We don't talk on the walk back to Devan's room.
There's nothing to say. Or maybe there's too much to say and neither of us knows where to start. Either way, we walk in silence, hands clasped so tight my fingers are going numb.
The campus is offensively normal. Students lounging on the quad, someone playing frisbee, a group laughing outside the coffee cart. Don't they know the world just ended? Don't they feel the crater where my future used to be?
Apparently not.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else. Each step is mechanical, automatic. Twenty-four hours. That's what Sterling gave us. Twenty-four hours to decide which one of us gets sacrificed on the altar of his power play.
I keep seeing his face. That cold smile.One winner. One loser. That's the game.
Devan's hand tightens around mine, and I realize I'm shaking.
He unlocks his door and we slip inside. The room still smells like us—like this morning, like sex and sleep and safety. The sheets are still tangled from when we stumbled out of bedto answer Sterling's summons. My coffee mug is still on the nightstand, half-empty and cold.
That was four hours ago. It feels like a thousand years.
Devan sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. He looks smaller than usual, which shouldn't be possible—he's six-foot-three and built like a wall. But right now he looks like someone carved him hollow.
I pace. I can't sit. If I sit, I'll shatter.
"Okay," I say, because someone has to start. "Okay. Let's think about this logically."
Devan laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Logically. Sure."
"What are our options?" I tick them off on my fingers. "One: you sign the non-compete. I take the internship."
"No."
"Two: I sign the non-compete. You take the internship."
"Absolutely not."
"Three: we both refuse. Neither of us gets anything, Sterling picks someone else, and we're both locked out anyway."
Devan is quiet for a moment. "What about a coin flip?"
"Are you serious?"
"No." He drags a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Maybe."
"I'm not flipping a coin for your future, Devan."
"Then what?" He looks up at me, and the exhaustion in his eyes makes my chest hurt. "What's the play here, Sam? Because I don't see one."
I don't either. That's the problem.
I keep pacing. The room is too small. The walls are closing in.
"Maybe we're thinking about this wrong," I say. "Maybe there's an angle we're not seeing."
"Like what?"
"I don't know!" The words come out sharper than I intended. "I don't know, okay? I'm trying to—I'm trying to find a way out of this, and every door I look at is bricked shut."
"Sam." Devan stands, reaching for me. "Hey. Stop."
"I can't stop." I shake him off, still pacing. "If I stop moving, I'm going to start screaming, and I don't think I'll be able to stop."
