#academic setting

There is a box in Gianpiero's office.

This isn't uncommon, necessarily. He's the frequent recipient of oddities and abnormalities, from both peers and questioning meisters.

What is uncommon about the box is the size. Gianpiero works with smaller items, objects that have accidentally been imbued with soul energy or negative karma. He's known best for his cleansing skills, and while he's certified to work with weapons, it's not something he widely advertises.

He carefully shuts the solid oak door behind him, flicking on a lamp. There's rain pounding down in heavy sheets outside, lashing against the window, and the mug of tea in his hand is still hot, steam curling into his nose.

The box is relatively square, wrapped in fabric and twine, plastered with containment seals and protection wards. Gianpiero feels his mouth twitch just looking at— if whatever's inside really does require this much effort, he's not particularly pleased that it's just appeared in his office.

An explanation would be nice.

He crosses the room, setting his mug down with a dull thunk of ceramic against wood, lifting his sweater from the back of the chair and tugging it over his head. He'd come by today to get a head start on critiquing dissertations, not... this.

His briefcase gets settled into its desk drawer, and Gianpiero tugs on a pair of protection gloves, fabric tight against his hands. There's a few warding bracelets that slide easy enough on his wrists, and he's been wearing different assortments and variations of positive karma charms since he was little.

Cleansing runs in the family. He's been taught how to do it his entire life, and while he's never gone down the flashier military routes of his cousins, academia has suited him very well.

He slides on his glasses, skin buzzing as he settles them on his nose. There's enough energy on him now to form a full circuit, protecting him from whatever the box contains. Anything requiring physical paper seals in this day and age would honestly be better suited to a museum, or a specialist.

Although—

Gianpiero is a specialist. Just not a very loud one, and there's only so many people aware of his affinity for tough curses, for items so drenched in negative karma they make people sick. He's never been able to explain it, the deep satisfaction of the cleansing and healing process, watching his work take root.

Still, he doesn't often work with weapons. Their sentient nature can be volatile to work with, and if a weapon were to reach a degree of damage where Gianpiero's skills are necessary...

It's better to retire them, generally.

He's hoping it's not a weapon inside the box. He takes a slow sip from his mug, carefully analyzing the outside of it, noting with some surprise that the seals are hand drawn instead of pre-produced, the calligraphy messy and uneven.

It's possible that it's a battlefield find, something picked up by an unwitting soldier or a particularly stupid meister, and that its true nature hadn't been immediately visible. That could certainly explain the messy handwriting, the near panicked wrap job on the box.

He takes another long sip, breathing out slowly before nodding decisively. Whatever's inside, someone knew— or had been told— that Gianpiero was the best person to handle it.

He'll give it a try. It's certainly more exciting than grading papers, and it's not often that he interacts with new things. Usually he's pointing out things to students that he knows like the back of his hand, teaching lessons he could go over in his sleep.

He sets the mug back down, double checking that he still has a full protection circuit active before he reaches for the box, carefully untangling the seals and twine. The wards fall off easy, and he gets an itch in his nose, the kind he always gets when dealing with something heavily charged.

The last protection ward falls as he unravels the twice, pulling at the fabric gently. The box is wooden, clearly repurposed out of an old dresser drawer, and the negative karma seeping from it makes the backs of his teeth hurt.

There's a low buzz in his ears as he carefully lifts the lid.

It doesn't immediately explode, which is a good sign, but he does catch a metallic glint of silver that has him groaning internally, headache forming at the base of his skull.

It's a weapon. A damaged weapon, from the looks of it. It's fallen in the form of two knives, which is already a terrible start— prolonged severance of soul can lead to identity struggles and difficulty reforming.

On top of that, it's brutalized. There's chipped edges along the blades, scrawling cracks along the surface. The hilts are worn through, half rotted off and stained dark with blood.

It must be a battlefield find— maybe even a battlefield kill, if Gianpiero had to hazard a guess, but finding the distinction has never been part of his job. What he can tell is that the weapon is deeply wounded, clouded in a miasma of despair and failure. It's seeping negative karma, displaying as clearly as it can to not be used.

Whatever soul used to be inside of it, Gianpiero has a hard time believing it might still be present. A well kept weapon communicates with its meister— the best of them take physical forms when not in use, slightly unsettling human shapes while retaining their more lethal traits.

Weapons forced to be used in ways that the soul itself disagrees with... it never ends pretty, and Gianpiero has a feeling that's exactly what he's looking at.

He pulls out a notebook, flipping to a new page and starting an entry. It's important to note everything he's spotting now, the things he might not remember later, and if he can't find any clues about the weapon inside the box, he'll have to do some digging.

There's two pages worth of surface level observations before he sets his pen down, bracing himself as he carefully reaches inside.

The weapon is light in his hands— it almost feels fragile. He's gentle as he turns the knives, inspecting them carefully.

No hint to meister identity that he can see, although the hilts are so worn down it would be near impossible to tell anyways.

Most weapons have a response when they're handled— well kept weapons will sing, attuning themselves to their meisters. A damaged weapon may lash out, violent and uncomfortable to wield, in an attempt to preserve their souls until a better meister comes along.

This weapon, however, barely has a response at all. Gianpiero can feel a faint pulse if he truly focuses, a thready beat of resignation. A weapon this damaged, wielded so far from its Purpose— it should have been retired.

It still should be, in Gianpiero's opinion. It's not even trying to fight him, simply accepting the new ownership. There's no lingering trace of loyalty to a previous meister, not even a glimmer of curiosity. It's subdued.

Defeated.

He's still holding it carefully in his hands as he peers inside the box, surprised to find a singular scrap of paper shoved into the bottom. It's ripped off of what looks to have been a supply list, and the same panicked handwriting that had been on the seals is present.

He squints, eyes tracing the letters. It's short, scrawled heavily into the paper, pen pushing through and indenting into the other side.

MAX

He gingerly sets the weapon back in the box, careful to keep the knives in contact with each other, before returning back to the notebook.

A name isn't much to go off of, not at all, but—

It's something.

He continues writing, occasionally taking sips from his tea even as it goes cold. There's a dull throb at the back of his head, a byproduct of the miasma that's probably seeped into his office by now, and he makes a note to pause office hours until he can get it cleansed.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, conflicted. Ethically... this weapon should be retired. It's on the brink already, barely receptive, Purpose so faint Gianpiero can't even tell what it is. At the same time, he's never been one to accept a lost cause— it's why so many objects end up on his desk, why he's a last resort for others within his own field.

If he can bring this weapon back, even just enough for it to tell him if it wants to be retired—

He can live with that. But the idea of retiring a weapon without its explicit consent or agreement, while there's still life inside... even on a technicality, it grates at him. Someone must have cared, cared enough to seal it up and cover it in seals, cared enough to write its name and track down Gianpiero.

The wards, the seals, the clumsy calligraphy— it reeks of desperation. Who is Gianpiero to thoughtlessly toss that aside?

He sighs, leaning back in his chair as he looks at the box again. There are sheaths in his home office, long unused, but he has a leather forearm brace that he can keep the knives in. He'll keep it on his left arm, his strong arm, closer to his heart. To attempt to rehabilitate a weapon like this may be a years long project, but he can't find it within himself to just retire it.

"Alright... Max. We've got some work to do."

------

It takes Gianpiero six hours to cleanse his office enough to be comfortable letting students back in. He's had to rearrange things as well, bringing in a warded case that he can lay the weapon in when he can't keep it with him, filled with spring water from nearby, infused with the necessary minerals for reconstruction.

If Max utilizes it.

He can faintly feel a buzz against his forearm, a pule so distant he's not entirely sure he isn't imagining it. He has the two blades pressed together, a naively hopeful attempt at preventing any further soul severance, and he carefully finishes tracing the cleansing seal onto the inside of the cover, clasping it securely over his arm.

He takes a slow sip at the last of his coffee, getting his mind back on track. He needs— communication, usually. Even if it makes him sound a little insane, talking to nothing.

The students have witnessed him do weirder to get positive results, so it's not something entirely new to them, although Gianpiero makes it a point to keep his... extracurricular activities out of the academia.

He can probably write a paper on this, if it works out, and he's been a professor long enough that most everybody is content to let him do his own thing.

He sets his empty mug down, resting his fingers across the brace.

"You ever been a teacher before, Max?"

Predictably, there's no response.

------

The students are curious, pestering him with questions that he doesn't have answers for. No, he doesn't know where it's from, no, he hasn't spoke to it, no, he's not a meister.

He's only lying a little bit on the last point. His lectures go quickly, although nothing seems to catch Max's interest— the pulse against his arm remains thin and ragged.

He waves out the last of the students, pulling his jacket back on as he grabs his briefcase. He'd found himself more often than not with his palm resting across the top of the brace, talking less with his hands than he usually does.

The walk through the rest of the academic building is quiet. It's monsoon season, and there's rain pattering down outside, hallways lit with lamps. Bono's office is on the sixth floor, two floors down from Gianpiero's classroom, and his office door is cracked when he gets there.

His knuckles knock against the wood gently.

"Pete, hey."

Bono looks up, glasses low on his nose. He's surrounded by weapon designs— regular weapons, from the smithy students. Some are... more unique than others. Gianpiero doesn't particularly envy his job.

"GP! This is a surprise."

He offers a half smile and shrug, delicately clearing a mace off of one of the seats in front of Bono's desk.

"I wanted to pick your brain about something, actually."

Bono quirks his head to the side, setting his pen down as he looks at Gianpiero intently. It's not often that their two specialities interact, despite running parallel to each other, and while this has never stopped them from being close friends, it does mean that they don't frequently talk shop.

"Hit me with it."

Gianpiero keeps his voice dry, amusement flickering in his chest.

"I'd rather not, if you wouldn't mind."

He grins as Bono's face twists at the bad joke, before unstrapping the cover over the sheaths braced against his forearm.

"I got a surprise package the other day— and I figured I'd just ask if you recognized a time period, instead of making myself miserable by guessing."

Bono leans forward, squinting.

"You're not usually a weapons handler, GP."

He rears back, nose wrinkling as he grabs a protection bracelet from a drawer.

"And I just realized why you have it and not anyone else— that miasma is thick. Wow."

Gianpiero winces, carefully angling his arm so that Bono can get a better look.

"Well, they look pretty old, honestly. Most of the schools in the last decade use the inverse grip style, so whoever this used to be was trained on the outdated style— it's worse for your thumbs. The leather wrapping is overlapping in a downwards pattern, so it's from this side of the hemisphere, and the actual straight blade style almost makes me think of the direct weapons training groups?"

Gianpiero frowns.

"Horner's kids?"

Bono nods.

"Yeah, the older ones. I mean, I don't personally agree with training kids to be sacrificial, but they are usually taught on more difficult styles— makes them more useful when they become weapons. It might be worth asking him, but if I had to guess, going just off of this, your weapon used to be human around thirty years ago."

That's... younger than Gianpiero had expected, considering how worn down the soul is. He sighs, carefully securing the cover back over them.

"Thank you, Pete. I appreciate it."

Bono grins, pointing a pen at him.

"Anytime, Lambiase. And hey— whenever you're finally through with those dissertations, let me know. We'll get dinner."

He pauses, pen wavering slightly.

"Or sooner, if you want some company while you work on your new project."

Gianpiero feels a small curdle of guilt. Bono is a good friend, and he hasn't spent enough time with him lately— he gets too wrapped up in his books, spends hours in his office while forgetting to eat.

He gives Bono a small smile, standing from the chair. His palm has found its way to curl across his forearm again.

"I'll let you get back to your grading. But I'll remember the offer about dinner, if you promise not to bring an experimental utensil with you."

Bono cringes.

"That was one time, and how else was I supposed to grade it?"

"By not letting it blow up in my kitchen."

He raps his knuckles against the exposed wood of Bono's desk lightly, grinning as he steps out. He's not going to try and visit Horner tonight— and it would just put him in a bad mood.

There's a brief flicker of something when he passes by the fountain in the courtyard, and it startles him so badly he nearly trips over his own feet. The rain is pattering down lightly around him, but Max—

Something about the fountain has caused Max to stir from the stupor he's been in.

He steps closer, trying to encourage it again, but Max has settled back down. It's brief enough that he wonders for a wild moment if he'd just imagined it, but he knows what he felt.

His thumb rubs across the leather. It'd been slight, barely anything at all, but it'd been something. Max isn't a lost cause.

Gianpiero won't allow it.

------

He puts off talking to Horner. It falls to the bottom of his priority list, between working through dissertations and teaching. He gets sent a few more odds and ends, working through the cleansing process with practiced ease. Max spends most of his office hours in the warded case, soaking in a mineral bath.

Gianpiero can't see any difference yet, but he's willing to be patient. He borrows a few books from Bono on some of the older weaponry the academy has produced, and eventually he'll get around to combing through old records, but he wants to see if Horner has any info for him first.

Probably not. He's not exactly optimistic about the memory recall of a man who spends most of his time teaching students how to kill others.

Besides, Horner's only been teaching for twenty six years, which is close enough to Bono's suspicions on weapon age, but too recent in memory to be one of Horner's kids— a weapon being lost track of like that is a big deal, and even Gianpiero would've heard about it.

Bono steals a noodle off of his plate, feet kicked up near Gianpiero's lap.

"It's possible that my count is off, and it's actually older."

He's musing, helping Gianpiero try and puzzle through what exactly he's committed himself to with this project. There's takeout on the table, and Gianpiero doesn't complain too much about the loss of his noodle— he's been stealing vegetables from Bono all evening.

"You think maybe they were one of the first people taught on the design?"

Bono shrugs.

"Or maybe running a prototype. I never worked with Professor Helmut personally, but I've heard some of his best students went over to Dietrich. After that— ah, GP, they're a locked vault over there. I'm not sure you'll get anything useful."

Gianpiero snorts, raising an eyebrow.

"From Horner? Not likely. I'm counting on him being so focused on telling me the wrong thing, that he accidentally points me in the direction of the right one."

He jabs at a noodle forcefully.

The envelope is thicker than any other paper you’ve ever touched.

Fancy ivory paper with a gold trim. Wax seal stamped with a Latin crest you had to Google to figure out what it meant. The letter smells like cologne—very expensive cologne—and the paper doesn’t bend like normal envelopes do. You almost feel guilty opening it, like you're destroying something precious.

But you open it anyway, hands trembling.

“Dear [Last Name],

We are pleased to inform you of your conditional acceptance into Veritas University, one of the most prestigious institutions in the country…”

You blink. You reread. You check the name, the address, your hands again, like this letter was meant for someone else and got dropped off with you by mistake.

It continues:

“Given your exceptional academic performance and demonstrated potential, an invitation to our academic community has been extended through a special arrangement. Please be aware that such arrangements are considered sensitive, and we encourage discretion regarding the circumstances of your admission to ensure your smooth integration into the social and academic fabric of the university.”

Discretion. Smooth integration. You get the message.

Don’t tell anyone you got in on a scholarship. Don’t tell anyone you’re not rich. And definitely don’t mention the strange phone call that came just before the letter. Or the name that you heard in that call.

You fold the letter carefully and place it back in the envelope, like maybe that’ll stop your heart from hammering out of your chest.

It doesn’t.

You think back to a conversation you’d had with your bestie Mira a few months ago—well before the letter, before the phone call, a time where Veritas was still a laughable dream at best.

“So, get this” she’d said dramatically over iced coffee, twirling her straw between her fingers. “You know that place Veritas? That fancy university with the Latin name that sounds like it comes with a crazy blood pact?”

You snorted. “What about it?”

“So like it’s basically Hogwarts for rich kids. I read somewhere that their dining halls have chefs trained in actual Michelin-star kitchens. Like, plural.”

“Sounds fake.”

“No, dude. Anyone who gets in there is set for life. Like, cursed with success. You graduate from Veritas and someone just hands you a glass office and a six-figure trust fund.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said without thinking:

“Obviously all of them that I have heard about are rich kids who are gonna inherit their parents’ business or whatever. That place isn’t for regular people to then get rich afterwards.”

“Exactly!” Mira had leaned across the table, wide-eyed. “It’s like the Ivy League’s mysterious, prettier, colder cousin. Nobody even applies there—they all just get like hand picked. Like royalty. I swear by god that if I ever find out where this place is I’m gonna sneak in there and find me a rich hot husband”

You laughed at the time. You don’t laugh now.

Because now you're holding an invitation.

And your hands are shaking.

“Are you okay?”

Your mom’s voice comes in from the kitchen, soft but with a nervous tinge—like she’s trying not to sound like she’s been pacing around this whole time. You walk out with the letter still in your hand, unable to find the words.

Your dad looks up from his laptop, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well?”

You hold up the envelope like a offering. “I actually got in like the call was real.”

They both go still. Then, in perfect sync, they erupt.

Your mom gasps and rushes over to hug you, and your dad lets out a long, stunned whistle. He stands, wrapping an arm around both of you. 

For a second, all your worries disappear. You let yourself breathe it in: pride, warmth, your mom’s hand on your back, your dad squeezing your shoulder like he still can’t believe you’re actually here.

Then your mom pulls back, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. “There’s… a part in the letter. It says I shouldn’t tell anyone how I got in. That it’s a ‘sensitive arrangement.’”

Your dad frowns, reaching for the envelope. He reads the paragraph silently, lips thinning.

“They don’t want you to say you got in on a scholarship?” your mom says, blinking. “Why?”

You shrug, even though you know the answer. “They probably think if people find out I’m not rich, it’ll make things harder. Or awkward. I don’t know.”

“Because heaven forbid anyone on that campus interacts with a normal person” your dad mutters. “What a load of—”

“Hey” your mom warns gently, but her face is pinched too.

There’s a short beat of silence.

“I’m proud of you” your dad says, looking you dead in the eye. “This doesn’t change that. But if it ever becomes too much—if you ever feel like hiding who you are is the price for being there—you call us. Got it?”

You nod, blinking quickly.

Your mom patted your head like she used to when you were little. “We raised you to be brilliant. Not to pretend.”

You smile. But you also tuck the letter back in its envelope and slide it into your backpack. You’re already learning how to be careful.

Packing is… oddly quiet and emotional in weirdly small ways.

You fold your favorite sweater like three times before placing it in your suitcase, even though it’s already fraying at the cuffs. You dig out the mug your little cousin made for you in pottery class ( it's lumpy, weird, but perfect in its own way) and nestle it between socks like a treasure.

Your dad buys you a new power bank and slips a twenty into your pencil case when he thinks you’re not looking. Your mom bakes your favorite muffins and cries when she burns the last batch, but laughing through her tears.

The night before you leave, you sit on the back porch with your parents under a string of mismatched fairy lights and just…take everything in.

It’s a warm night. The stars shining beautifully in the dark night sky.

“I’m going to miss this” you say quietly.

“We’re going to miss you,” your mom replies, holding your hand.

You don’t say anything. You just listen to the crickets and try to remember this feeling—home.

The next morning, you meet Mira at the usual spot. A little coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with chipped mosaic tables and weird rotating chalkboard quotes.

It smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso beans, and you’re not sure if the A/C’s broken or just never actually worked. The barista knows your names without asking. Mira always orders something iced and obnoxiously sweet.

You sip your drink slowly, counting the scratches on the table, trying to ignore how Mira keeps looking at you like you’re already halfway gone.

“So,” she says finally, “you nervous?”

“Nah,” you lie. “It’s just school.”

“Just school,” she echoes, with an eye roll. “You’re literally going overseas for it. I bet you’re going to end up with a secret society nickname like ‘the Oracle’ or something.”

You laugh, but it’s tight in your throat. Mira leans forward across the table.

“Okay but—real talk? Like are you not telling me about it because they have a weird cult on campus. I know it’s like a fancy place and you can’t entirely tell me about it but like.. is it weird? “A little.”

“Weird like, weird food and fancy fountains? Or weird like someone disappears and no one talks about it?”

“I mean... probably both.”

She grins, then sighs, falling back into her chair.

“Ugh, you’re abandoning me internationally now? What am I supposed to do when I start spiraling at 2 a.m.?”

“I’ll still have Wi-Fi. Probably...”

“Not the same. I can’t even stalk you properly considering you’ll probably be too busy to post anything. And what am I supposed to tell people? That you vanished into some academic Bermuda Triangle?”

You smile, but your heart tugs.

To her, you’re just “heading abroad to a weird-sounding academic program”some vague, exclusive opportunity you couldn’t explain without giving too much away. She never got to see the name Veritas. You never showed her the letter. You weren’t allowed to.

“You’re gonna miss this, though, right?. Us. The shop. The smell of fried donuts and stress sweat.”

You smile. “Already do.”

You both go quiet. She stirs her drink with the end of her straw until the ice clicks against the sides.

“I hope they don’t ruin your brain” she mutters. “Or your heart.”

“I think my heart’s pretty break-proof.”

“You better text me” she says. “Like, at least lie and tell me things are boring. I can’t be the only one rotting in this boring place.”

You promise you will. You both pretend like the goodbye right now doesn’t sting like hell.

The day you leave, you take a bus. Then a very long train ride. Then another bus. And then a taxi payed by the College for you. No private car. No airport lounge. Just headphones and old seats that you are sinking into but not in a good way.

And eventually… the gates appear.

Completely made of iron and towering, the main entrance to Veritas University feels like the start of a different world. You can see the Primus dorm building in the distance, marble and incredible. Somewhere out there, the elite are probably already lounging by their dormitory pool, sipping some sparkly drinks.

You pull your duffel bag higher on your shoulder and follow the signs toward Dorm Novus.

It’s farther out than you expected.

Past the fancy roads and down a narrow walkway with slightly cracked cobblestones and street lamps, there’s a plain gray building tucked almost behind a line of trees. You pass a couple of other students on the way, all in designer sunglasses and with sleek brand name luggage. No one makes eye contact.

When you finally reach the door to your floor—B3, the basement level—it sticks. You have to push with your full weight before the door groans open.

The hallway smells like lemon cleaner and damp tile. You walk past a series of heavy doors before stopping at your own: B3-07.

Tiny brass numbers. Scratched. Slightly crooked.

You open it and find… well.

It’s not terrible.

The room is… modest. Plain, but clean. Not cold, but not luxurious either. A single bed, a sleek desk bolted to the wall, a neutral carpet, and a window that looks out onto the back lot. The view is uninspiring: hedge, stone, hedge.

There’s no chandelier. No en-suite marble bathroom. No designer lighting.

It’s about the size of your bedroom back home—maybe a little wider now that you're looking at it closer. You’re grateful it’s a single room, at least. That was probably intentional. Someone thought putting you with a roommate would be risky.

You drop your bag onto the bed and run your fingers across the desk.

Everything feels so sterile. Like no one’s ever lived here. You’re half-expecting a voice to come over the intercom and say “Simulation complete.”

You start to unpack slowly, piece by piece. T-shirts, jeans, one blazer you borrowed from your mom’s closet, even though you don’t know when you’ll ever wear it. You put your books on the shelf—a stuffed animal you won at a claw machine, the fantasy novel you read three times last year, your DVDs and some small little trinkets.

Then you reach the photo.

You and your best friend, Mira, making stupid faces in front of your favorite coffee shop. She’d drawn cat ears on your foreheads with eyeliner that day. You tuck the photo into the edge of your mirror frame, the smile on your face in the picture a little too bright to be fake.

You stare at it a moment longer than you meant to. It’s strange, how something as small as a Polaroid can make you homesick before classes have even started.

She didn’t even know where you were really going.

But sitting here now, inside this impossibly elite school, surrounded by people whose names you probably read in the news before, it comes back to you. That one night. That one conversation with Mira you’d almost forgotten.

“Okay, listen,” she’d said over the phone, half-whispering like she was leaking state secrets. “I went down a rabbit hole on that university—Veritas University, and like now I'm totally sure it’s a cult for rich kids.”

“Sounds promising.”

“No, I mean it. If you Google who goes there, it’s like a society page from hell. Legacy heirs, oil money, tech empires, models with trust funds. It’s terrifying. The Miya twins go there—I think. And definitely Wakatoshi freaking Ushijima.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“God, yes. You live under a rock but even then I bet you heard about them. My cousin’s obsessed with his family—the Ushijima Group. They own everything. Real estate, fashion houses, international resorts. Literal billionaires. He was in Forbes before he could even drive. Doesn’t even post on social media and he’s still trending.”

You hadn’t said much back then. Just smiled awkwardly and changed the subject, like you always did when Mira started talking about high society stuff.

You didn’t think it would ever matter.

But now you’re here. At that school. The one you pretended wasn’t real.

And all those names she mentioned? They’re not magazine headlines anymore. They’re people. Faces. Potential classmates. They’ll walk past you in designer shoes, drive cars worth more than your neighborhood, and laugh about vacations at places could only imagine to go to in your wildest dreams.

You’d remembered the name Ushijima, though after that talk. Obviously you knew him even if you didn't remember the name at that time.

The Ushijima Group was one of those empire names that floated through news segments and stock tickers like a ghost. Real estate, luxury brands, global holdings—you name it. His family had it. Their faces were regulars in glossy business magazines and elite family features.

Wakatoshi himself? He was practically myth-level. Some kind of golden boy who looked like he was carved from marble and groomed for power since birth. Attending galas before he hit puberty, photographed shaking hands with people who leaded countries, and somehow almost never saying a word in public. The kind of guy who didn’t need an online presence because his name alone did the networking.

And now, somehow, impossibly… you’re at the same university as him.

Not just him—there were others, too. Names you would regularly see on forums, in competitions, on social media: the Miya twins, Oikawa, Tsukishima. People with last names that were brands, legacies that were locked into place before they ever took a test.

Veritas didn’t just collect students. It curated heirs.

You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the browser icon.

Just one search. That’s all it would take. A quick look. You’d know exactly what names to brace yourself for. What kind of world you’re really walking into.

You bite your lip, staring at the blank screen.

Should you?

Your heart's already pounding. And what if it makes it worse? What if you see faces you've seen on magazine covers, or be able to put faces to names you’ve read in headlines about people who live in mansions bigger than your whole block?

You let out a slow breath… and lock your phone again.

You don’t need to know.

If you start googling people now, you'll be stuck looking at the world from behind glass—already an outsider before you’ve even stepped into your first class.

Better to go in blind. Better to find out who they are face-to-face, if you have to.

Your laptop slides into place on the desk. You lay your comforter over the bed—navy blue, very soft, and smelling like home. A tiny candle holder sits near the window, unlit. You’re not even sure if they allow candles here, but it just makes you feel more at home.

You pull out the letter one more time and press your fingers to the corner of the wax seal.

Veritas University. A place for the elite. For the bloodlines and boardrooms. For the kind of people who get written about before they turn twenty. And you.

You lie down, folding your arms behind your head. The room hums with a faint mechanical buzz. You stare up at the smooth, white ceiling and wonder what the air feels like in the other dorms.

Probably cleaner. More expensive.

But you don’t need marble. You just need a chance. And someone already gave you one—even if you still don’t know why.

You’ll figure that part out later.

For now, you’re not here to belong. You’re here to survive.

Masterlist with the other chapters

Obi-Wan studied him, the pull he felt towards Cody now a vivid presence in his heart. It was more than professional concern that warmed his voice; it was a genuine desire to see Cody not just succeed, but thrive. "There's a fine line between perseverance and obstinacy, Cody. Sometimes, the bravest thing one can do is to acknowledge when to pause and seek perspective."

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken words, a current of understanding that flowed between them. Obi-Wan's presence, so calm and assured, was a balm to Cody's frayed nerves. The professor's words, imbued with empathy and wisdom, sparked a glimmer of hope within Cody, a reminder that he was not alone in this endeavor.

Cody's defenses began to crumble, the barriers he had erected between himself and the world showing cracks. "I just... I don't want to disappoint anyone. Least of all, you," he admitted, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between them.

Obi-Wan's heart clenched at the vulnerability in Cody's words. "You could never disappoint me," he said earnestly. "Your journey is your own, Cody. All I ask is that you don't lose yourself along the way." His concern was a tangible thing, a testament to the depth of his care for Cody's well-being.

The moment stretched on, a tableau of mentor and mentee bound by mutual respect and an emerging sense of connection that transcended the roles they played. In the silence of the library, amidst the tomes of knowledge and the whispers of history, a bond was forged, delicate yet unyielding.

As Obi-Wan stood to leave, he paused, looking down at Cody with a softness in his eyes that he seldom allowed himself to show. "Remember, the greatest lessons often come not from the pages of a book, but from understanding the rhythm of our own hearts."

Cody watched him go, the professor's words echoing in his mind, a soothing melody amidst the cacophony of his doubts. In that moment, Cody felt seen, truly seen, not just as a student, but as a person—a feeling both exhilarating and terrifying.

The library's silence enveloped him once more, but now it was a comforting embrace rather than a suffocating void. Inspired by Obi-Wan's faith in him, Cody turned back to his thesis with a renewed sense of purpose, the isolation of his academic pursuit softened by the knowledge that he was not alone in his struggles. In the quiet library, a seed of something new began to take root in his heart, the possibility of a connection that might one day blossom into something neither of them could yet comprehend.

**** 

The ambiance of the university's makeshift cinema, a quaint assembly within the embrace of its arts department, was alight with the soft hum of anticipation. Cody, having wandered into this enclave of film enthusiasts by a twist of fate, found himself momentarily adrift in the novelty of the experience. The room, usually stark and echoing with the footsteps of academia, was transformed into a sanctuary of shared anticipation for the cinematic journey ahead.

As Cody hesitated on the periphery, uncertain yet intrigued, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s presence cut through the thrum of budding excitement. The professor, known within the hallowed halls for his scholarly rigor, stood amidst the film club’s members not as an authority but as one of their own, a fellow devotee of the art form. His role as the club's advisor, a facet of his identity Cody had been unaware of, added layers to the man Cody had come to respect deeply in the academic sphere.

"Cody," Obi-Wan called out, his voice a beacon in the low-lit room, tinged with a warmth that seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of their customary student-teacher dynamic. "This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you amongst our cinema aficionados tonight."

Cody, momentarily caught in the headlights of Obi-Wan’s unexpected welcome, felt a flush of warmth spread across his cheeks. "I, uh, stumbled upon it," he managed to say, his usual confidence faltering under Obi-Wan’s attentive gaze. "I thought it might be... enlightening."

The exchange, simple as it was, crackled with an undercurrent of uncharted territory. There was a palpable shift in the air, a mingling of professional respect and a budding curiosity that seemed to draw them into a sphere of intimacy previously unexplored. Obi-Wan’s smile, soft and genuine, eased Cody’s initial trepidation, bridging the gap between them with an ease that Cody found both comforting and disconcerting.

"Enlightenment comes in many forms," Obi-Wan replied, his tone imbued with a hint of playfulness that Cody had never heard in the lecture hall. "Perhaps tonight’s film will offer a different perspective. After all, the world of cinema is vast and varied."

As they settled into their seats, the space between them charged with a new awareness, Cody found himself grappling with the duality of Obi-Wan’s identity. The professor he respected, whose intellect and guidance he valued above all, was also a man of deep passions and interests, facets that Cody had never considered in the rigid structure of their academic interactions.

The room dimmed further, the chatter subsiding into a collective breath of anticipation as the film began to play. On screen, worlds unfolded, stories were told in shades of light and shadow, and emotions were painted in broad strokes of color and sound. Cody found himself drawn into the narrative, yet part of his attention remained tethered to Obi-Wan, to the subtle shifts in his expression, the soft intakes of breath at moments of tension, and the quiet laughter that seemed to resonate directly within Cody.

Their shared experience of the film, punctuated by whispered insights and shared glances, wove a thread of connection between them, subtle yet undeniable. Cody was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from Obi-Wan’s side, the occasional brush of their arms in the shared space between their chairs. Each touch was electric, sparking flashes of awareness that Cody struggled to categorize.

In the dim light, Cody stole glances at Obi-Wan, observing the way the flickering images played across his features, casting him in a light that Cody found mesmerizing. It was as if, in the shared silence of their movie-watching, a dialogue was unfolding between them, one of curiosity, of mutual discovery, and an emerging sense of camaraderie that transcended their known world.

The film, with its tapestry of emotions and narratives, became a backdrop to the unfolding realization within Cody—a dawning understanding of the complexity of his feelings towards Obi-Wan. It was a revelation that unfolded quietly, between the lines of their conversation, in the shared laughter and the silent exchanges that spoke of a connection burgeoning on the cusp of something deeper.

As the evening wore on, the boundaries of their relationship subtly shifted, marked by a camaraderie that felt both exhilarating and daunting. Cody, navigating the tumultuous waters of his own emotions, found himself drawn inexorably towards Obi-Wan, propelled by a mixture of professional admiration and a deepening personal curiosity.

In the shared space of their film club encounter, Cody began to see Obi-Wan not just as his professor but as a man of depth and passion, a realization that promised to redefine the contours of their relationship. The night, with its unexpected connections and revelations, had set the stage for a journey neither man had anticipated, one that promised to explore the intricate dance between respect, admiration, and the burgeoning whispers of something more.

*** 

As the screen went black and the projector's hum faded into an eerie silence, a collective sigh rippled through the dimly lit room, a shared moment of disappointment amongst the film club's members. The sudden power outage, an unwelcome intruder in their cinematic sanctuary, cast the room into shadows, the only light now emanating from the emergency exit signs, casting an ethereal glow.

In the midst of this unexpected turn, Obi-Wan, ever the beacon of calm, retrieved a laptop from his bag with a reassuring smile. "The show must go on," he declared, his voice a comforting anchor in the tide of mild chaos. The group congregated closer, drawn to the promise of continuing their journey into the cinematic world, albeit on a much smaller screen.

Cody found himself shoulder to shoulder with Obi-Wan, the close proximity a stark contrast to the formal distance usually maintained in the lecture halls and corridors of the university. The warmth from Obi-Wan's side was palpable, a reassuring presence that Cody found unexpectedly comforting.

As Obi-Wan balanced the laptop on his knees, their sides pressed together, Cody was acutely aware of every shift, every gesture Obi-Wan made. The space between them, now devoid of the barriers of their roles, felt charged with a new energy, a silent acknowledgment of their shared experience in this intimate setting.

The film resumed, its light flickering across their faces, drawing them back into the story. Yet, the narrative on screen could scarcely compete with the one unfolding between them, a story of two individuals exploring the tentative steps towards a connection that transcended the academic.

Their shared laughter at the film's lighter moments created a bridge, a pathway through the walls Cody had meticulously constructed around himself. Each chuckle, each shared glance, wove a thread of camaraderie and understanding, binding them in a shared experience that was both simple and profoundly intimate.

Obi-Wan's laughter, a sound Cody found he wanted to hear more of, was genuine and unguarded. It was a revelation to Cody, witnessing this side of Obi-Wan, free from the constraints of his professorial facade. In these moments, Cody saw not Professor Kenobi but Obi-Wan, a man with a rich tapestry of emotions and a depth of character that Cody found increasingly compelling.

The warmth of Obi-Wan sitting so close, their arms occasionally brushing in the cramped space, sent a cascade of sensations through Cody, stirring feelings he hadn't anticipated. Each accidental touch was like a spark, igniting a flurry of thoughts and emotions, a silent dialogue that spoke of possibilities Cody had never allowed himself to consider.

In the soft glow of the laptop screen, Cody caught glimpses of Obi-Wan's profile, the way his eyes reflected the film's light, the subtle expressions that danced across his face. Cody found himself captivated, drawn to Obi-Wan in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

The intimacy of their setting, the shared whispers commenting on the film's plot twists, created an atmosphere of closeness that Cody had never experienced with Obi-Wan. It was as if, in the absence of the university's formalities, they were free to explore a new dimension of their relationship, one that was unfolding with each shared smile and whispered word.

As the movie progressed, the world beyond the laptop screen seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in a bubble of shared experience and growing connection. Cody found himself leaning slightly into Obi-Wan, a subconscious gesture of trust and affinity, drawn by the warmth and the unspoken promise of understanding and acceptance.

In this unexpected setting, barriers broke down, and the roles that defined them outside this room seemed irrelevant. Here, they were simply Cody and Obi-Wan, two individuals finding common ground in the shared language of cinema, laughter, and the subtle exploration of an emerging bond that promised to redefine their understanding of each other.

The power outage, initially a disruption, had become a catalyst, transforming a routine film screening into a pivotal moment in their relationship. In the close quarters of their makeshift cinema, Cody and Obi-Wan discovered a connection that was as profound as it was unexpected, a connection that hinted at the depth of the journey they were only just beginning to embark upon.

**** 

In the quietude that enveloped them, the film unfurled its tale with gentle persistence, drawing Cody and Obi-Wan deeper into its emotional landscape. The laptop's soft glow illuminated their faces, casting shadows that danced in harmony with the flickering images on screen. It was during one particularly poignant scene, a moment charged with unspoken yearnings and tender revelations, that the boundary between their two worlds subtly shifted.

The popcorn bowl, previously a mere accessory to their movie-watching experience, became the stage for a moment of unforeseen intimacy. As Cody reached in, his focus still partly on the screen, his hand brushed against Obi-Wan's in the dim light. The contact was brief, accidental, yet laden with an electricity that seemed to pulse through the air between them.

Time, for a heartbeat, seemed to stand still. Cody's breath hitched in his chest, his attention now fully wrenched from the film to the man beside him. Obi-Wan's hand had stilled as well, the warmth of his skin a tangible reminder of the proximity they shared. The air felt charged, heavy with a significance that went beyond casual touch, igniting a spark that Cody felt resonate deep within him.

There was a hesitation, a moment suspended in the ether of possibilities, where both men seemed to grapple with the sudden shift in their dynamic. Cody's heart raced, a tumult of emotions swirling within him—surprise, confusion, but most overwhelmingly, a burgeoning sense of connection to Obi-Wan that he couldn't quite comprehend.

Obi-Wan, for his part, withdrew his hand slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes meeting Cody's in a gaze that seemed to search, to question. The soft light reflected in Obi-Wan's eyes, revealing a depth of emotion that Cody had never seen before. It was a look that spoke volumes, conveying an understanding and a curiosity that mirrored Cody's own.

The silence that followed was laden with a new awareness, a recognition of the uncharted territory they had inadvertently stumbled upon. The film continued to play, its narrative unfolding in the background, but the real story was happening right here, in the space between them, in the charged air that seemed to hum with potential.

Cody found himself at a loss for words, the usual ease with which he navigated his academic and personal life momentarily eluding him. The brush of their hands, such a simple, unintentional act, had opened a door to a realm of feeling he had not dared to explore, a realm where his admiration for Obi-Wan merged with a deeper, more complex web of emotion.

Obi-Wan, ever the composed presence, seemed to sense Cody's turmoil. With a gentle grace, he bridged the silence, his voice soft yet clear in the quiet room. "The film's themes of connection and understanding seem particularly resonant tonight," he observed, a subtle acknowledgment of the moment they had shared.

Cody nodded, grateful for Obi-Wan's ability to navigate the situation with such sensitivity. The comment was a lifeline, a way to contextualize the rush of feelings in a manner that felt safe, yet acknowledged the undercurrent of something more between them.

As they turned their attention back to the film, the atmosphere between them was altered, imbued with a sense of intimacy and understanding that had not been present before. The movie progressed, its story weaving through themes of love, loss, and redemption, each scene reflecting back at them the complexity of human emotion and connection.

The brush of their hands in the popcorn bowl had been a fleeting moment, but its impact lingered, a silent testament to the burgeoning connection between them. In the shared space of their accidental intimacy, Cody and Obi-Wan found themselves on the cusp of a journey neither had anticipated, a journey that promised to explore the depths of their relationship and the possibilities that lay within the simple act of reaching out.

**** 

As the narrative of the film wove its intricate dance of light and shadow across the small laptop screen, the room around Cody and Obi-Wan seemed to recede, leaving them adrift in a shared sea of emotion and silent revelation. The movie, a poignant tale of love found, lost, and reclaimed against the odds, mirrored the tempestuous journey of the human heart with such acuity that it seemed to speak directly to them, to the unspoken, burgeoning feelings that had begun to take root in the quiet space between their side-by-side seats.

In the flickering half-light, their eyes met and parted like dancers, a delicate choreography of glances that spoke volumes. Each look was a brushstroke on the canvas of their emerging connection, painting a picture of mutual recognition and the dawning of something more profound than either had anticipated. These stolen moments, when their gazes locked, were laden with the weight of unvoiced questions and the glimmer of possibilities that hung tantalizingly within reach.

The air around them was thick with tension, a palpable charge that seemed to hum with the potential of new beginnings. It was as if the film itself had become a conduit for their emotions, each scene echoing their internal landscapes, drawing them closer with the gravitational pull of shared vulnerability and understanding.

A particularly emotional moment on screen—a heartfelt confession of love that transcended barriers and defied expectations—acted as a mirror, reflecting back at them the uncharted depths of their own feelings. The characters' courage in baring their souls to one another resonated deeply with Cody, stirring within him a tumult of emotions that he struggled to name. It was as if the movie had laid bare the essence of his own heart, revealing a truth he had scarcely admitted to himself.

Beside him, Obi-Wan's presence was a constant, a grounding force in the whirlwind of Cody's thoughts and feelings. Yet, as the scene unfolded, Cody sensed a shift in Obi-Wan, a subtle change in his demeanor that suggested he, too, was moved by the parallel between their situation and the lovers on screen. The professor's usual composure was pierced by the raw emotion of the moment, his gaze lingering on Cody with an intensity that left no room for doubt: the connection they shared was real, palpable, and charged with the promise of something yet to be defined.

In the aftermath of the scene, as the characters on screen navigated the fallout of their vulnerability, Cody and Obi-Wan found themselves caught in a moment of profound silence, a breath held in time. It was a silence that spoke louder than words, a tacit acknowledgment of the shift in their relationship, of the bridge being built between them with each shared experience, each exchanged glance.

The movie continued, its narrative arc bending towards resolution, but for Cody and Obi-Wan, the story was just beginning. The emotional resonance of the film had peeled back layers of defense, revealing the raw, unvarnished truth of their connection. In the shared space of their vulnerability, they found a mutual understanding, a recognition of the feelings that simmered just below the surface.

As the final scenes played out, the characters finding their way back to each other against all odds, Cody and Obi-Wan sat in a silence that was both comfortable and charged with anticipation. The journey of the film's protagonists, from uncertainty to love's triumphant return, offered a poignant parallel to their own, a beacon of hope in the unexplored territory of their burgeoning relationship.

In the dim light of the laptop, as the credits rolled and the room slowly brightened with the return of the overhead lights, Cody and Obi-Wan shared a look that was both an ending and a beginning. It was a look that acknowledged the journey they had undertaken, side by side, and the unspoken promise of the path that lay ahead. The movie had ended, but their story, with all its potential and promise, was just beginning to unfold.

**** 

The film had ended, its final scenes leaving a lingering silence that felt both heavy and hallowed, a sacred space within which truths could be unveiled. The room gradually filled with the soft sounds of the other members stirring, their movements a gentle intrusion into the bubble that Cody and Obi-Wan had inadvertently created around themselves. Yet, in the immediate vicinity of their shared seat, time seemed to stand still, the world beyond their conversation momentarily paused.

Cody, still caught in the emotional undertow of the film, found himself at a crossroads of vulnerability. The movie had stirred something within him, loosening the tightly held reins on his own guarded thoughts and feelings. With the dimming of the laptop screen came an unbidden surge of courage, propelling him into confessions that, until now, had remained locked away.

"It's just... sometimes, I feel so overwhelmed," Cody began, his voice a mere whisper, as if the words themselves were fragile. "Between my thesis and trying to meet everyone's expectations, I feel like I'm constantly on the verge of drowning." The admission hung in the air between them, a testament to Cody's struggle, rendered all the more poignant in the wake of their shared cinematic journey.

Obi-Wan, ever the empathetic listener, turned to face Cody, his expression one of profound understanding and compassion. The barriers of professor and student, mentor and mentee, seemed to dissolve in the face of Cody's raw honesty, leaving behind just two individuals sharing a moment of genuine human connection.

"I've been there, Cody," Obi-Wan shared, his voice tinged with the weight of memory. "There was a time when I too felt as though I was being crushed under the weight of expectations. The fear of failure, of not living up to the potential others saw in me, was almost paralyzing." His admission was a bridge, extending across the chasm of loneliness and doubt that Cody had thought insurmountable.

The room around them slowly emptied, the soft murmurs and footsteps of the departing members a distant echo to the intimacy of their conversation. Yet, neither Cody nor Obi-Wan seemed to notice; their world had contracted to the immediacy of their dialogue, a lifeline thrown across the waters of uncertainty and isolation.

Cody listened, a sense of awe mingling with the burgeoning respect and affection he felt for Obi-Wan. To hear his professor—this person he admired and looked up to—speak of vulnerabilities and past struggles was both humbling and deeply moving. It was a reminder that strength was not the absence of weakness but the courage to face it, to share it, and to grow from it.

"How did you overcome it?" Cody asked, the question a beacon in the fog of his own doubts.

"With time, patience, and understanding—both from myself and from those around me," Obi-Wan replied, his gaze steady and reassuring. "And by realizing that it's okay to ask for help, to admit that you're struggling. Strength lies in vulnerability, in the courage to show your true self, warts and all."

The conversation flowed, a meandering river of shared experiences, fears, and hopes. Obi-Wan spoke of his journey, of the challenges he had faced and the lessons learned along the way. Cody, in turn, opened up about his own fears, the pressure to succeed, and the isolation that his dedication had wrought upon him.

In the vulnerability of their exchange, a bond was forged, one built on mutual respect, understanding, and an unspoken promise of support. They spoke of the future, of paths yet to be walked, and of the strength to be found in companionship and shared burdens.

As the last of the film club members filtered out, leaving Cody and Obi-Wan in the quiet aftermath of their conversation, a sense of peace settled over them. The challenges ahead had not diminished, but the burden felt lighter, shared between shoulders strong enough to bear it together.

In that moment, as they rose from their seats, the world around them resumed its pace, the paused time starting once again to flow. Yet, for Cody and Obi-Wan, everything had changed. They stepped into the hallway, not as professor and student, but as companions on a journey, fortified by the shared understanding that, no matter the challenges ahead, they would not face them alone.

**** 

The remnants of their heart-to-heart lingered in the air, a tangible testament to the shift that had occurred between them. In the quiet aftermath, as the last echoes of their conversation faded into the hush of the emptying room, Cody and Obi-Wan remained, caught in a moment of profound realization. The boundaries that had once defined their interactions seemed to blur, the roles of professor and student no longer sufficient to encapsulate the depth of connection they now shared.

Cody, his heart a tumultuous sea of newfound emotions, found himself grappling with the implications of their exchange. The vulnerability they had shared, the mutual understanding and respect that had flowed so freely between them, had opened the door to something more—a potential that was exhilarating and daunting in equal measure.

Obi-Wan, for his part, seemed equally contemplative, his usually composed demeanor softened by the intimacy of their dialogue. There was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at Cody, a tenderness that spoke volumes of the journey they had embarked upon together. The air between them was charged with an unspoken question, a silent inquiry into the nature of the feelings that had begun to take root.

"It seems we've crossed a threshold, Cody," Obi-Wan finally said, his voice low and imbued with a weight that underscored the significance of their conversation. "What we've shared tonight... it goes beyond the confines of mentorship."

Cody's heart skipped a beat at the acknowledgment, the reality of their situation settling around him like a cloak. The admission was both a balm and a challenge, an invitation to explore the depths of their connection with honesty and courage.

"Yes," Cody agreed, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside him. "I feel it too. There's something... more between us." The words, once spoken, seemed to hang in the air, a fragile bridge spanning the gap between potential and reality.

The complexity of their situation was not lost on either man. The transition from mentor-mentee to something more was fraught with uncertainties and potential pitfalls. Yet, the foundation they had built—rooted in mutual respect, understanding, and now, a burgeoning attraction—offered a beacon of hope, a promise of what could be if they dared to navigate these uncharted waters together.

Obi-Wan stepped closer, closing the physical distance between them as a symbolic gesture of the emotional journey they were about to undertake. "Navigating this... it will require care, Cody. We must be mindful of the implications, of the potential impact on both our personal and professional lives."

Cody nodded, the gravity of Obi-Wan's words grounding him. "I understand. And I'm willing to explore this... with you, with caution and respect for those boundaries." The commitment in his voice was palpable, a vow to tread this new path with the care and consideration it deserved.

The acknowledgment of their mutual attraction, coupled with the complexities it introduced, marked a pivotal moment in their relationship. It was a threshold crossed, a door opened to possibilities hitherto unimagined. As they stood there, in the quiet aftermath of their heart-to-heart, Cody and Obi-Wan were acutely aware of the significance of this moment.

This was not a decision made lightly, nor a path chosen without foresight. It was a journey they agreed to embark upon together, with eyes wide open to the challenges ahead. The understanding and connection that had blossomed between them were too profound to ignore, a rare and precious thing that demanded exploration.

As they finally made their way out of the now-empty room, the world around them seemed both unchanged and entirely new. The campus outside was bathed in the soft glow of the evening, the quiet hum of night beginning to settle in. Yet, for Cody and Obi-Wan, the landscape of their relationship had transformed, offering a vista of potential that was both daunting and beautiful in its promise.

Their steps were measured, side by side, as they navigated the dimly lit paths of the university grounds. The night air was cool, a gentle caress against their skin, a reminder of the world's vastness and the small, yet significant, space they occupied within it. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with potential pitfalls and promises, but the journey—fraught with complexities and imbued with the thrill of new beginnings—was one they were now committed to exploring, together.

*** 

In the serene stillness that cloaked the university's grounds, the world around Cody and Obi-Wan seemed to hold its breath, a silent witness to the unfolding narrative between them. The evening air, crisp and redolent with the scent of blooming night flowers, carried a sense of anticipation, a prelude to the next chapter in their evolving story.

Obi-Wan, typically the epitome of restraint and composure, found himself navigating the tumultuous waters of newfound emotions. The revelations of the night had acted as a catalyst, dissolving the barriers that had once held back the tide of his feelings for Cody. It was a sensation both exhilarating and daunting, a departure from the safety of the known into the vast, uncharted territories of the heart.

As they walked, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot punctuated the silence, a rhythmic reminder of their journey's physical and metaphorical nature. Obi-Wan glanced at Cody, noting the thoughtful expression that played across his features, the soft glow of the campus lights casting shadows that danced across his face.

"Cody," Obi-Wan began, his voice breaking the silence with a gentle yet decisive timbre. "Tonight has been... illuminating, in more ways than one. I find myself reluctant to let it end here, to simply return to the roles we've known."

Cody turned to face him, the ambient light reflecting in his eyes, lending them a depth that Obi-Wan felt drawn into. The air between them was charged with a palpable energy, a magnetic pull that seemed to draw them inexorably closer.

"I feel the same," Cody admitted, his voice low, a mirror to the vulnerability and strength that had characterized their earlier conversation. "There's something between us, Obi-Wan. Something that goes beyond the classroom, beyond the academic."

Obi-Wan nodded, the acknowledgment igniting a spark of hope within him. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he said, taking a small, yet significant step closer. "Which is why I'd like to invite you to another movie night. Just the two of us, away from the constraints of our roles, to explore... whatever this is, between us."

The invitation hung between them, a proposition laden with potential and promise. Cody's response was a soft exhale, a release of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a sign of his own inner turmoil and burgeoning hope.

"I'd like that," Cody said, his voice steady, imbued with a conviction that belied the rapid beating of his heart. "To explore, to understand this connection... with you."

The agreement was a bridge, a tacit commitment to venture forth into the unknown together, to navigate the complexities of their feelings with the same integrity and respect that had defined their relationship thus far.

The decision to meet again, under the guise of another private viewing, was more than an arrangement; it was a declaration, a mutual acknowledgment of their interest in discovering the potential of their bond beyond the academic context. It was an exploration of possibilities, of paths untrodden and futures unimagined, a journey they were now committed to undertaking together.

As they continued their walk, the campus around them seemed to come alive with a new vibrancy, a reflection of the internal shifts that had taken place within them both. The night, with all its mysteries and promises, stretched out before them, a canvas upon which their story could unfold in hues and shades yet to be discovered.

The conversation shifted then, to lighter topics, to shared interests and anecdotes that wove a tapestry of companionship and mutual understanding. Yet, beneath the casual exchange, there was an undercurrent of excitement, a palpable sense of anticipation for what lay ahead.

Their steps eventually led them to part ways, but the promise of their next meeting lingered in the air, a beacon guiding them forward. As they said their goodnights, the exchange was laden with unspoken promises and the thrill of new beginnings.

In the quiet of his own space, Cody found himself replaying the evening's events, each moment a precious memory to be savored. The prospect of their upcoming meeting filled him with a sense of anticipation he hadn't known he was capable of feeling, a testament to the profound impact Obi-Wan had made on his life.

Similarly, Obi-Wan, in the solitude of his own contemplation, found himself looking forward to their next encounter with an eagerness that surprised him. The decision to extend the invitation, to openly express his desire to explore the connection they shared, felt like stepping into daylight after a long night, a bold move toward a future filled with unknown but promising possibilities.

The night's revelations had indeed marked a turning point, a pivotal moment that set the course for a journey neither man could fully anticipate. Yet, the path ahead, with all its uncertainties, was a journey they were both willing to take, emboldened by the shared recognition of their mutual attraction and the complexities it introduced into their lives.

Comments and likes are always welcome.

The first morning doesn’t feel real.

You wake to the low hum of the vents, the faint mechanical buzz mixing with the thin streaks of sunlight coming in through the narrow dorm window. The pale yellow rays cut across your navy comforter, striping the blank walls and desk. For a second, your brain forgets.

And then it sinks back in.

Veritas University.

You lie there for a moment longer, staring up at the white ceiling. The quiet hum of the room fills the space where your thoughts should be.

Yesterday, you were still home. Yesterday, this was some distant, impossible future you couldn’t even really imagine. Yesterday, your mom had cried over a burned batch of muffins. Your dad thought he was sneaking when slipping money into your pencil case, you’d sat on your porch under those cheap string lights and tried to memorize just everything you were feeling.

And now… this.

You sit up slowly, that now familiar twist pulling at your stomach, not quite fear, not quite excitement. Just the feeling of how much has changed in so little time.

You’re actually here.

In a world you’d only heard stories about. 

Drawing in a steady breath, you finally pull yourself up and move over to the closet. The limited amount of clothes looks even more sparse in the daylight, mostly plain clothes now that you really look at it.

And then, hanging neatly at the front, the two most expensive pieces of clothing you own, technically you didn’t even buy them.

The Veritas University jacket and hoodie.

Both had arrived carefully packaged in a welcome parcel, folded in crisp tissue paper that looked incredibly expensive for thin paper. Deep maroon with the Veritas crest embroidered in perfect gold thread across the chest. Soft, but heavy fabric. The jacket, especially, was clearly tailored to the standards of the university's image, sleek enough not to look out of place next to the students who arrived wearing labels you couldn’t afford to pronounce.

You’re not naive. You know exactly why they gifted them to you. You could’ve technically afforded to order them yourself if you saved carefully, but for two items of clothing, it would’ve been an obscene amount. The kind of purchase that would have sat like a pit in your stomach afterward.

This way, it was handled for you. A small push to help you blend in. Just enough polish to avoid questions at the beginning.

You run your fingers over the embroidered crest for a moment, then pull the hoodie on. The fabric is plush against your skin, far softer than anything you would normally allow yourself to buy. It feels like a strange kind of armor. Not to stand out. Not to impress. Just to survive the first glance from others.

You catch your reflection briefly in the mirror. You look… fine. Presentable. Hopefully invisible, if you play it right.

After double-checking your bag and schedule, you pull up the campus map on your phone one more time, even though you’ve stared at it enough where you should have memorized most of the routes by now. The campus is so vast and complicated that you still feel like you need it as an anchor.

You hesitate for a second longer before finally stepping toward the door.

Then you exhale.

First day. First class. First step.

You step outside into the morning air.

The campus looks like something pulled straight from a curated photo spread.

Every hedge trimmed into flawless precision, some even into fancy shapes. Stone walkways polished clean like no one has ever dared to scuff them. Towering buildings rise like gleaming monuments, reflecting the cloudless sky.

Sleek black cars idle along the smooth curb lanes, their engines humming softly while uniformed drivers open doors with practiced ease. Students walking around dressed in specifically curated outfits that could easily pay off an entire year’s worth of tuition for a normal student. Handbags you’ve only seen in glossy magazine pages, sunglasses with brands you recognize more from runways than actual stores.

You pass one girl gracefully gliding down the steps in heels that would give you a brain aneurysm if you saw the receipt.

But here and there, scattered you catch others wearing the same maroon Veritas hoodie you pulled on this morning. 

Some wear it out of caution, first-years like you, unsure of the unofficial dress codes and general unwritten rules. For others, it's worn with some kind of wide-eyed excitement, the kind that only really exists in the first few weeks of being here, before reality sets in. Like an unspoken badge of I really made it.

That enthusiasm tends to fade once everyone settles into the rhythm of who belongs where. But right now? The sea of maroon still dots the crowds.

You adjust your bag and keep walking, following the path displayed on your phone screen.

As you move through campus, glimpses of the dorms catch your eye, some grand and sprawling, others a bit older, ivy-draped or angularly modern. Even without knowing exactly which one is which you could already make it out just based on the looks themselves.

Some of them just oozed with old money and prestige. Others feel quietly ambitious. And then, further out, there’s your own dorm. Novus.

Still Veritas, but not the part anyone tours first at least if they have the choice.

You draw in a slow breath, pulling yourself back to focus.

The lecture hall comes into view ahead, an imposing mix of smooth stone and glass. Sleek without trying too hard, just enough to show how much money Veritas has.

Students file inside almost like choreographed, sliding into place like they've been rehearsing for this moment their whole lives.

Inside, the auditorium rises in clean, perfect tiers.

You pause just inside the door, taking in the room quickly. You made sure to arrive early enough not to be rushing in at the last second, but not so early that you’d end up sitting alone in an empty hall, painfully exposed while everyone trickled in around you.

Safe timing.

The space is already filling in, not packed yet, but enough that certain areas feel claimed. Small clusters of students have already settled in, chatting quietly or scrolling on their phones.

You don’t know the rules yet. Not really. But you can almost feel them hovering in the air.

Certain seats just feel occupied, not physically, but by unspoken claim. The closer rows seem full of perfect confident postures and designer outfits, but you don’t dwell on it. Not now. Your priority is simple: find a seat that doesn’t feel dangerous or draws attention.

Your eyes scan the rows, not too close to the front, not so far back that you’ll stick out as avoiding everyone.

Then you spot him.

Mid-level, somewhere right in the middle. Hoodie like yours. Orange hair that kinda stands out. He’s sitting alone, casually scrolling through his phone like none of this fazes him.

Something about him just feels... safe.

Neutral. Approachable. Like someone else who might still be figuring things out, at least that is what you hope.

The middle feels right. Not too bold. Not too invisible. Exactly the kind of balance you’ve been aiming for since you arrived.

You make the decision before you can overthink it.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask quietly.

He looks up, blinking, then smiles like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Nope. All yours.”

Relief washes over you as you slide into the seat.

“First day?” he asks as you settle your bag.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. Transfer student.”

Hinata tilts his head slightly. “Already? It’s still pretty early in the year for a transfer.”

You give a small, half-laugh. “Yeah. Guess I figured I’d make things extra difficult for myself .”

He holds out a hand, grin still bright. “Shōyō Hinata. Novus, first year.” He says it casually, like it means nothing at all, just a fact, not something to be embarrassed about.

You shake his hand, offering your name in return, your voice still a little soft.

Hinata glances at you with curious warmth. “Are you Novus too? Or one of the others?”

You hesitate for half a second, still adjusting to how easily he asks but you nod. “Yeah. Novus.”

His grin widens like that somehow confirms something good. “Nice! Honestly, it’s not so bad. Everyone kind of sticks to their dorm group at first anyway, but Novus people are usually pretty cool. Something like survival bonding, I guess.”

You can’t help but let out a faint laugh, the tightness in your chest easing just a tiny bit.

“I... kind of almost started overthinking where to sit.” you admit. “I figured this spot seemed safe enough.”

Hinata chuckles, leaning in slightly like he’s about to share state secrets. “Good instinct. This is one of the usually safe zones.”

You raise a brow. “Is it really that complicated?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, grinning like it’s some ridiculous joke only people here get. “Unofficial seating chart. Not actually written down anywhere, but trust me, you figure it out pretty fast or somebody will just tell you about it if you break any of the rules.”

He gestures casually toward the front rows. “Primus always takes the front-center. That’s basically their personal stage. Magnus usually claims the seats behind them. Vespers kind of sit more to the sides closer to the windows.”

You follow his gesture briefly, but mostly you’re just absorbing how casually he is about  navigating this invisible system.

“And Novus?” you ask.

Hinata shrugs lightly, still smiling. “Technically? We just take whatever’s left. It’s kind of like... everyone else picks first, and then we fill in the gaps.”

He leans in slightly, voice still easy. “Honestly, though, anyone can sit wherever they want if they really feel like it. If someone from Primus wants a seat further back, they’ll take it, and nobody’s gonna argue. Same with Magnus or Vesper sometimes shifting around.”

He pauses for half a second, adding casually, “Sometimes people invite others to sit in their zone too, but that’s usually just close friends. You’ll mostly see the same people sitting together every time.”

He grins. “Makes it easier for everyone to know where not to sit.”

You exhale softly. “Good to know.”

He flashes you a reassuring smile. “Honestly? You picked a pretty good first seat. Especially because you are sitting next to me.”

Before you can say anything else, the doors click shut and the professor enters.

An older man steps to the podium with the kind of quiet authority that makes you sit up a little straighter without even realizing. His silver hair is short, slightly tousled but neat, and his glasses rest low on his nose as he surveys the lecture hall with sharp, observant eyes.

"Good morning," he says, voice calm but clear. "I am Professor Yasufumi Nekomata. This course is Global Financial Power Structures and Societal Influence."

His gaze sweeps across the room. “For some of you, this will be familiar material. For others… this may be your first time seeing how these systems truly operate.”

The words aren’t meant as a threat, but you feel the weight of them settle in your stomach like a heavy stone.

“We will be examining international holdings, generational wealth structures, and the global influence of consolidated power across industries.”

He pauses, his eyes lingering briefly toward the front rows where the perfectly polished students sit almost like this class was designed specifically for them.

Then his tone softens slightly. “For those who feel overwhelmed: take notes. Ask questions. Fall behind here, and you will struggle to catch up. But if you keep up, you may leave this class seeing the world quite differently.”

Your stomach tightens.

How the world truly operates.

It’s a different kind of class than anything you’ve taken before. Back home, even your most advanced courses talked about economics in clean, theoretical terms, supply and demand, market patterns, statistics in textbooks.

But here, this is about people who run everything, for people who are part of the families running everything. About systems you’ve only ever glimpsed at in headlines. You’re not only learning how markets work. You’re learning who controls them.

The first slide appears, projected onto the massive screen at the front of the hall.

Webs of companies and family empires fill the screen, hidden investments, layered businesses, and connections that stretch across borders like spider silk.The terms start coming fast, wealth consolidation, offshore structuring, multigenerational asset protection.

You scramble to keep up, your pen flying across the page. Your notes are already a mess of arrows, underlines, and desperate scribbles. Some students type with practiced ease on sleek tablets or laptops, scrolling back and forth between digital charts and pre-prepared notes like this is all familiar ground.

For you, there’s no buffer. No shortcut. No one that you can easily ask later to explain anything to you. You can’t afford to fall behind.

The questions start not long after.

"Mr. Kinoshita" Professor Nekomata calls, turning to one of the students seated confidently near the front, "please define third-tier diversification."

The boy barely needs to think. His answer comes out polished, rehearsed, like someone reciting a family rulebook they've grown up studying.

"Third-tier diversification refers to a diversification strategy where a company expands into unrelated businesses or industries, typically with limited or no synergy with its existing operations. This often involves entering markets with little to no connection to the company's core competencies or supply chain."

The words roll off his tongue like they belong to him. Like they’ve always belonged to him.

The professor nods with mild approval, moving on to the next student.

And slowly, the pattern reveals itself:

Primus first. Magnus next.   Occasionally Vesper. Never Novus.

You focus hard, forcing yourself not to glance around, not to let the silence around your section get to you. Instead, you just write, filling line after line with notes you’re not even sure you fully understand yet.

But you’ll figure it out.

You have to.

Hinata leans in slightly between slides, voice dropped to a whisper. "Still breathing?"

You manage a thin, quick smile. "Define breathing."

He grins and flashes you a small thumbs-up, though you can tell he’s just barely keeping up too. His notes are filling quickly.

Professor Nekomata clicks to the final slide.

The diagram that appears nearly makes you stop writing altogether.

An intricate web of companies, trusts, and financial structures fills the screen, lines crisscrossing between industries, continents, and offshore holdings like a spiderweb across the globe.

And there, positioned near the center:

USHIJIMA HOLDINGS GROUP.

Your stomach tightens.

You knew the name. Of course you did. Everyone heard it, even if just in passing conversations, or in your case from Mira’s stories about powerful families. You knew they were rich. You knew they were important.

But seeing it laid out like this seeing how many layers and threads that name controlled was something else entirely.

This wasn’t just wealth. This was reach.

Sectors you never even thought about, agriculture, energy, media holdings, healthcare subsidiaries quietly tucked beneath larger shells.

You’d never really paid attention to global finance before. It always felt like something far removed from your world, something that didn’t concern people like you. But here, on this screen, you could see exactly how far from small this place really was.

Professor Nekomata’s voice cuts smoothly back in.

"By our next lesson, I expect each of you to submit a preliminary structural analysis of this conglomerate. Include leverage points, at least three vulnerability pathways, and supporting evidence for each."

No one dares complain aloud.

The soft chime signals the end of class. Too soft, given how heavy your brain feels.

Around you, students move quickly, bags zipped, tablets slipped into leather briefcases, discussions reigniting as though they hadn't just dissected the world’s power structures for over an hour.

You sit frozen for a beat longer, catching your breath.

First class down. Thousands more to go.

Finally, you start packing your notes, messy, cramped pages filled with barely legible scribbles you’ll have to decipher later. How fun.

Hinata waits for you at the aisle, still lingering as though to make sure you don’t get left behind in the rush.

“You made it,” he says with a grin, falling into step beside you.

“Barely,” you breathe out.

Hinata chuckles. “Profs here love to start strong. I’m still getting used to it myself, honestly.”

The two of you weave through the marble hallway as voices float past, quiet conversations about vacation homes, private investments, mergers you barely understand.

As you both step into the wider central hall, Hinata glances up, his expression equal parts impressed and a little overwhelmed.

"This place still doesn’t feel real sometimes," he admits, laughing softly. “Like... I know I’m here, but it still feels like someone else’s world half the time.”

You nod, because honestly, you know exactly what he means.

“So... um, do you want to maybe trade numbers?” Hinata asks, tone casual but warm. “In case you need help. Or just, you know, wanna hang out.”

You blink, surprised but relieved. “Yeah. That’d actually be great.”

You hand him your phone, angling it slightly to hide the scratches on the screen. He doesn’t even blink, just inputs his number and hands it back.

“There. Now you officially know someone.”

You let out a small breath. “Thanks.”

The two of you round the corner and then it happens.

The entire air shifts.

You feel it before you see it. The crowd ahead parts with eerie smoothness, like water folding around an invisible force. Conversations drop into hushed whispers, some cutting off entirely. No one stares directly. 

At the center of the ripple walks a group. And leading them—

Him.

Even without any formal introduction, you know exactly who he is.

Wakatoshi Ushijima.

The heir.

The name that had wormed his way back into your mind ever since you arrived here, you were half-convinced you’d never cross paths with someone like him. Even with all the stories Mira told you, the photos she showed you with wide eyes, none of them fully prepared you for the reality.

He walks like gravity itself bends around him. Calm, steady steps. Shoulders squared, back impossibly straight. His jacket fits with absolute precision,  sharp lines, tailored to perfection, the deep black fabric catching the light in a way that makes it look almost heavier, richer than anything else in the hallway. Every inch of him looks curated. Untouchable.

You almost can't help but hear Mira’s voice in your head: He was in Forbes before he could even drive.

And now here he is. The real deal. Walking a few feet in front of you like he’s stepped straight off one of those glossy business articles she obsessed over.

Around him moves a small orbit of others most equally polished, equally untouchable.

Your eyes catch on one of them as they pass tall, with sharp features and striking red hair that falls just slightly into his eyes. His expression is different from the others: not distant or dismissive, but almost amused. Like he’s watching something only he understands. His lazy grin carries something unsettling beneath the surface.

And then, he glances at you.

Just for a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. Direct. Sharp.

Your breath catches. You quickly drop your gaze, pulse jumping slightly.

Whoever he is, you get the immediate sense, it’s better not to draw attention here.

The group glides past without a word. Not out of rudeness they just simply don’t need to acknowledge anyone. The world moves around them. Not the other way around.

Only once they’ve disappeared down the hallway do the conversations around you gradually start again, as if someone has lifted the invisible pressure.

“Yeah…” Hinata mutters softly beside you, voice a little quieter now. “You can kinda feel the temperature drop when they walk past.”

You swallow. “Primus.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

The echo of their footsteps still seems to linger behind, like a presence that hasn’t quite faded yet.

And somehow even as you keep walking you know: This was only the beginning.

Masterlist with the other chapters