By the time the announcements ended, classes blurred by—recitations, lessons, the same rhythm you’d already perfected. Then came lunch.
You sat in the usual corner of the cafeteria with Ash and Jay. Ash leaned forward, eyes gleaming like he was about to drop the biggest news of the year. “My friend from the student body told me something huge,” he whispered. “Next week, we’re getting transferees.”
Jay raised a brow. “Transferees? Midyear?”
“Not just one,” Ash said, grinning. “Three. Three guys.”
You stilled, spoon halfway to your mouth. “Three?”
“Yes, Jun, three! And I just know one of them’s the tall, brooding type. Another? The genius with glasses. The last? The charming flirt who ruins everyone’s lives.” He sighed dreamily. “I can already see myself falling in love… again.”
Jay snorted. “You fall in love every other week.”
“Correction: every other day,” Ash corrected proudly.
Jay leaned back. “Yeah, and yet your math scores are still failing.”
Ash gasped, clutching his chest. “Love is a higher equation. You wouldn’t understand.”
You couldn’t help a small chuckle, but the mood shifted when Jay asked, “What happened to Nico?”
Ash’s smile cracked for a second. He poked at his rice, then shrugged. “Didn’t work out. Story of my life.” Just as quickly, his grin snapped back. “Which is why fate’s sending me three new options. A buffet of men.”
You stayed quiet, though the words kept circling. Three transferees. Three new faces stepping into the spotlight you’d carried alone.
Ash’s grin widened. “Oh—and one’s from Howard’s Institution of Science.”
Jay glanced at you. “Howard’s?”
Ash nodded. “And not just anyone—apparently, the top of Howard’s. The top, Jun.”
The words hit heavier than you wanted to admit. Howard’s wasn’t ordinary. Their best… what did that make you?
Ash nudged your shoulder. “Careful, Euro. Someone might finally outrank you.”
Jay’s gaze lingered, quiet and sharp. “So… does that threaten you?”
You forced a smirk. “Why would it?”
But the memory surfaced anyway.
Eight years old. Reaching for a chocolate bar from the “reward treats” basket on the counter. Your brothers dipped into it freely after medals, trophies. You just wanted something sweet.
“Jun.” Your father’s voice was calm, but cold. “You were only second this quarter. Second isn’t an Alvarez.”
You froze, setting the chocolate back.
“He’s a child,” your mother argued, firm but softer. “At least let him have a lollipop.”
“Mediocrity doesn’t deserve reward,” your father snapped.
Their voices clashed above you, and you stood silent, staring at the chocolate you couldn’t have. That night, you buried your face in the pillow and cried—not for candy, but for permission to be enough.
The lesson stayed: rewards weren’t for trying. Only for winning.
Back in the cafeteria, Jay’s eyes lingered, Ash’s chatter filled the air, and you stared at your tray, appetite gone.
Timeskip — The following Monday.
The weekend disappeared in a blur. By the time Monday came again, the air in the gym buzzed with whispers, excitement radiating off the crowd.
Three transferees were about to be introduced.
And one of them carried a name that refused to leave your mind.
Top of Howard’s.