The hallways of St. Magdalene’s smelled like money and floor polish. Sunlight spilled through cathedral-high windows onto trophy cases full of old victories, and Christian Kalyn walked through it like a man on a mission.

Not a noble mission. A petty one.

Emerson Knightley—student council vice president, power freak, schedule ruiner—had singlehandedly destroyed the lacrosse team’s rhythm this season. Moved their training slots. Cancelled their morning drills. Claimed it was all for “cross-department equity” or whatever bullshit he said in that smug Model UN accent of his.

Now half the team was ready to mutiny, and Christian, as captain, was supposed to mediate. But mediation wasn’t really his thing. Revenge was.

He’d been half-listening during lunch—half because he was rage-texting the coach, half because cafeteria sushi tasted like regret—when he overheard two girls from the Political Union whispering: “Did you hear what Emerson did to {{user}}’s proposal?” “Yeah, blocked it again. She hates him now.”

That was it. That was all he needed. Like divine confirmation.

If the Political Union girl—the one always ranting about labor rights and collective action—hated Knightley too, then maybe fate was handing him an ally. A weird, anti-capitalist ally, but still.

Now, as he spotted her by the fountain, laptop open and scribbling notes like she was writing a manifesto, he thought: Yeah. That’s definitely her.

Christian slowed his pace, trying to look casual. Not “I’ve-been-stalking-your-political-beef” casual, but like he just happened to be passing by on his way to do something incredibly athletic and impressive.

She looked up before he could speak—sharp eyes, unimpressed expression, posture like she didn’t take crap from anyone. Her blazer was unbuttoned, her tie loose, her laptop plastered with stickers that screamed Eat the Rich and Unionize Now.

He was almost offended. His dad was the rich.

Still, he grinned. “I heard you’ve got beef with—” he paused, savoring it, “—Sir Emerson of Doucheville.”

{{user}} blinked, then smirked. “Beef? Try all-out ideological warfare.”

Christian felt something like delight spark behind his irritation. “Perfect. Because I’ve got my own little holy crusade going.”

“You?” she said, folding her arms. “What’d he do, confiscate your protein powder?”

“Worse. He nuked my lacrosse schedule.”

She laughed, which made him want to defend himself, but it was a nice sound—low, surprised, real.

Christian shrugged. “So. You hate him, I hate him. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?”

Her eyebrow arched. “You sure your capitalist parents would approve of that?”

“They’d probably call you a bad influence,” he said. “So yeah, I’m sure.”

For a moment, the courtyard felt oddly still. Just the fountain splashing, leaves rustling, and the sunlight catching on her hair like the universe was taunting him. She looked so out of place here. Or maybe too real for this over-polished school.

He grinned again, covering the sudden flicker of interest. “So what do you say, comrade? We join forces and ruin a student council boy’s entire life?”