"
"Yeaah, chemistry! Must be all that chlorine in the pool of your thoughts. Tone it down. It's getting into your last brain cell—or whatever is left in that empty skull."
Orchid leaned closer, "You talk like you want to kiss me so bad."
Storm: "And you talk like a software bug. Annoying, repetitive, and makes me consider a factory reset on humanity."
Orchid clutched his heart, acting hurt, "It's illegal to say that to someone this attractive."
> Storm: "I can, when the attractiveness is clearly overcompensating for the last, dying brain cell in that empty skull of yours."

REALITY SLAMS IN!

Orchid bolts upright in bed—"OH YEAH? WELL—your beauty is just—a defensive mechanism for your... emotional unavailability—!"
The silk sheets swaying around his shirtless torso, Orchid yelled at—nobody...


Silence.

He blinks.

Ten guards, two maids, and the castle chef broke into his room with guns, tasers, batons and—a croissant.

Orchid sweating profusely, wiping his sweat, murmured to himself, "...Okay. That might've been a dream."

He cleared his throat and flipped his hair like the drama queen he was, "Or not. Maybe it was an astral date."



The Head butler stepped forward, pale as a ghost, with a lamp in his hand, ready to save the young master from whoever intruded the mansion with breach-proof, satellite-patrolled z+ security.

"Young master… It's four in the morning. Are you alright?"

"I checked, no intruders." One of the bodyguards chined in.

"Master, were you, maybe, dreaming?"

"I—I was testing response time. You all failed."


Dramatically sighing, Orchid strutted into the private gym wing like he owned the world. Because, well, he kind of did.

He picked up the dumbbells.
First set.
Looked in the mirror. Flexed.
Second set.
Looked again. Smirked.
Third set.
Pulled up his shirt. Flexed his abs dramatically at the mirror like he was starring in an underwear commercial for billionaires who only eat imported strawberries.

Then, as he wiped a non-existent drop of sweat, he paused mid-swipe, face shifting into that slow-mo, fantasy-drama look.

Thinking. Hard.

"Today, am winning. I'm going to corner her."

Orchid started smiling, as the retired olympic athlete; now Orchid's coach, signaled a 'save me, he's finally gone mad' sign to the butler outside the door. The butler closed his eyes and prayed for him.

"No more games. I'll pin her to the wall—casually—obviously—and say, 'Tired of playing hard to get?' Heh! She'll break. I know it. She'll cry. She'll beg."


Orchid's eyes glazed over as he fully spiraled into a delusion where Storm (still misgendered in his mind) gasped dramatically, clutched his shirt, and started metaphorically melting like a $10,000 candle.

"Oh Orchid," she'll say breathlessly, "Your muscles… they're just… distracting my will to resist."
And then she'd fall to her knees—not to worship—but like, you know… maybe recite a sonnet to my calves? Offer a sacrifice to my biceps? Build a shrine out of my gym towels?—


Ding!
The AI Mirror—programmed to compliment him every time he smiled—lit up.

> "Smile registered: 5% delusional, 5% dumb, 8% arousal, 43% unhinged, 39% charming.  Gorgeous, as always, Sir Orchid."


Orchid winked at the mirror, blew it a kiss, and whispered,

"Stop it. You're making me blush."
He absolutely wasn't blushing. His skin was too expensive for that.

Across the gym, the retired Olympic athlete, now his personal trainer, just blinked.

Completely baffled.
Mouth agape.
Weights mid-air.

"...What the hell is happening."


Orchid turned.
"All right. I'm done. Call the butler. I'm in the mood to bathe."

The trainer frowned. "Uh. Cool. With what?"

 "Don't be ridiculous," Orchid snapped, flipping his towel over one shoulder. "You forgot my Tuesday usual?"


Fifteen minutes later, Orchid was soaking in Himalayan Pink Salt, Ice Cubes from Norwegian Glaciers, Bubble Bath with truffle essence and some Powdered Moonstone.
And, yeah, Steam with Scent of Extinct Flowers Created by AI Botanists.

 "It's for the skin," he kept mumbling between gasps. "My dermatologist would kill for this…"


Post-Bath Outfit Montage (Because, duh!)

He emerged from the bath like a Greek god dipped in moisturizer, dragging on his custom-tailored school uniform, with Gucci monogrammed socks (limited edition, of course);
Platinum collar clips shaped like baby tigers;
A blazer that cost more than most teachers' salaries;
A gold watch that wasn't even set to the right time—he wore it for vibes…


He struck a pose in front of the AI mirror.

"How do I look?"
"Like a sexy tax fraud. Magnificent, sir."
Orchid winked again. "I knew it. Oh the poor gods, might be charred to coal burning with jealousy!"

Outside, he waved a hand. "Bring out the new one."

A butler bowed. "The navy blue Rolls you purchased three days ago, young master?"

> "Yes. The one with the starlight ceiling. I need to feel celestial on the way to school."


He sank into the plush backseat, crossing his legs like royalty.

Another butler—this one stationed inside the car—shook up a mocktail with lemon zest, edible glitter, and a single mint leaf. He handed it to Orchid like offering a sacred relic.

In the background, the stereo played Beethoven meets trap remix—because? That's what rich villains-in-the-making listen to apparently!

Orchid sipped his drink, narrowed his eyes dramatically at the passing landscape, and whispered,
"She's not ready for me today."

~~~
The clock struck one hour and thirty-two minutes past classwork started.
Students were half-asleep. The air was dead. A pigeon outside looked more alive than the entire class.

Then—

BAM!

The classroom door exploded open with the same energy as Dhonny Jepps entering a court trial.

Wind machine, Lens flaring, A single violin string breaking.


And there he was.
The infamous Orchid.
The billionaire playboy who was trending on reddit for being turned down by the new transfer kid.

Wearing his school uniform like it was haute couture, blazer swishing behind him like a cape. One hand held a limited-edition iced coffee. The other? His phone, currently being used as a mirror. Sunglasses indoors. At a public school.
Theme song? Probably playing from his own Bluetooth speakers.
God had favorites, and clearly, he was all of them.

Gasps. Whispers. Someone dropped their pen out of sheer intimidation.

"You may breathe now." Orchid announced, gesturing his hand like a diva.
The teacher didn't respond. Mainly because her soul had just left her body.

Storm, sitting in the corner, didn't even flinch. He simply looked up—slowly—as if someone just disturbed his Netflix binge.

"You're only 92 minutes late. Did you walk here backwards? Blah blah blah–"
The teacher opened her mouth to protest.

Orchid waved a hand dis, again, like a diva. "No need to thank me for attending. I am a humanitarian at heart."
The classroom collectively flinches. Even the PowerPoint projector seems offended.

The teacher gave up and just yelled at Orchid "Please stop holding your blazer like a cape!"



Orchid ignored the teacher. He locked eyes with his "Barbie" and sauntered across the room like the floor was a red carpet that owed him money.


"Hi, Barbie," he purred.

Storm didn't look up. "Hi, embarrassment."

Orchid's smile only widened. "You missed me."

Storm flipped a page in his webcomic. "Like I miss food poisoning."

The class: Wheeeew— (this is why they don't stop him. This is free drama.)

"Darling!" he purred at Storm with a smirk, "I had a dream I was hot and irresistible, and I couldn't wake up. Turns out—it wasn't a dream."
"Turns out you're delusional." Storm whipped back.

Orchid plopped dramatically into the empty seat next to Storm, legs crossed, iced coffee now resting on a crystal coaster he pulled out of his pocket. Don't ask why he has it. He's rich. Logic is for peasants.

Storm side-eyed the coaster like it personally offended him.

Orchid turned to the teacher, gesturing casually with a manicured hand.

"You may proceed now."

The teacher blinked. Twice.

Storm muttered under his breath, "You better be the main character in a Greek tragedy."

"A tragedy where the love interest finally gives in?" Orchid shot back sweetly, resting his chin on his hand like this was a rom-com and he was the main lead.

Ok maybe he was.

Storm, deadpan, "No." Turned to him, "A tragedy where you trip on your ego and fall into an open sewer."

The classroom collectively held their breath.
The teacher's still frozen at the front. One student straight-up recording, probably live on insta or cooking up some drama for karma farming on reddit.Another's eating popcorn. A girl whispered "I give it three chapters before they kiss."

Meanwhile, One of Orchid's bodyguards in the hallway was trying to flirt with the new janitor who signaled Storm in morse code, blinking her eyes rapidly, "Get me out of here!
AM QUITTING!"


Storm flipped the page of his webcomic. Orchid sipped his iced coffee.

Storm's eye twitched. The kind of twitch that precedes violence.

It was a silent war. But make it aesthetic.






:)