At the International Harmony Academy, where students from every corner of the globe mingled like a human salad bowl, peace was usually maintained by the school’s kind and dedicated teachers.

But when tempers flared, all eyes turned to the school captain, a senior unanimously elected to play the role of big brother. This year, that brother was Bob, a lanky lad with a knack for settling disputes and a grin that could defuse a bomb. Or so he thought.

One sunny afternoon, the school courtyard turned into a gladiatorial arena. A group of students, fueled by a mix of teenage hormones and a disagreement over whose turn it was to hog the soccer ball, erupted into a full-blown brawl. Fists flew, insults in at least seven languages echoed, and someone’s shoe soared through the air like a misguided missile. Word of the chaos reached Bob, who was lounging under a tree, sipping a mango lassi and daydreaming about his future as a motivational speaker.

“Let them fight it out,” Bob declared with the wisdom of a seasoned philosopher (or a lazy babysitter). “They’ll tire themselves out, and we’ll mop up the mess when they’re too pooped to punch.” He planned to let the chaos burn itself out, like a toddler’s tantrum at naptime. But then Tom, a wiry kid with a flair for dramatics, sprinted over, panting. “Brother Bob! Irfan says he’s got a pistol in his pocket and he’s gonna shoot!”

Bob’s lassi nearly went up his nose. A pistol? In his school? This was no ordinary squabble over a soccer ball. This was a potential action-movie script, and Bob wasn’t ready to star as the hero just yet. Springing into action (or at least a brisk jog), Bob waded into the fray, parting the crowd like a budget Moses. He zeroed in on Irfan, who was posturing like a villain in a low-budget gangster flick, hand suspiciously in his pocket.

“Irfan, my man,” Bob said, clapping a hand on his shoulder with the confidence of someone who’d seen too many cop shows. “Let’s see that pocket treasure.” Before Irfan could protest, Bob deftly snatched a shiny object from his jacket. The crowd gasped. It was… a toy pistol, the kind that shoots plastic pellets and makes an annoying pop-pop sound. Illegal? Hardly. Embarrassing? Absolutely.

With the gravitas of a judge, Bob held the toy aloft and snapped it in two, mostly for dramatic effect. “No weapons on my campus!” he bellowed, though he couldn’t resist winking at Irfan, who looked like he wanted to melt into the ground. The crowd cheered, the fight fizzled, and somehow, the boys went from sworn enemies to swapping high-fives in under ten minutes. Bob’s magic touch had worked again.

The junior students, starry-eyed at Bob’s effortless cool, started calling him “Daddy.” Not because he was particularly fatherly—his idea of discipline was making kids do push-ups while singing the school anthem—but because he solved problems with the swagger of a sitcom dad. Need advice on asking out your crush? Daddy Bob had a three-step plan (step one: “Be yourself, but cooler”). Caught sneaking snacks into class? Daddy Bob would confiscate them… and share them with you later. His office (a corner of the library) became the campus confessional, where students spilt their dramas, and Bob dispensed wisdom, snacks, and the occasional stern “Don’t make me ground you.”

And so, Big Brother Bob became Daddy Bob, the campus legend. His reign was less about rules and more about keeping the peace with a mix of charm, theatrics, and the occasional toy-gun-smashing spectacle. The International Harmony Academy had never been so harmonious-or-so—or so entertained.