Beside me, Naomi wrote furiously. Belle doodled crossbow modifications in the margins of her tablet. Jordan, true to his word, appeared to be writing something on his phone, possibly the actual will he’d threatened.

I tried to focus on the lecture. I really did. But my brain kept circling back to the observation platform. To Cassandra’s three seconds of eye contact. To the professional surveillance I’d felt all morning.

The System had given me power. Real power. Three weeks ago I could barely run a mile without collapsing into a wheezing heap.

Now I had C-rank Endurance and C-rank Strength waiting to push into B with the next good training session. I had a library of stolen abilities including an A-rank combat power that could manifest dual scythes from pure death energy.

I had a support network of women who knew exactly what I was, what I took from them, and chose to help me anyway because they’d gotten something back in the exchange.

And none of it meant shit if a Diamond-tier hunter with Davenport resources and her father’s bottomless checkbook decided I needed to be investigated until something broke.

Cassandra would dig. She’d keep digging until she found something worth presenting to the IHC. Or to her father. Or to the entire academy if she thought public exposure would yield better results. The social demolition strategy had served her well so far. Why change tactics?

Nishimura’s lecture rolled forward for another forty minutes, covering decontamination protocols and emergency mana flushing techniques for spore exposure.

The information was genuinely useful, probably life-saving in the right circumstances, and I retained maybe sixty percent of it because the other forty percent of my attention kept drifting to the classroom windows to check for expensive suits and aristocratic bone structure lurking in the hallway beyond.

By the time Nishimura finally wrapped up with a lazy wave and ambled toward the exit still eating his third chocolate bar of the hour, my shoulders had developed a persistent ache from tension I couldn’t quite shake.

Naomi finished her final note with a precise period and closed her notebook. The motion was deliberate, controlled. She set her pen down parallel to the edge of the desk with the kind of geometric precision that said she was buying herself three seconds to think before speaking.

"Lunch?"

"Always."

The four of us filed out into the hallway, merging with the stream of students heading toward the dining hall or their next class. Belle walked ahead with her phone out, still coordinating through the group chat. Jordan drifted along in our wake like a satellite trapped in a low orbit. Naomi fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders bumped every few strides.

"You didn’t sleep last night." Not a question. Naomi’s perception made Snake Eyes look like a party trick sometimes. She could read micro-expressions the way Belle read treasure signatures, with casual thoroughness and zero mercy.

"Correct."

"Because of Aurora and Addison."

"Also correct."

Naomi kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the flow of students around us with the kind of focused calm that said she was measuring every word before it left her mouth. "Belle told me. About Addison."

"I figured she would."

"She said you were gentle with her. That you didn’t just use her for extraction."

"Because I didn’t."

Naomi’s pace stayed steady. Her face gave nothing away. But her hand reached between us where the angle of our bodies blocked any curious stares, and her fingers threaded through mine with the quiet confidence of someone who had already worked through the complicated parts alone and landed somewhere she could breathe.

"I’m not angry." Her voice came low enough that the hallway noise swallowed everything except the words meant for me. "I thought I would be. Belle and I talked this morning while you were meeting Vale. She told me Addison cried. That you held her after and she fell asleep against you."

"She did."

"People don’t cry around Addison Baxter. Addison Baxter is the one who makes other people cry. If you broke through her walls enough that she let herself fall apart, then you gave her something that mattered. I can’t be angry about something that mattered."

The pressure behind my ribs loosened slightly. Still there, still heavy, but rearranged into something closer to bearable.

"Naomi."

"Mm?"

"You’re too good for me. You get that, right?"

"I get that." Her thumb drew a slow circle against my knuckle, unhurried and deliberate. "But you’re what I want. So the equation balances out differently than you’re calculating it."

She squeezed my hand once before letting go, and the conversation ended there without needing anything else.

We rounded the corner toward the dining hall and Naomi released my hand before we entered public view. Her timing was perfect, as always.

The girl who organized her notes by color and underlined dates twice applied the same care to everything, including maintaining the discreet distance that kept our relationship from becoming ammunition for people like Cassandra Davenport.

The dining hall was loud and bright and smelled like roasted chicken and garlic bread, which my C-rank metabolism interpreted as a personal invitation.

I loaded a tray with enough food for two normal humans, which now counted as a standard serving size for someone who burned calories at my rate. Belle grabbed our usual table by the windows.

Jordan acquired an enormous plate of pasta and what appeared to be three desserts.

Naomi selected a grain bowl with grilled salmon and extra vegetables because she was a better person than the rest of us in every measurable dimension.

I sat down and took my first bite of chicken, and for about ninety seconds, everything felt almost okay. Food was good. Company was good. The sun came through the windows in long rectangles that warmed the back of my neck. Belle was arguing with Jordan about whether shadow manipulation counted as a legitimate cooking technique. Naomi ate her salmon with small bites and occasionally smiled at their bickering.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number. Text message with a map widget

"Come to this location in twenty minutes."