The library was quiet at dusk, its vaulted windows catching the last orange hues of the sinking sun. Pages rustled, pens scratched, but otherwise the building breathed in silence. Ethan sat at a corner table, back against the wall as always, where he could see everything without being seen.
In front of him, Ryan shifted nervously, his hands clumsy as he flipped through his notes. His forehead was damp with sweat.
"I don't think I can do this, Ethan," Ryan muttered. His voice cracked on the last word, betraying his lack of confidence.
"You don't need to think you can do it," Ethan replied evenly, his eyes never leaving Ryan's notes. "You just need to follow the script."
Ryan blinked. "Script?"
Ethan leaned forward, his tone dropping lower. "Everything is predictable, Ryan. People believe they act freely, but they're slaves to habit. Your professor favors logical openings in debates. Your classmates respond to confidence, not content. And Derek…" He allowed the name to linger in the air. "…thrives on the weakness of others. Remove that weakness, and his stage crumbles."
Ryan swallowed, nodding as though hypnotized. "But what if I choke—"
"You won't," Ethan cut him off. "Because you're not walking into that room as Ryan Peters. You're walking in as my piece on the board. And I don't play to lose."
There was something in Ethan's voice — cold certainty, sharp as glass — that left no room for doubt.
The next morning, the lecture hall was packed. Debate assignments had been announced a week earlier, and Ryan had drawn Derek's orbit — not Derek himself, but one of his close followers. It was still dangerous; failure would feed Derek's mockery, and by extension, crush Ryan again.
But Ethan had orchestrated this moment like a conductor arranging a symphony.
He sat near the back, eyes half-lidded, observing. Clara sat two rows down, posture poised, her pen twirling between her fingers. She had noticed Ethan's growing presence around Ryan, though she said nothing. Her silence was more dangerous than words.
Ryan stood, his knees almost knocking. The hall chuckled softly — the audience already convinced of the outcome. Derek leaned back in his seat, a cruel smirk curving his lips, arms folded as though to say: This will be over before it begins.
"Mr. Peters," Professor Wallace prompted, voice dry but patient.
Ryan looked toward the back of the room. Ethan didn't move, didn't speak, but his gaze was steady — and Ryan latched onto it like a lifeline.
He inhaled. Then, with surprising steadiness, began:
"Ladies and gentlemen, when we speak of economics, most people think of numbers. But numbers are meaningless without the people who give them weight."
The words flowed — words Ethan had planted in him the night before, structured like chess moves. An opening gambit, unassuming yet strong. Ryan's voice wavered once, then steadied as he pressed forward.
Derek's smirk faltered. His follower stammered under the pressure, fumbling a rebuttal. Students leaned in, surprised at the reversal. And for the first time, Ryan wasn't shrinking under laughter. He was dictating the rhythm.
Ethan allowed the faintest shadow of a smile to touch his lips. Not for Ryan's victory — but for his own precision.
By the time the debate concluded, Ryan had won. Not decisively, not spectacularly, but won nonetheless. The applause was light but real. And that was enough.
Ryan sat down, trembling with disbelief. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his pen.
"I—I did it," he whispered to himself.
From across the room, Derek's gaze burned with venom. Clara's, however, was more dangerous — calm, assessing. She glanced toward Ethan, who appeared utterly indifferent, scribbling in his notebook.
But Clara knew better. Ryan Peters had been a nobody for two years. And suddenly, the day he fell under Ethan Cooper's shadow, he was transformed. Coincidence? She didn't believe in those.
Later that evening, Ryan caught up with Ethan outside the cafeteria. His eyes were wide, almost childlike.
"Ethan, you don't get it — I actually won. People looked at me differently. They listened to me. I've never…" His words trailed off, overwhelmed.
Ethan regarded him coolly. "Enjoy it. Then remember: this was nothing. One step."
"One… step?"
"Yes." Ethan's gaze drifted past Ryan, toward the glowing city skyline. "You've touched the surface of control. But until you own it, you're still prey. Derek won't forget today. He'll come back harder. You need to be ready."
Ryan nodded furiously, desperate to please. "I'll do whatever you say. Just… don't drop me back where I was."
Ethan's lips curved faintly. "I won't. But understand this, Ryan: you're not climbing for yourself. You're climbing because I'm placing you on the mountain. Without me, you fall. Do you understand?"
Ryan hesitated — but then nodded. "…Yeah. I get it."
Good, Ethan thought coldly. Pieces that knew their place lasted longer.
From across the courtyard, Clara leaned against a lamppost, watching the two of them. Ryan's gratitude, Ethan's calm detachment. She narrowed her eyes.
She had grown up around power, her family wealthy enough to understand the games people played. And she recognized the signs — Ethan wasn't helping Ryan out of kindness. He was building something.
The question was what.
Her lips quirked, a rare spark of intrigue lighting her features. If Ethan Cooper thought he could play in the shadows unseen, he was mistaken. Clara didn't like mysteries she couldn't unravel.
For now, though, she remained silent. Watching. Waiting.
Ethan, without turning his head, felt the weight of her stare. He didn't need to look to know.
Let her watch, he thought. Let her wonder. The more she tried to unravel his intentions, the tighter the web would become.
And somewhere in the dark, Derek Langston clenched his fists, pacing his dorm room. His humiliation from the previous day festered, replaying in his mind like a broken record.
Ryan Peters. Ethan Cooper.
The names burned into his pride.
He'd lost control once. It would not happen again.