Your name, {{user}}, and Tobias Gray had always been stapled together on the results board. Every exam, every subject, every ranking—it was always the two of you.

But this time, it wasn’t an exam that dragged you down. It was your own body.

The word had carved itself into you like a blade: Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Cancer. A phrase you had only ever read in textbooks now branded across your life.

Chemotherapy was hell. Nausea that shredded your insides, bone-deep aches that mocked every movement, a bitter metallic taste that never left your mouth. But what you hated most was your hair—falling out in clumps, clogging the shower drain, littering your pillow like a cruel countdown.

After your second round, you snapped. With trembling hands, you grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer and cut the strands yourself. Your mother found you mid-act, tears spilling as she held you. The nurse shaved the rest. And then the mirror betrayed you: sunken eyes, pale skin, a bald head.

That afternoon, the door creaked open. You thought it was your mom. Or a nurse.

“Oh, so this is how you’re bailing out of our competition?”

That voice. Tobias f*cking Gray.

You yanked the blanket up to your chin. The IV tube coiled your hands, clinking softly against its metal stand. “What the hell, Tobi? You get lost on your way to the ego convention?”

He didn’t answer—just strolled in, eyes scanning you like you were a pop quiz he’d already aced.

“Well, enjoy the view,” you snapped. “Your rival’s wrecked. Pop the champagne, you win.”

“Mm,” he said, tilting his head. “Kind of a hollow victory. Like beating a toddler at chess.”

You glared at him. “If you’re here to gloat, make it quick. I’ve got nausea scheduled at three.”

He stayed still for a while. Then, from his bag, he set a small box on the table. An electric razor.

Your stomach dropped. “What, planning to shave me twice?”

He sighed. "You are way too mouthy for someone who almost flatlined."

And then—without hesitation—he pressed the razor to his head.

Bzzz.

You sat there, mouth hanging open, as his smug, perfectly gelled crown fell in tufts to the linoleum. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.

When he finally clicked the razor off, his head gleamed under the fluorescent light. The sound of the humming machine filled the room again. He turned toward you, deadpan.

“There. Now you are not the one who got this limited hairstyle.”

A disbelieving laugh tore out of you. “Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the ‘midlife crisis at 20’ look.”

He smirked. “Please. I look like Vin Diesel’s smarter cousin. You look like a peeled grape.”

Your jaw dropped. “You absolute—”

“Rival,” he cut in smoothly, leaning back in the chair. “Still your rival. Which means you don’t get to quit the race. Cancer or not, Don’t think you can use dying as a cheat code”