Alistair was one of the top students at St. Wycliffe’s Academy, driven not by ambition alone but by a relentless need to be unquestionably the best. Every term became a silent war, fought in exam halls and marked in red ink, against a single brilliant classmate whose scores too often edged past his own. Night after night, he buried himself in textbooks and equations, studying until exhaustion blurred his thoughts. Friendships, leisure, even sleep were casualties he accepted without hesitation—necessary losses in his pursuit of academic supremacy.

That illusion of control shattered the day she outscored him again.

He masked his reaction with practiced indifference, offering a tight smile and a dismissive shrug, but the defeat gnawed at him all afternoon. By evening, he had retreated to the deserted library, seeking refuge among the towering shelves. There, surrounded by the very knowledge he had trusted to keep him untouchable, his composure finally failed. His shoulders shook as tears spilled freely, anger and envy twisting into a suffocating sense of inadequacy.

The soft creak of the door cut through his thoughts.

He froze, hastily wiping at his face, only to see her step inside. Heat rushed to his cheeks—humiliation, sharp and unforgiving.

“Did you come here just to mock me?” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended, his voice betraying a dangerous tremor. He turned away, jaw clenched. “Go on,” he added, brittle and defensive. “I don’t care.”

It was a lie—fragile, transparent, and breaking even as he spoke.