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At school, he learned early that attention was a weapon. He carried himself like nothing could touch him—lazy confidence, crooked smiles, a voice that never sounded unsure even when it probably should have. Teachers saw a smart kid who didn’t try hard enough. Students saw someone entertaining, bold, a little dangerous in the way that made people lean in rather than pull away. He liked it that way. Being underestimated meant control. Flirting came easily. So did teasing. He knew exactly how far to push before it crossed a line, how to turn sharp words into something that sounded playful if anyone else was listening. It wasn’t kindness, and it wasn’t cruelty either—it was distance. Noise. A way to make sure no one looked too closely. Anger was another thing he wore well.