“What do I teach you?”
“That intelligence comes in many forms,” I say. “And that lived experience carries its own kind of knowledge.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“In theludus…” He switches to Latin. “They tore away our humanity, made us nothing but tools to bleed for their games.” His gaze stays on mine. “But you make me feel as though what I carry still has value.”
“You do,” I say. “Important value.”
“Even when I cannot read?”
“Especially then.”
Something in his expression settles—not confidence, exactly, but relief.
When he leaves, the room feels oddly empty.
My phone buzzes.
Mom:How is the gladiator project going, sweetheart? Your father and I hope you’re finding material you can use.
I stare at the message, then type back:The work is going well. Learning more than I expected.
It’s true. Just not in the way they mean.
I open my laptop and do what I’ve always done best—sort, connect, pattern-match. Within an hour, I’ve documented pages of insights: crowd behavior that reframes the arena as theater, combat choices that contradict textbooks but make tactical sense. None of it would exist without him.
I draft a brief update to Dr. Blackwell. Her reply comes quickly—encouraging, focused, a reminder to document methodology carefully. Useful. Grounding.
Still, when I close the laptop, it’s not the research that lingers.
It’s the look on Flavius’s face when the letters finally aligned. The quiet wonder of realizing something long denied might still be possible.
Helping him learn isn’t just instruction. It’s giving him ownership of his story.
And maybe—dangerously—it’s the beginning of something shared.
That evening, in the communal hall, I spot him mid-story, laughter ringing around the table. For once, he isn’t performing. He’s simply alive in the telling. He glances up, sees me, and his smile shifts—subtler, less practiced.
Something in my chest responds.
Not certainty. Not romance.
Possibility.
Chapter Seven
Flavius
I arrive at Conference Room B to find Sophia already there, but as I watch her through the open door, something is different. She’s sitting rigidly in her chair, hands pressed flat against the table, breathing so rapidly that her chest is heaving. Her usually neat ponytail is slightly disheveled, and there are stress lines around her eyes I haven’t seen before.
In the arena, reading people’s stress meant survival. The skill doesn’t disappear because the stakes are lower now.
“Good morning,” I say carefully, settling into my chair. “Is everything… good?”
She looks up and I catch a flash of something vulnerable before her professional mask slides into place. “Fine. Just abusy morning. Ready to continue our conversation about crowd psychology?”
Not fine at all.Everything about her posture screams tension. In theludus, we learned to recognize when someone was pushed to their breaking point—it could mean the difference between offering help and staying clear of an explosion.
