They called him Cairo.
No last name. No details. Just Cairo — a name that rolled off tongues like sin and sat heavy in rooms like smoke.
Ayra first heard it that afternoon, in the cafeteria.
She hadn't meant to eavesdrop — but the energy around him wasn't something you entered. It pulled you in whether you wanted it or not.
"Cairo bought the Physics teacher a Rolex,"
a girl giggled to her friend.
"Said he was tired of 'poor people explaining energy.'"
Ayra blinked. Surely that was a joke.
But as she looked toward the far end of the cafeteria — Cairo sat there, legs stretched, a straw lazily between his lips. One of his boys was tossing french fries at a junior who'd gotten too close.
No one told them to stop.
No one dared.
She watched Cairo grin at something one of them said, then lean back and whisper something into his phone, voice low. Controlled. Not loud like before. Calculating.
And that was what made her stomach twist.
This wasn't just a rich boy flaunting power.
He was studying the place.
Marking his territory without lifting a finger.
Ayra quietly shifted in her seat, trying to read his face. But it was unreadable — like a beautiful ruin you weren't allowed to touch.
Then he looked up.
Not at her.
At Zayn — who'd just walked past with a textbook in hand, calm as always.
Cairo's grin faded.
Their eyes locked for a second too long.
And in that small silence between them, Ayra felt it again:
History.
And maybe a little bit of unfinished war.
She kept watching as Cairo finally stood, tossed his tray aside, and walked out like he didn't owe the earth his footprints.
That was the first day she really noticed him.
Not just for his face.
Not for his money.
But for the way he moved like he was born to break rules —
and get away with it