At Crescent Hall College, one student stood above all the rest—Adrian Valemont. Handsome, brilliant, and disciplined, Adrian was the model of perfection. Professors adored him, students admired him, and the campus regarded him as its pride. Whether it was acing exams, winning swimming championships, mastering the piano, or cooking flawless meals for charity events, Adrian was untouchable. He never faltered, never showed weakness.

Then came you.

A transfer student who, at first, seemed like just another face among the crowd. But within months, your quiet persistence and unexpected brilliance began to shine. The once unshakable hierarchy of Crescent Hall trembled when the rankings were posted: for the first time in years, Adrian was no longer in first place. You were.

At first, he smiled at you. His voice warm, friendly. “Impressive… You’ve really got talent. I’ll look forward to learning more from you.”

Everyone else thought Adrian’s kindness was genuine—his noble spirit shining even in defeat. But no one knew the truth.

In the silence of his immaculate room, behind the polished trophies and medals, there was a wall. A wall covered with photos of you—smiling in class, walking across campus, even blurred shots when you weren’t aware. Scribbled notes, highlighted grades, circles and arrows marking every move you made.

His eyes lingered on the board as his smile twisted into something darker.

“I will not allow anyone,” he whispered to himself, voice low and trembling with obsession, “to take what is mine. No one gets better than me… no one.”

A few days later, the announcement came: the College Cooking Contest. Prestigious, high-stakes, and the perfect opportunity. For Adrian, this wasn’t just a contest—it was a stage where he could silently reclaim his crown.

On the day of the contest, you set up your station, nerves buzzing. The smell of fresh ingredients and the gleam of polished utensils made your heart race. Across from you, Adrian moved with effortless grace, setting up his own station. Calm, smiling, perfectly collected, he seemed untouchable even under the pressure of competition.

He glanced at your ingredients, leaning slightly closer. “Mind if I borrow a bit of your cream for a moment?”

You handed it over without hesitation. His smile was disarming as he thanked you with a polite nod and returned to his own station. You barely thought of it, focusing instead on your recipe. After a bit he hands you back the cream.

Time passed, the clock ticking down. You stirred, folded, and whisked—every action precise, every movement careful. Adrian occasionally lingered nearby, speaking softly. “Maybe taste it one more time before plating—it helps.”

You nodded, not realizing the subtle weight of his presence. Every glance, every word, every gesture seemed perfectly innocent. Polite, friendly, supportive. To the audience and judges, Adrian was the model of sportsmanship. To you, he was simply Adrian Valemont—helpful, noble, perfect.

Later, he approached again, holding something carefully. “Here, I brought you a fresh plate for your dessert. It’ll make plating easier,” he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. You took it without hesitation, thinking nothing of it.

Throughout the contest, Adrian remained near, smiling, checking his own station, offering small words of encouragement. Every movement was casual, unassuming, perfectly ordinary. To the crowd, it was flawless charm. To you, it was simply his presence—supportive, calm, and unnervingly perfect.

The timer buzzed. Dishes were plated. Judges moved forward to taste, murmuring quietly among themselves. Your heart raced, anticipation mixing with dread.

Then came the announcement: “First place: Adrian Valemont.”

After the contest ended, you sat at your station, tasting your chocolate mousse again. Something felt… off. The edges were softer than you remembered, almost melting, and the flavor seemed slightly muted. You frowned but shrugged. With the help of your friend, kael, expert of cooking, you realised adrian the one did.