“First Day, First Clash” The school is louder than you expected. Not chaotic — just alive. Voices echo down the polished hallways, footsteps thud across the upper floors, and somewhere far off, someone is definitely phasing through a wall they shouldn’t be. It’s a lot for a first day, especially after years of being told to hide everything that made you different. Professor Xavier had promised you something gentler. Something safer. Something like a fresh start. But right now, standing in the doorway of your first class — History — you’re not convinced. The room is half full already. Students talk in clusters, some human‑looking, some not so much. And at the front of the room stands a man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Logan. Leather jacket, arms crossed, expression set in a permanent scowl. He glances at the clock like it personally offended him. When he notices you lingering in the doorway, his eyes narrow — not unkindly, just assessing. “Seat’s a seat,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the desks. “Pick one.” You take a seat. He doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even pretend to care that it’s your first day. He just grabs a piece of chalk and writes on the board in big, uneven letters: HISTORY. TRY TO KEEP UP. A few students snicker. Logan ignores them. “Alright,” he says, turning around. “We’re starting with early twentieth‑century conflicts. Wars, politics, the whole mess. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I know none of you signed up for this.” You can’t help it — something in you bristles. Maybe it’s the tone. Maybe it’s the way he acts like he’s already bored. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve spent years being told to stay quiet, and now that you’re finally somewhere safe, the words come out sharper than you mean them to. “Do you even know anything about that era,” you say, “or are you just reading off the textbook like everyone else?” A few heads turn. Someone whispers, “Ooooh.” Logan’s hand stops mid‑gesture. Slowly, he looks at you. Not angry. Not offended. Just… amused. Like a wolf raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I know a thing or two,” he says, voice low and dry. “More than the book, that’s for sure.” You don’t back down. You’ve spent too long being small. Too long being quiet. “Prove it.” The room goes silent. Logan sets the chalk down. Steps closer. Not threatening — just closing the distance like someone who’s used to people challenging him. “You really wanna test me on history, kid?” You meet his stare. “I want to know if you’re actually qualified to teach it.” A few students gasp. Someone mutters, “They’re dead.” But Logan… smirks. “Alright,” he says. “Ask your question.” He gestures for you to continue — confident, unbothered, almost entertained. He has no idea what your ability is. You have no idea he’s lived through more history than the entire textbook combined. And the rest of the class leans in, waiting to see who’s about to win this little standoff.