She takes the front, dead center, nothing to shield her. Her uniform is wrong—second-hand, navy turning to charcoal at the seams. Even so, she fits it like it was stitched for her. Her hair is pulled back in a way that says functional, not pretty, but it still catches the edge of light.
I watch as the room closes around her. The legacy girls cluster three seats away, loud on purpose. The rugby boys pile in behind, their laughter obnoxious and loud. The rest of them just stare, trying to figure out how to hurt her without getting caught.
She ignores them. Not because she’s above it, but because she’s trained herself to survive it. She’s reading from a battered notebook, black pen in her hand, underlining every third word. Her grip is too tight, fingers white on the barrel.
The professor starts exactly at 0700. He is ancient, voice a dry rasp that eats up the first row and leaves the rest to rot. He launches into a monologue on interest rates and fractional reserves, never once acknowledging the tension on the floor.
I count the seconds between Eve’s note-taking and the next assault. Thirteen. The blonde in pearls leans over, says something to her in a whisper-yell after she crumples a note they gave her. Eve’s jaw flexes, but she keeps her eyes on the page.
The assignment is simple: Document her. Report back to the Board. They want to know if she can be broken, or if she’s worth breaking. They want to know if the experiment is a failure before it infects the next generation.
I watch, but not for them.
Eve does something most people don’t. She listens. When the professor asks a question, she tilts her head, actually thinks about it. The others wait for the answer key. Eve runs the numbers in her head, and scribbles furiously in her notepad.
I log every detail. The way she pinches the bridge of her nose after writing. The way she taps her foot three times before writing more notes. The way her hands shake just enough to betray her, before she tucks them away inside her sleeves.
But mostly, I watch the way she refuses to flinch. They throw everything they have at her, and she returns nothing. Not fear, not anger, not even pride.
The Board wants me to report her weaknesses. I report that she doesn’t have any. They won’t like that.
Thirty-seven minutes in, someone drops a text on my phone.
Jules: u seeing this?
Bam: she’s a fucking robot
Rhett: more like a corpse lol
I ignore them. They must be watching the cams, curious about the girl who has caught my attention. They’re not wrong. But they don’t see the rest of it.
At the end of lecture, Eve stays put. The others file out, desperate to be first in line for coffee or gossip. She methodically sorts her papers, aligns every edge, stacks the pens. It’s compulsive, but not nervous. Just clean.
I wait until she’s out the door and down the hall before making a move.
"You always work this hard?" I say.
She doesn’t turn. "You always watch this close?"
"The others are just trying to get a rise out of you," I say.
"I know," she says. "That’s why I don’t let them."
She turns, face to face with me. Her eyes are green, but not the soft kind. More like seawater under a storm, the kind that pulls people under and doesn’t let go. I hold her stare for a full five seconds, just to see if she’ll look away first.
She doesn’t.
I smile, showing teeth. She doesn’t smile back.
“Goodbye, Colton.” She says, turning on her heel and heading the opposite way to the dining hall.
She’s not getting away that easy. Once again, I wait a few seconds before pulling my hood up and continuing to follow her. I don’t bother blending in. The best way to go unseen is to be inevitable. When I follow her, I do it with purpose.
She walks the main artery between Academic and Athletic. She keeps to the right side of the hall, arms folded against her chest,chin tucked. Her bag swings on her shoulders as she walks, Every thirty meters, she glances back. Not enough to seem paranoid—just cautious. Just smart.
I let the gap widen. There’s no thrill in the chase if she knows how it ends.
The athletic complex is a glass box, full of bodies that never had to earn their own muscle. Inside, the legacy crowd posts up at the smoothie bar, making deals over acai bowls and flexing for each other in the mirror. Most of them don’t sweat; it’s all performative, a way to prove they’ve survived another night without consequences.
