His phone wouldn't shut up.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Each vibration echoed louder in the stillness of the room, like the walls themselves were gossiping.
He didn't look right away.
He lay stretched on his bed, one arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. The other hand dangled off the edge, still holding the phone—glowing like a match in the dark.
Ping.
"Did Anjali really post that???"
Ping.
"Best kisser?? LOL—who even is Micheal Marshall?"
Ping.
"Sam Graye lost composure too. Something's up."
Ping.
"Two queens in one week? What's this guy made of?"
The screen pulsed under his fingertips. It didn't stop. Hundreds of reactions. Shares. Edits. Girls reposting with captions like:
"The boy who made the queen lean in."
"Don't sit next to him. You'll forget your standards."
"Anjali posted it. No edits. No denials. Just raw."
Micheal finally sat up.
He lit a cigarette—didn't even smoke it. Just let it burn slowly between his fingers while the storm outside his door brewed louder with every notification.
His smirk wasn't smug.
It was calculating.
Controlled.
Because he knew this wasn't just attraction anymore.
It was disruption.
Across Campus – Samantha's Room
The comments had reached her too.
She hadn't opened her group chat in hours, but it didn't matter. Screenshots were being printed. Slid under doors. Whispered in bathrooms. Taped to mirrors.
She sat stiff on the edge of her bed.
Pillow still creased from when she'd crushed it against her face. Blanket discarded. Hair loose. Breath uneven.
She told herself it wasn't real.
She told herself it didn't matter.
But the image of him leaning in—fingers ghosting her cheek—was still carved into her skin like heat that refused to fade.
"You kissed him back."
Grayson's voice again.
"You tilted your face into his hand."
Samantha stood.
Anger. Embarrassment. Shame. All boiling under the perfect surface.
She had to shut it down.
She had to confront him—face to face—remind him, herself, that whatever had happened was a mistake.
She moved fast. Didn't think. Just walked.
Door open. Hallway dim. Lights flickering.
She didn't realize until she reached his floor.
Her bare feet.
Her thin nightdress.
No jacket. No braid. No armor.
But as soon as she knocked the door.
Only then did she realized.
Only then did she feel the cold air bite at her legs.
If she turned back now—she'd be running.
So she straightened her spine.
Micheal's Room —
He looked up at the sound.
That knock didn't belong to anyone careless.
He opened the door.
And froze.
She was there.
Sam.
Hair unbraided, cheeks flushed. Her nightdress barely reached mid-thigh, fabric thin enough to let the hallway light silhouette her frame. Arms crossed—not for modesty, but control. Posture perfect. Back straight.
But her eyes?
Too sharp.
Too glassy.
Micheal (low): "Well. This is unexpected."
Sam (coldly): "We need to talk."
He stepped aside.
She entered like a storm forced into silence. Not looking at him. Not looking at the bed. Just staring straight ahead, like eye contact might cost her everything.
Inside Micheal's Room — Silence
The door clicked shut behind her.
She didn't sit. Didn't pace. Just stood by the desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like it might speak instead of him.
Micheal leaned against the door, cigarette still between his fingers. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, lazy and unbothered.
Micheal (softly):
"You gonna keep staring into the void, or is this a full-on ghosting session?"
Sam didn't answer.
Her jaw tightened. Her fingers dug into her upper arms just slightly—enough to leave half-moon dents she'd feel tomorrow.
Sam:
"You think this is funny. You think you're… clever."
Micheal:
"I think you're in my room in the middle of the night, in a dress you probably forgot you were wearing."
That got her attention.
Her eyes snapped to his.
Sam (flat):
"I came to remind you who holds the leash here."
Micheal:
"And yet you came barefoot."
She took one step forward.
Sam (cold):
"You kissed Anjali. You embarrassed her."
Micheal:
"No. I didn't kiss Anjali. That's the problem."
Sam:
"Then why is every girl talking about your lips like they're gospel?"
Micheal (quiet):
"Because they watched someone like her lose—and they liked it."
The Shift
Sam's mouth parted—but she couldn't speak.
The room felt too warm now. Or maybe it was her skin.
She hated how her knees remembered his hand from before. The memory wasn't sharp—it was soft. That's what made it dangerous.
He walked past her, slow. Toward the bed. Sat on the edge.
Micheal:
"You came here to control the story."
He looked up at her. Calm. Solid.
Micheal:
"But now you're in my story."
Sam:
"I'm here because I'm tired of hearing my name next to yours."
Micheal:
"Then stop saying mine like you taste it first."
That shook her.
Just a flicker. But she felt it. Low in her spine. A pulse that didn't ask for permission.
She took a step closer.
Now they were barely an arm's length apart.
He still didn't move.
His eyes met hers—relaxed, like they'd done this before. But there was a flicker in them now. Something amused. Something... interested.
Micheal (soft, teasing):
"You sure you came here to talk?"
beat
"Because you haven't said much. Just stared at me like I stole your diary."
Sam (flat):
"I'm trying to stay professional."
Micheal (grinning):
"Oh, that's what this is?"
He gestures vaguely to her nightdress.
"Didn't realize Augusta issued silk as part of the prefect uniform."
Her cheeks flushed. Just slightly.
She adjusted her arms—crossed tighter. Defensive. But not leaving.
Sam:
"I didn't plan this."
Micheal:
"Good. The unplanned ones are always the most honest."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still seated on the bed.
Micheal (low):
"Tell me something, Samantha."
beat
"When you closed that door… did it feel wrong, or just real?"
She exhaled sharply. It wasn't a scoff. It was a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Sam (tense):
"You're manipulating me."
Micheal:
"No. I'm watching you crack your own walls—and wondering what's underneath."
She moved to speak—but he stood.
Not fast. Not looming.
Smooth.
Suddenly, they were too close. Her chin tilted up instinctively. Their breath mingled again.
Micheal (smiling slightly):
"Careful. If you keep looking at me like that, I'll start thinking you like the chaos."
Sam:
"I don't."
Micheal:
"You kissed back."
Sam (shaking):
"I didn't mean to."
He raised a brow.
Micheal (whispering):
"But you did."
And then—like the universe played a cruel joke
A breeze slipped in from the opened window.
Cold. Sharp.
It caught the edge of her nightdress and slid up her spine—bare skin meeting air. Her breath hitched.
Reflexively, instinctively, she stepped forward. Just a little.
But it was enough.
Her body brushed his. Chest to chest. A second. Maybe less.
But it was contact.
Not planned. Not provocative.
Real.
And she pulled back just as fast. Like she'd touched fire. Like it burned where their skin didn't even fully meet.
Her arms crossed tighter. Chin lifted higher. Like maybe posture could erase what just happened.
Micheal (quiet, playful):
"Now who's starting the fire?"
She didn't respond.
Couldn't.
Because her body was still recovering from that single, accidental press—skin still tingling, brain still catching up.
Micheal (one step closer, voice velvet):
"You come in dressed like a secret... stand this close... breathe like that... and tell me I'm the problem?"
Her lips parted.
No words came out.
Just that same heat. That same ache.
He leaned down—close to her ear, not touching.
Micheal:
"Say the word, Sam. I'll step back. I'll shut up."
She didn't.
Not right away.
Her silence wasn't strength anymore.
It was surrender.
Micheal stood in front of her now—close enough to feel the flutter in her chest. His hand lifted—not hovering this time.
He touched her.
Fingertips brushed the edge of her jaw, trailing to her cheek. Slow. Warm. Intentional.
Like the courtyard.
But deeper.
This time, she didn't freeze.
She leaned into it.
Just slightly. Just enough.
His thumb rested against her cheekbone. Her eyes met his—no glare, no resistance. Just heat.
Micheal (low, steady):
"Tell me to stop."
Sam (barely a whisper):
"I can't."
He leaned in. His forehead touched hers. Their breaths mingled.
Her fingers hovered near his chest. Not pushing him away.
Reaching.
She closed her eyes.
And—
CLANK.
Something fell outside. Metal on tile.
Sam jolted.
Micheal's hand dropped instantly. He turned toward the door, body going still.
Micheal (tense):
"That's not random."
Sam (whispered, panicking):
"Were we being watched?"
Micheal:
"Could be the Warden. Or someone worse."
The illusion shattered.
She backed away fast—arms crossing again, mouth trembling between rage and fear.
Sam (shaken):
"This was a mistake."
Micheal:
"You didn't act like it was."
Sam (snapping):
"And you didn't stop it."
She opened the door without looking back.
Sam:
"This never happened."
And she vanished into the hall, the wind pulling at her nightdress like it was trying to hold her back.
Early Morning – Micheal's Dorm Room
Ping.
Another system notification lit up his phone before the alarm even buzzed.
CLASS SCHEDULE UPDATE
You have been reassigned to Section D, Room 204-B.
Lecture Host: Prof. Marin (Behavioral Integration).
His brows lifted slightly.
That wasn't his division. And "Behavioral Integration" wasn't even listed on the public course roster.
Before he could finish reading—
Ping.
MANDATORY NOTICE – STUDENT MARSHALL
Report to Room 401, North Tower (Legal Affairs) before attending your lecture.
"Failure to comply will result in disciplinary escalation."
He set the phone down slowly.
Lit a cigarette.
Didn't inhale.
Micheal (to himself):
"Guess the system finally blinked."
Across Campus – Samantha's Dorm
Sam had just finished lacing her boots when her screen lit up too.
STUDENT GRAYE – Appointment Confirmed
Room 306-A, East Tower (Psychological Review). Report before class.
She frowned.
Psychological review?
She hadn't requested a session. And no one sent her warnings.
Another line blinked below:
"For internal reflection and recalibration. Please comply."
Her heart gave a quick, traitorous jump.
They knew.
About the night before. About him.
She adjusted her collar and grabbed her blazer—but the tension in her throat was already tightening.
North Tower – Room 401 – Legal Affairs Office
The floor tiles gleamed like teeth.
Each step Micheal took echoed down the sterile corridor. No students. No sound. Just the rhythmic buzz of overhead lights that never blinked.
He reached Room 401.
No nameplate on the door.
Only a silver symbol engraved in the wood:
⚖️ — Augusta Internal Judiciary Division
He knocked once.
A voice replied—calm, smooth, confident.
"Come in."
He opened the door.
And blinked.
The coat was black—tailored, sharp. And the smile?
The woman behind the desk stood as he entered.
"Viola Verden," she said, tone clipped and professional.
"Legal counsel for Augusta's institutional compliance division. Sit."
Micheal didn't speak. He took the chair across from her.
Viola studied him like a signature she didn't trust.
Not a threat.
A liability.
Viola:
"You've been active. Anjali. Sam. Unauthorized contact. Disruptive classroom behavior."
She tapped the file.
"Rumors don't matter here. But what you make others feel—that does."
Micheal (smirking faintly):
"Didn't know affection was a crime."
Viola:
"It isn't."
beat
"But altering system-embedded behavior without clearance?"
She snapped the folder open.
"That's interference."
She slid out a photograph.
Sam's silhouette.
Outside his room. Time-stamped. Cropped. Undeniable.
Viola (lowering her voice):
"You touched her in the courtyard. She kissed you back. That's twice now."
She stepped forward.
Leaned slightly over the desk.
Viola:
"You're destabilizing the hierarchy."
Micheal (flat):
"Or showing them what it looks like to feel again."
She paused.
Then laughed once—empty.
Viola:
"We don't punish boys for disobedience. We punish them for redefining the rules we built."
She dropped another file.
Stamped:
PATERNAL REVIEW – MARSHALL, PETER
(Father of Micheal Marshall)
Viola:
"Your father was flagged three years ago. Noncompliance indicators. Resistance to structure."
beat
"Under the Institutional Upbringing Clause, if a student mirrors unapproved behavioral patterns—"
She looked up.
"—we hold the parent accountable."
Micheal's jaw tightened. Just a little.
Viola (voice quieter now, colder):
"We've arrested men for less."
She circled behind him, voice slicing clean:
Viola:
"If you want to play god with girls' emotions, Micheal, be ready to watch your own blood pay the price."
She leaned in, not close—deliberate.
Viola:
"You think you're winning. But you're trending on a string. One snap—"
She held up her fingers, poised to snap.
"—and everyone you care about disappears."
Micheal:
"You think I care about rules?"
Viola:
"No. I think you care about people pretending you don't."
She turned to a drawer.
Pulled a thin, scarlet-marked file labeled:
THE VANISHED
Photos. Clippings. Names.
Faces blurred. Files tagged:
Emotionally compromised
Failed corrective path
Reformation Wing 0: ACTIVE
Viola (laying the file out):
"These are the ones who got too close. Who loved. Or tried to."
She closed the folder gently.
Viola (voice like silk over steel):
"Next time you make a girl feel something she shouldn't—
you both go underground."
Micheal didn't speak.
Didn't smirk.
Just stood.
And left.
But something lingered behind his eyes now.
Not fear.
Calculation.
East Tower – Room 306-A – Psychological Review
The room was too white.
Floors. Walls. Ceiling. Even the light was soft, diffused, like it didn't want to startle anyone.
A single white chair faced another.
No desk.
No barrier.
Samantha paused at the door.
The woman standing by the chair was identical to the one Micheal had seen.
Same face.
Same voice.
Same bones.
But her coat was white. And her smile?
Warmer.
But no softer.
Sam (quietly):
"You're her sister."
"Vera Verden," the woman replied.
"Head of Augusta's Psychological Conditioning Division. Twin to Viola. Please—sit."
Sam sat.
Back straight. But breath uneven.
Sam:
"Are you supposed to be my therapist?"
Vera (smiling gently):
"Not quite. Think of me as a mirror.
For parts of you the system can't afford to ignore."
She folded her hands, slow and steady.
Vera:
"We've seen it before. Girls at the top. Unshakable. Until someone makes them feel something that doesn't come with permission."
She opened a slim folder.
Vera:
"You let him touch you. And then—"
She tapped a photo.
"—you kissed him back."
Sam didn't speak.
She kept her eyes steady.
But her shoulders gave the truth away.
Vera:
"It wasn't intentional. But that's why it's dangerous."
She flipped open the folder further—images of girls Sam once looked up to.
Now labeled. Filed. Circled.
Vera:
"Prefects. Enforcers. Star pupils. They all had a moment. A slip. A feeling."
She held one up.
Status: Transferred – Reformation Wing 0
"Emotional collapse. Unreliable."
Vera (softly):
"Do you know what they do in Wing Zero?"
Sam said nothing.
Vera:
"They don't punish. They cleanse. They rebuild. And what comes back isn't you anymore."
She leaned forward slightly—still smiling.
Vera (whisper):
"You're not afraid of Micheal.
You're afraid of how he sees you.
Wants you.
The part of you you've spent years burying just responded."
Sam's voice finally broke through. Dry.
Sam:
"Why are you showing me this?"
Vera (with something between sympathy and command):
"Because you're close. And we don't save girls who jump, Samantha.
We bury them."
She stood.
Walked to the wall. Pressed a button—the folder vanished into a secured slot.
Vera (final):
"You don't need to feel nothing.
You just need to feel it… under control."
Behavioral Integration – Room 204-B
Micheal pushed the door open.
First thing he noticed?
No couches.
No velvet. No silk. No throne-like seating marked for female dominance.
Just hard metal chairs, all uniform, all cold.
He paused.
His first thought?
No girls. No hierarchy. No games today.
He exhaled, casually stepped forward, and—true to habit—sat on the front stair-step instead of the chair row.
Legs relaxed. Arms stretched behind him.
His whole body uncoiled, like it had been waiting for this break.
Finally, he thought, a room without performance.
No girls to impress.
No boys to save.
Just him and whatever boring speech the Behavioral guy had planned.
He waited.
And waited.
Minutes ticked.
No one came in.
Not a student. Not a whisper. Not even the rustle of paper.
Micheal slowly sat up straighter.
He looked around.
His phone confirmed:
Room 204-B. 10:00 AM. Prof. Marin.
It was 10:05.
Still no one.
No classmates. No professor.
And suddenly, what felt like freedom… started to feel like a setup.
He stood. Looked to the door.
That's when it opened.
And his stomach turned.
Same face.
But not black this time.
White.
Same cheekbones. Same jawline. Same walk.
But her coat was ivory, her lips pale rose.
Vera (smiling):
"Don't get up, Micheal. I'm just standing in for today."
She moved smoothly to the front of the room.
"Professor Marin had to… withdraw. Sudden reassignment."
He sat slowly, eyes locked on her.
Micheal (cold):
"You again."
Vera (pleasant):
"Not quite. That was Viola. I'm Vera. Identical, not interchangeable."
She set a thin folder on the desk. Opened it without looking at him.
Vera:
"Welcome to Behavioral Integration. Today's lesson: What is a man?"
Micheal didn't speak.
She looked up, smiling wider.
Vera (brightly, like a TED talk):
"A man is a tool of output. Designed for pressure. Born into duty. Measured by provision."
She began pacing slowly. Controlled. Magnetic.
Vera:
"Your strength is not for yourself—it's for others. Your pain is not private—it's recycled into currency for survival. Your emotions?"
She tapped her temple.
"Irrelevant, unless useful. Suppressed, unless strategic."
Micheal's brows furrowed.
Vera:
"You exist to feed. To build. To shield. To carry."
She turned now, locking eyes.
"You are a system's hammer. You break or break others. That's it."
He sat still, but his throat was dry.
Vera (softer now, almost kind):
"It's not cruelty. It's clarity. Your fathers lived it. Their fathers too."
She gestured to the empty chairs as if filled.
"The moment you stop producing… you disappear."
Micheal (tight):
"That's not who I am."
Vera (smiling):
"It's not about you. It's about the role you were born into."
Something Shifts in Him
Her words weren't loud. But they landed.
Because for the first time—he saw it from the other side.
That sentence. The one people say like gospel:
"A woman belongs in the kitchen."
He always hated it.
But now he tasted the same poison served to his gender:
"A man belongs at the front line."
He felt sick.
Not because she was wrong.
But because she was too close to right.
And worse?
He wasn't sure he had ever thought deeper than that.
He didn't treat men and women equally.
He didn't try to.
He believed in difference—honored it, even.
But now?
He hated how convenient that belief had always been.
Vera (gentle, watching him squirm):
"You kiss girls like they're delicate."
beat
"But you'd break a man's jaw for stepping out of line."
He looked away.
Vera:
"You say you respect women. But what you mean is—you don't hit them. You don't insult them."
She leaned forward.
"You don't treat them as equals. You treat them as untouchables."
Micheal (voice low):
"Because there is a difference."
Vera (still smiling):
"There was. But difference dies when it's weaponized."
She walked toward him now.
No clipboard. No file.
Just eyes—sharp and calm.
Vera:
"You're not evil, Micheal. You're programmed. Conditioned to romanticize your restraint.
To think you're better because you don't touch, don't strike, don't step over lines."
She stopped inches from him.
"But you still drew those lines. Didn't you?"
He said nothing.
Because he didn't know what to say.
He hated her voice.
Her words.
That face.
But most of all?
He hated that she might be right.
And yet—something in him still screamed:
No. There's something more than this. More than control. More than roles. More than output.
There has to be.
Scene End:
Vera (walking to the board, cheerful again):
"Class dismissed. Or... perhaps initiated. You're free to go, Micheal. Until next session."
He stood.
Walked slowly to the door.
Paused before leaving.
Micheal (quietly):
"That white coat doesn't make you clean."
Vera (without turning):
"And your rebellion doesn't make you free."
He left.
And the chairs stayed empty behind him.
She was hard to miss.
Anjali.
Golden skin glowing under sunlight, skirt hugging her hips like fabric didn't dare move. Her blouse clung tight across her chest, two buttons undone—just enough to pull attention without requesting it. Her legs were crossed slow and deliberate. Like her body knew exactly what it was doing.
A phone in one hand.
A drink in the other.
Every glance she gave was curated.
Every curve calculated.
She wasn't flirting with anyone.
She didn't have to.
They flirted with her by breathing.
Micheal approached.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't look surprised.
Just let her eyes drift up to him, slow as syrup.
Anjali (lips curling):
"Well, well… if it isn't the boy who didn't kiss me."
Micheal (flat):
"I need answers."
Anjali:
"I need foreplay. But we don't always get what we want."
She set her phone down beside her.
Uncrossed her legs. Slowly.
Then recrossed the other way—skirt tightening as her thighs shifted.
She knew he noticed.
She wanted him to.
But he stayed focused.
Micheal:
"Cut the performance. You know how this place works. Who built it. Who it answers to."
Anjali (tilting her head, mock hurt):
"And here I thought you came for round two."
Micheal:
"I'm not playing."
Anjali (voice soft, breathy):
"That's what made it fun last time."
He didn't sit.
Didn't blink.
She sighed—dramatically. Then leaned back on her elbows, chest pushing forward against her blouse, the curve of her waist framed perfectly between shadow and light.
Anjali:
"You really want to know how the machine runs?"
Micheal:
"Everything you've got."
Anjali (now a whisper):
"Every two years, they pick one of us. Not the best student. Not the most obedient. Just the one who knows how to wear skin like branding."
She tapped her collarbone.
"Someone who can make obedience look beautiful. Rebellion look desperate."
Micheal:
"Like you."
Anjali (smirking):
"Exactly like me."
She sat upright now, arms sliding down her thighs slowly as if adjusting her skirt—but her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary.
Anjali:
"They pick us based on followers. Post quality. Brand power. Doesn't matter what the message is. As long as it spreads."
Micheal:
"Even scandal?"
Anjali:
"Especially scandal. This place thrives on attention. It's the currency that funds the silence."
He narrowed his eyes.
Micheal:
"Then who decides who gets in?"
She paused.
For the first time, something shifted in her gaze—a flicker of honesty behind the mascara and manipulation.
Anjali:
"You've noticed, haven't you? Everyone here's connected. Names you'd find in donation records, closed-door policy meetings, elite youth conferences."
Micheal (quiet):
"Society."
She nodded once.
Not smiling now.
Anjali:
"No one gets into Augusta by chance. Except you, apparently."
Micheal:
"So why am I here?"
Anjali didn't answer right away.
She stood—slow, sensual, backlit by sun and filtered silence. As she moved past him, her fingertips drifted across the front of his shirt again—lazy, featherlight.
Anjali (leaning close):
"Maybe someone's testing you."
Micheal:
"Testing for what?"
She didn't smile this time.
Instead, her eyes flicked past him—for a second—toward something deeper. Colder.
Anjali:
"To see if you make it through the maze… or become another ghost in the walls."
He stared at her, jaw tense.
Micheal:
"I need names. Records. Real proof."
She tapped her bottom lip with one manicured nail. Thinking. Enjoying the control.
Then, casually:
Anjali:
"There's a girl. Same year as me. We've never sat together—she's not really my crowd."
beat
"Introvert. Shy. Probably allergic to noise. Lives in the back corner of the library like it's sacred ground."
She smirked.
"Knows everything. Bio, Chem, Human Anatomy. Augusta's foundation charter, too—probably in Latin."
Micheal's eyes sharpened.
Anjali:
"Name's Elira. Elira Vale. Tall. Black hoodie. Hair always in a braid. Eyes like she sees more than you say."
Micheal:
"She'll talk?"
Anjali (grinning):
"She will if you ask the right way. Or look like you're already bleeding."
She turned again, halfway gone.
"Tell her I sent you. Don't tell her why."
And just like that, she was walking off.
Phone in hand. Smile back on.
But Micheal?
He had a name now.
And a new place to go.
No more theories. Time for facts.
Library – Two Hours Later
He had been up and down every aisle.
Nothing.
No Elira Vale.
No tall girl with a braid.
No black hoodie.
No quiet genius hiding behind towers of books.
Just shelves.
Endless shelves.
And silence so heavy it felt like punishment.
He asked the front desk.
Got a blank look.
Asked a student nearby—female, book open, pen in hand.
She looked at him.
Then stood up and left.
They knew who he was.
Girls whispered about his lips.
Boys weren't allowed to speak without consequence.
And that meant Micheal Marshall, the one who shook the walls…
…was completely alone.
He didn't stop.
Instead, he went student to student.
Not all at once—carefully.
He let them finish writing. He lowered his tone. He waited for moments that felt... less watched.
Still—
"Don't talk to me."
"You'll get me flagged."
"We're not supposed to answer you."
Whispers. Warnings. Eyes darting to corners, to ceilings, to walls.
Like they expected to be punished for just being near him.
Finally—
A boy near the architecture archive whispered back. Just once.
Didn't look up. Didn't say a name.
Just scribbled something on a slip of paper and slid it across the table.
Micheal unfolded it:
"3rd floor west. Desk 14. She only shows up during testing weeks. Only comes for competitions. Doesn't exist otherwise."
He held the paper.
Read it again.
Elira Vale wasn't hiding.
She simply... didn't come unless she had to.
A ghost.
A myth.
A scholar who only surfaced when the school needed her intellect to show off.
Not loyalty. Not status.
Just data in a dress.
Micheal sat down.
At a nearby table.
Pulled out an old archive book—just for show.
Because for now?
He had no access to the truth.
No girl.
No voice.
Just this:
A name.
A floor.
And a school that punished answers.
But he wasn't leaving.
Not until he met the one person who might still remember how this place was built…
…and how it could break.
Library — Main Hall
As soon as the boy slipped him the note, Micheal didn't waste time.
He folded it twice, stuffed it into his jacket, and rose without a sound.
No one watched him leave the table.
No one called after him.
But he moved like he was trespassing—because in Augusta, he probably was.
Third floor. West wing. Desk 14.
He didn't know what he expected.
A locked door?
A sign that said Restricted Access?
Instead, there was nothing.
Just silence.
And a staircase few students ever looked at twice.
Third Floor – West Wing
He moved up the stairs with careful steps.
Each one creaked like it hadn't been used in months.
The moment he reached the top, the temperature dropped.
Colder.
Stiller.
Like the air was waiting.
The walls were darker up here—wooden panels dulled by dust and time.
No murals. No sunlight. No smell of freshly printed textbooks or curated candle scents like the lower levels.
Only paper.
Ink.
History.
And the kind of silence that wanted to be left alone.
He stepped through rows of tall shelves—twisting, crooked, dense. The deeper he went, the more the light dimmed.
Most of the bulbs were old. One flickered near the ceiling like a tired eye.
And then he saw it.
Tucked behind two half-collapsed bookcases.
A narrow aisle.
A single desk.
And a figure.
Desk 14
She was bent over a book, her face partially lit by a dusty overhead lamp.
Black hoodie. Braid. Round glasses.
Exactly how Anjali described her.
But even that didn't prepare him.
Because Elira Vale looked like a myth carved into the wood of this place. Like someone who wasn't here until you needed her to be.
She didn't notice him at first.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe she just didn't care.
He stepped closer, slow. Careful not to startle her.
Micheal (quietly):
"Elira?"
No answer.
She kept writing.
He took another step.
Micheal (softer):
"Anjali sent me."
That made her pause.
Her pencil froze just above the page.
She didn't look up. Not yet.
Elira (flat):
"Anjali doesn't send people. She teases them."
Micheal:
"Maybe this time she did both."
She finally looked at him.
Eyes calm. Sharp.
Like she had already figured him out but was too polite to say it.
Elira:
"You're Micheal."
Micheal:
"I am."
Elira (tilting her head):
"You're the one who made Sam Graye lean in. And made Anjali lose a bet she wrote herself."
Micheal:
"I'm also the one who doesn't know why he's here."
Elira (quiet):
"Then you're late."
She pushed the chair across from her.
Didn't smile.
Didn't blink.
Just waited.
Like she'd known he was coming all along.
Elira:
"Sit. And stop looking like you still believe in coincidences."
She looked up at him slowly.
Eyes dull behind thick round glasses, dark circles sunken deep enough to look bruised. Her skin was pale—not delicately, but drained.
The black hoodie she wore looked slept in. Lived in. Wrinkled at the sleeves, fraying at the hem. Like it hadn't been off her body in a week.
There was ink smudged near her wrist. Faint coffee stains on the edge of her book. Her braid was loose, like she tied it once and never bothered again.
She looked like she belonged to the books, not the school.
And yet—she was still an Augusta student.
Elira (dryly):
"You came all this way to what? Watch me read?"
Micheal:
"I need answers. Real ones."
She raised an eyebrow.
Then leaned back, arms crossed loosely over her chest.
Elira:
"Everyone needs something. Doesn't mean they get it."
Micheal:
"Anjali said—"
Elira (cutting):
"Anjali says a lot of things. Most of them seductive. Some of them dangerous. Few of them useful."
He stayed standing.
She waited.
Then her voice dropped a notch—quieter. Not cruel. Just… done.
Elira:
"You want to know how Augusta works? Why the names never match the records? Why you don't remember applying but still got in?"
She looked him straight in the eye.
"You want me to dig up what took me years to piece together… so you can what? Feel better about being special?"
Micheal didn't answer.
She stared.
Then—
Elira:
"So what do I get?"
Micheal (even):
"What do you want?"
She let the silence sit.
Then, without smiling:
Elira:
"I want someone to stop pretending I'm invisible when they don't need my brain."
beat
"I want one person in this building to remember my name without looking at a leaderboard."
Her voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"And I want out of the cage."
Micheal's jaw tensed.
Micheal:
"Then help me break it."
She stared at him again. This time longer.
Something unreadable flickered in her gaze.
Maybe doubt.
Maybe hope.
Elira didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't soften.
Her fingers tapped once against the side of her book.
Elira:
"You think you're the first person who's come looking for answers with a good face and a half-decent vocabulary?"
Micheal didn't flinch.
She stared.
He realized it then.
Words wouldn't win her.
This wasn't Anjali.
This wasn't Sam.
This wasn't about ego or emotion.
Elira was a vault.
Not just locked—but armed.
And like any vault, it wouldn't open with charm.
It needed logic.
And challenge.
Then it clicked.
Not Anjali's game.
But something like it.
With brains instead of breath.
He stepped forward.
Sat down across from her.
Eyes locked.
Micheal (low, calm):
"Let's play a game."
That made her pause.
Elira (slowly):
"What kind of game?"
Micheal:
"A knowledge game. Three questions each."
Elira (brows raising):
"Questions?"
Micheal:
"Three chances. I ask three. You ask three. Each one carries a prize."
Now she leaned in slightly. Not intrigued yet—but interested.
Micheal:
"If I answer right, I choose the prize. If I fail, you do. Same for you."
Elira (eyes narrowing):
"What kind of prizes?"
Micheal:
"Anything within reason. Information. Favors. Secrets. Access. Even silence."
There it was.
Something shifted in her posture.
That spark.
The one students only saw during competitions—just before she crushed entire rival universities with numbers, timelines, and names nobody else remembered.
Elira:
"So you're betting your way into my brain."
Micheal (steady):
"I figured it's the only way in."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then her mouth tugged into the faintest ghost of a smile.
Not sweet. Not smug.
Sharp.
Elira:
"You want in, Micheal?"
beat
"Then earn it."
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out a second notebook.
Tossed it on the table between them.
She slid the notebook between them.
Eyes sharp. Arms crossed.
Expression unreadable.
Elira:
"You go first."
Micheal (with a smirk):
"Alright then."
He leaned back in the chair, casual but locked in.
Micheal:
"What's the name of my favorite person?"
Elira blinked.
Once. Slowly.
Then frowned.
Elira:
"That's subjective."
Micheal:
"Didn't say it wasn't. Just asked a question. You game or not?"
She exhaled through her nose.
Fine.
Elira:
"Sam. You kissed her. In public. In private. You let her in. That kind of risk screams favoritism."
Micheal (flatly):
"You sure?"
She hesitated. Briefly.
Elira:
"Anjali? Maybe. You didn't kiss her—but you gave her power. And when you took it back, you made her post about it."
She was calculating now.
Elira:
"Sam is emotion. Anjali is chemistry. You've tasted both."
She paused.
"But you're still asking me this question."
Another second passed.
Elira (confident):
"It's Sam."
Micheal leaned forward. Slowly.
No grin now. No joke.
Just words, calm and clear.
Micheal:
"It's you."
Elira blinked.
Micheal (steady):
"Brains over beauty. Truth over fake control. You don't perform. What's inside is outside. You're not hiding behind a leash. You are what you say."
He watched her.
Watched the twitch in her brow, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around her pencil.
Micheal:
"That's what I prefer. That's the answer."
Silence.
Real silence.
No witty reply. No quick recovery.
Then finally, her voice came—low and a little raw.
Elira:
"I hate that that worked."
Micheal (smirking again):
"You didn't ask what kind of prize I want."
She lifted her eyes slowly.
Still guarded. But something had shifted.
Elira (dry):
"Alright then. What's the prize?"
He leaned back.
Unzipped his hoodie. Pulled it off and slid it across the table.
Micheal:
"Change into this. Now."
She froze.
Looked down at herself. Back at him.
Elira:
"...Here?"
Micheal:
"That's the rule, right? I win. I choose the prize."
She hesitated.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because...
Under the hoodie was only her bra.
Simple. Black. Soft fabric.
No layers.
No protection.
She looked away, flushed fully now.
Micheal (confused):
"What?"
She bit her bottom lip.
Didn't answer.
His expression shifted. Realization landed.
Micheal (softer):
"...Oh."
Elira (quiet, barely audible):
"I didn't expect company today."
He looked at her.
Saw her differently now.
Not the genius. Not the shield.
Just the girl beneath it.
Vulnerable.
He doesn't know.
He doesn't realize I'm not wearing anything underneath but a bra.
He just thinks it's a swap.
Her hand hovered near the zipper.
Micheal (sensing hesitation):
"If it's too much—"
Elira (interrupting, firm but breathy):
"No. A deal is a deal."
She stood.
And slowly—without dramatics—unzipped her hoodie.
Her fingers trembled only once.
The fabric parted.
Revealing soft, fair skin. Pale tones of her collarbones. The subtle dip of her waist. The tight strap of her plain black bra barely visible.
Micheal's breath hitched—but just slightly.
He hadn't meant for this.
Not like this.
But she stepped into his hoodie.
Pulled it over her arms. Let it slide down her frame like armor.
When it settled, oversized and warm—
She looked up at him again.
Eyes clearer.
Face bare.
Not confident.
But… seen.
Elira (softly):
"That was unfair."
Micheal:
"Maybe."
Elira (a whisper):
"But it meant something."
She tugged the hoodie sleeves down over her hands.
It hung past her hips, drowning her like a blanket. It smelled like him—cigarettes and sharp air and something strangely clean.
Her chest still rose and fell a little too fast.
He said I was his favorite.
Not Sam.
Not Anjali.
Me.
Her fingers brushed the inside hem of the hoodie—still warm from his body. Still carrying the heat of the moment when she stood exposed in front of him.
And not because I flirted.
Not because I played a game.
But because I never tried to.
No one had said that before.
No one had looked at her and chosen this—the sleepless, ink-stained, hoodie-wrapped version of her.
What the hell is happening to me?
Her thoughts spun, fluttering uncontrollably beneath the surface.
And still, Micheal just sat there—composed.
Like it had all been a transaction.
He doesn't even know what he just did.
Elira sat with her arms still buried in the sleeves of his hoodie, knuckles tucked under her jaw.
Her mind was still burning from what he'd said before.
You.
But she had to know.
She needed more than words. More than instinct.
Elira (calmly):
"Okay. My turn."
Micheal (nodding):
"Ask."
She tilted her head.
Expression unreadable.
Elira:
"Where's my home?"
His posture didn't shift. But his mind did.
Fast.
His brain kicked into overdrive—racing across maps.
Europe? She's pale. But she sounds American.
California? No tan.
Midwest? New York? Pakistan? Russia?
No accent. No photos. No clues.
He didn't speak.
He didn't panic.
Instead—his eyes moved.
Down.
To the edge of the desk.
And there it was.
Her old hoodie.
Slouched over the back of the chair like a second skin she finally shed.
The fabric was torn at the cuff.
Stained with ink near the front pocket.
Faded lettering on the back—half rubbed off.
It wasn't just worn.
It was lived in.
And in that moment, everything clicked.
He looked up at her.
And said—
Micheal (quietly):
"That. Right there. That's your home."
Her eyebrows knit. Not confusion.
Something else.
Micheal (gentle now):
"A home isn't a place on a map. It's a place where you can be yourself. Where you're allowed to exist without explanation."
He nodded toward the hoodie she had taken off.
Micheal:
"That's where you hide when you're tired. Where you think. Where you survive."
beat
"Micheal:
"This part of the library. Desk 14. The dust. The silence. The fact that nobody else even knows this wing exists."
He motioned around the dim space.
"This is yours."
Micheal:
"Not assigned. Not decorated. But claimed. By presence. By ritual. By memory."
She stared.
Expression unreadable.
Micheal (quieter):
"It's the only place you don't wear armor. Where you let yourself rot a little. Think a little. Exist without being anyone's answer key."
Micheal (meeting her eyes):
"This is your home. You just let me walk into it."."
Her lips parted.
Not to argue.
Just to breathe.
She didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Because she felt it.
Somewhere behind her ribs.
A crack she hadn't planned for. A warmth she didn't expect.
He was never supposed to answer it like that.
He was supposed to fail.
He was supposed to prove he only saw the surface.
Instead, he saw her.
She didn't respond.
Not right away.
But her chest moved slower now.
And for a split second—just one—her eyes shined behind the glasses. Not tears. Just that look someone gets when a stranger names something you didn't know needed a name.
Elira (soft):
"...Correct."
Her voice cracked just barely at the end.
She looked away—mask up again.
But she didn't deny the pause.
She didn't deny the truth.
Her voice still lingered in the air.
"...Correct."
She hadn't meant for him to get it right.
And she definitely hadn't meant for it to mean something.
But now—he was in.
And it was time for the reward.
She lifted her gaze again, just enough to meet his.
Elira (steadily):
"Alright. Prize?"
He didn't smirk.
Didn't lean forward with swagger.
Just raised a hand, palm open, between them.
Micheal (calmly):
"Your hand."
She blinked.
Elira:
"You want to… hold my hand?"
Micheal:
"No."
His voice was quieter now. Measured.
Micheal:
"I want to feel what your world feels like."
She didn't understand at first.
Not fully.
Micheal (continuing):
"You stay behind glass. You calculate. You watch. But you don't touch."
"Let me break that rule."
Her breath caught in her throat.
No one had asked her that before.
Not her body. Not her lips. Not her hoodie.
Just… her hands.
The same ones she wrote with. Scribbled notes. Dug through archives.
The same hands that built her silence.
She hesitated.
Then reached across the table.
One hand.
Pale. Slim. Callused where her fingers pressed pens too tightly for too many hours.
He took it—gently.
Not to pull.
Not to hold.
Just… to feel.
Thumb across her knuckles.
Slow. Curious. Careful.
Like she was something alive, not just intelligent.
Her whole body stilled.
It wasn't sexual. But it wasn't neutral either.
It was… real.
For her—it was the first time someone treated her like more than a mind.
For him—it was the start of leverage.
Not manipulation.
Just placement.
Micheal Marshall didn't rush.
He planted roots.
And pulled people by them when the time was right.
Micheal (quiet):
"You're softer than you act."
Elira (barely a whisper):
"You're quieter than you pretend."
Neither of them let go.
Their hands stayed locked.
Neither of them moved.
At first, it was his idea.
His reach.
His test.
But now?
Elira didn't want to let go.
Her fingers trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from something unfamiliar.
Something undeniably real.
She looked down at his hand.
It wasn't soft.
It was rough.
Firm.
Callused in places she didn't expect.
There were faint scrapes across the knuckles.
Old marks.
Little healed scars that whispered of hits taken—and hits given.
His fingers felt weathered.
Not broken.
Used.
Her own palm looked small pressed against his.
Delicate.
Thin.
Unscarred.
And yet—
She pressed just a little more into him.
Explored the ridges of his skin with her thumb.
Traced the jagged edge along one knuckle.
He's fought before, she thought.
Not just intellectually. Not behind a desk. In ways that left marks.
She shouldn't have cared.
But she did.
And that scared her more than she could admit.
Elira (soft, almost to herself):
"You've hurt people."
Micheal (without flinching):
"And protected them."
Elira:
"With these hands?"
Micheal:
"Always with these hands."
She didn't pull away.
Her thumb slid once more across the inside of his wrist.
She could feel the pulse there—steady, controlled.
Not eager.
Not demanding.
Just present.
He wasn't holding her hand to claim her.
He was letting her feel something she never gave herself permission to want.
She looked up again.
Not at his eyes—not yet.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
Elira:
"Why me?"
Micheal (low, sure):
"Because you're real."
She swallowed hard.
Still didn't let go.
Not yet.
Not until the moment was finished using them.
This was her first touch.
And Micheal?
He didn't rush.
Didn't smirk.
Didn't ruin it.
And that?
That made it worse.
Because now she'd remember it.
Every time she was alone again.
Their hands were still joined.
Still warm.
Still breathing in that quiet, unspeakable space between connection and danger.
Then—
Micheal (softly):
"May I have my hand back?"
His tone wasn't teasing.
It was respectful.
Careful.
Like he understood that, for her, letting go would be harder than holding on.
She hesitated.
Fingers tightening slightly.
The emptiness creeped in before their palms even separated.
But she did it.
She let go.
And the second she did—
She missed it.
Like a weight that had been holding her together suddenly vanished.
To hide the feeling, she slipped both hands deep into his hoodie sleeves.
Fists clenched inside the fabric—his fabric.
It still smells like him.
Still feels warm where he was.
She sat back, quietly trying to swallow that hollow space inside her chest.
He noticed.
Didn't mention it.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
Eyes gentle. Focused.
Micheal:
"Alright. My turn."
She didn't speak.
She just nodded.
Micheal:
"What kind of friend do you want?"
That stopped her.
Completely.
She didn't expect that.
Not from him.
Not from anyone.
Her mind went blank at first—because she had never really thought about it.
Friend?
What even was that, really?
Someone to talk to?
Someone to exist beside?
Someone who didn't want anything in return?
She looked away.
Then at the books stacked around her.
And whispered:
Elira:
"My real friends have always been these."
She ran a hand across a worn cover.
The leather cracked at the spine.
Elira:
"They don't talk back. They don't complain. They don't make demands. And they never leave when I mess up."
Elira (quieter now):
"They take me to worlds I'd never imagine. They teach me. Protect me. Let me rest in their pages."
Elira:
"They take care of me."
Micheal let the silence breathe.
Then nodded.
Micheal:
"Sounds like I've got a lot of those qualities."
Her gaze snapped to him—half defiant, half uncertain.
Elira:
"You're not a book."
Micheal (smiling faintly):
"No. But I'm better at keeping secrets."
beat
Micheal (gently):
"And I don't mind being quiet if that's what you need."
That made her pause.
He's trying.
But the question wasn't just for her.
She realized it then.
He had asked for a reason.
He was learning.
Studying her.
Not to use her. Not just that.
To become someone she'd choose.
That realization?
It hit deeper than she expected.
And she knew—
He's not here to win the game.
He's here to win me.
Micheal knew that Elira isn't someone who reveals herself easily. She's not moved by touch, beauty, or rebellion.
So instead of asking her what she thinks or what she knows, he asked her what she wants—a subtle, vulnerable question that forces her to reflect, not recite.
By asking what kind of friend she desires, he:
Unlocked her emotional blueprint
Gained insight into what comfort, connection, and trust mean to her
Got a glimpse into the version of the world she craves—peaceful, quiet, non-demanding
He wasn't just learning her preferences. He was learning her pain.
2. To Let Her Win the Round (And Feel Power Over Him)
Micheal knew he could answer most questions—but that wasn't the point here.
By asking about her, he gave her a guaranteed victory. Why?
Because letting her win in a system where she's always used for answers—but never given power—shifts the dynamic.
She's not just the source of information now.
She's the one who decides what to do with her victory.
This feeds her emotionally, but also deepens her investment in him.
She's no longer his target—she's becoming his willing accomplice.
3. To Learn the Prize She Chooses (What She Values Most)
Micheal's a strategist. He doesn't just want information—he wants leverage, insight, and access.
By giving her the win, he gets to see:
What she asks for when she's in control
What she considers valuable
Whether she chooses something emotional, intellectual, or physical
In her prize, she'll reveal what she wants—but also what she's afraid to ask for.
That prize tells Micheal everything about her boundaries, desires, and limits.
4. To Signal That He Can Be That Person (Without Saying It Directly)
Finally, this question is a subtle promise.
He's saying:
"Tell me what you need... and I'll become it."
It's not manipulation.
It's invitation.
He's offering to be shaped by her expectations. Not to change who he is—but to show that he can bridge the gap between her isolation and the world she keeps locked away.
This changes how she sees him.
Not as another unpredictable boy.
But as someone who chooses to adapt. Who listens. Who observes.
Who sees her—and wants to stay.
In Short:
Micheal's question was:
A mirror for her emotions
A platform for her power
A test for what she values
And a signal that he's not trying to own her, but belong somewhere she lets him in
It's not just a mind game.
It's the kind of game you play when you want someone not just in your world—
but on your side.
She sat with her fists still buried in his sleeves.
His scent wrapped around her.
Her thoughts—louder than ever.
You asked what kind of friend I want.
But what if I want something more?
Ever since she touched his hand—felt the ridges, the history, the heat—her mind had spiraled.
Every page she'd ever read had hinted at this feeling.
But none of them prepared her for it.
I want it.
I want to know.
I want him.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Then—
Elira (softly, but not uncertain):
"I want you to kiss me."
He didn't move.
She swallowed.
Elira (quieter):
"Not like Sam. Not a ghost of a kiss. I want it to be real. I want to feel it."
beat
Elira (looking down):
"Because I'm your favorite."
The silence between them was thick with expectation.
But Micheal?
He didn't rush.
Didn't lunge.
Didn't grin.
He stood slowly.
Walked around the desk—not predatorially, but… gently.
Measured.
And when he reached her—
He didn't touch her waist.
Didn't cup her chin.
Instead, he leaned close.
His breath skimmed her jaw.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She braced for the heat—
But what came was warmer.
Softer.
Smarter.
His lips pressed—not to her mouth—but to her cheek.
A single, slow kiss.
Right below her glasses.
Right where her blush had bloomed.
Not possession.
Not seduction.
Just—presence.
She gasped.
Not from disappointment.
But because it hurt more than she expected.
Not getting what she thought she wanted—yet still feeling more than she ever had.
He pulled back.
Still close.
Voice low.
Micheal:
"The difference between us and them isn't how we kiss, Elira."
beat
Micheal:
"It's how long we make someone remember it."
She didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because he was right.
That kiss hadn't landed on her lips.
But it landed deeper.
And now?
She'd remember that moment longer than any fairytale kiss she'd read.
The silence still lingered from the kiss—not heavy, not awkward. Just… delicate.
Like both of them were trying not to breathe too loudly.
Micheal leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, gaze tilted toward the books around them.
Micheal (lightly):
"Alright. Last round."
Elira looked up, eyes still catching small flickers of leftover heat.
Elira:
"Let's hear it."
He tapped the notebook once with his knuckle.
Micheal:
"What animal has seven feet, four eyes, and two faces?"
Elira blinked.
Paused.
Then sat up straighter.
Elira (brows narrowing):
"That's… not real."
Micheal:
"Doesn't have to be. Just needs an answer."
She muttered under her breath. Thought aloud.
"Octopus? No, too many feet."
"Spiders? Too many eyes."
"Hybrid creatures? Mythological references?"
Her fingers tapped anxiously at the hoodie sleeve she still wore.
Her mind ran through everything—zoology, cryptids, mutations.
Still—nothing.
Elira (quietly, after a long silence):
"I don't know."
She looked up.
Elira (almost a whisper):
"I really don't know."
Micheal's smile was soft this time.
Micheal:
"Then I get my prize."
She swallowed.
Elira:
"Alright. What is it?"
Micheal:
"A date."
beat
Micheal (half-grinning):
"You. Me. Someplace that isn't haunted by books or rules."
She stared for a moment—then tilted her head.
Something in her expression shifted.
Not shy.
Just… warm.
Elira:
"You know I'm horrible at social environments."
Micheal:
"Then I'll ruin it with you."
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
Elira:
"Fine. I'll go. But you're planning it."
Micheal:
"Deal."
A few seconds passed in quiet before she blinked.
Then—
Elira (narrowing her eyes):
"Wait. What is the answer to that question?"
He shrugged.
Micheal:
"No idea."
Elira (blinking):
"You made it up?"
Micheal (grinning):
"On the spot."
She stared.
Then—laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a nose-breath.
A genuine laugh.
The kind that crinkles her eyes and cracks something open in her.
Elira (shaking her head):
"You tricked me."
Micheal:
"I wanted to see what you'd do when you didn't know the answer."
Elira (softly, still smiling):
"You play too much."
Micheal:
"You need it."
She looked down.
Then up again.
Elira:
"Okay. then my prize is "Let's go somewhere NOW."
Micheal:
"Now?"
Elira:
"Now. Before I start overthinking and lock myself back in here."
He stood.
Offered his hand again.
This time—she didn't hesitate.
No hesitation. No calculation. Just choice.
She laced her fingers with his.
And together, they left the shadows of the library…
...and walked into something that didn't have rules yet.
Micheal didn't just win a date.
He claimed his bishop—the one who sees the full board.
Elira Vale.
The keeper of buried truth.
The mind behind the curtain.
His access to the how, why, and when of Augusta.
The knowledge vault who let him in not through force—but through feeling.
She wasn't seduced.
She was seen.
And now? She's loyal to curiosity. His curiosity.
He doesn't need her love. He needs her lens.
And he has it now.
And then there's the pawn.
Anjali.
The influencer. The queen of attention.
The one who fell to him in her own game—and broadcasted her surrender.
She doesn't know it yet,
but she's become his mouthpiece.
Every rumor she spreads now?
Amplifies him.
She was once the story.
Now, she delivers his headlines.