The corridors of St. Helens were unnervingly quiet when emptied of their usual bustle, the marble floors gleaming like frozen rivers under shafts of afternoon light. Ethan's footsteps echoed as he made his way toward the library wing, his battered satchel brushing against his side with every step.
The system's faint shimmer pulsed at the edge of his vision, like an unopened notification begging to be touched. He knew if he willed it, the mission card would reappear, the words of the ♦ Two of Diamonds ready to be read. His fingers twitched.
I could look now…
But he stopped himself, jaw tightening. Another exam was waiting tomorrow. He already struggled to concentrate under the crushing atmosphere of St. Helens; if he saw what the mission demanded, it would eat at his thoughts until he cracked.
"No," he muttered under his breath, forcing the glow away with sheer will. "Not now. Focus."
His voice echoed back, fragile in the emptiness.
Ethan pushed forward. He had trained himself to endure hunger, scorn, exhaustion—but temptation of a different kind gnawed at him now. The diamond card felt alive, whispering promises of money, of escape. Yet he had no luxury of distraction. Survival in this academy meant more than grades—it meant not letting himself unravel.
He rounded the corner, intent on the quiet sanctuary of the library, when fate intervened.
Standing near the archway ahead, clutching a leather-bound notebook to her chest, was Lena Fairfax.
Ethan froze.
Her long black hair cascaded down her back, catching the golden light of the stained glass windows above. Her uniform fit her like it had been tailored by hand—and perhaps it had, knowing her family. Her shoes gleamed, her jewelry understated but unmistakably expensive: a thin silver chain with a sapphire pendant resting at her collarbone.
But it wasn't the wealth that made Ethan's breath hitch. It was her face. Pale, elegant, framed by lashes that drew attention to her deep brown eyes—eyes that had once looked at him with unguarded warmth.
Now they widened slightly as she saw him.
For a moment, neither moved. The academy's corridors seemed to still around them, the muffled noises of distant classrooms fading into nothing.
Ethan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He had not spoken to Lena properly since their breakup Yesterday. Since the day her family had pressed hard, whispering about reputation, about "suitable matches," until she finally yielded.
And yet, here she was.
Lena was the first to break the silence, her voice soft but edged with awkwardness. "Ethan."
His name sounded strange on her tongue now. Not unwelcome—but distant.
"…Lena," Ethan replied. His tone was neutral, carefully controlled, though his heart raced.
She studied him, her gaze flicking briefly to his shirt—clean but clearly worn thin—and the old satchel slung over his shoulder. A subtle crease formed between her brows. She remembered. She remembered how he used to carry her books in that same satchel, insisting it was nothing, even though it was already falling apart.
Ethan, meanwhile, tried not to stare. But he couldn't help it. He wondered, as he had so many times since their breakup, why someone like her had ever chosen him at all. She was wealth and grace, the kind of girl heirs fought over at banquets. He was a scholarship student with nothing but his brains and a stubborn streak.
And after losing her, he realized just how beautiful she was. Now, seeing her up close again, that realization twisted like a knife.
An awkward silence stretched between them, thick with memories neither dared voice.
Finally, Lena spoke again, forcing a small smile. "You finished the exam early."
Ethan gave a short nod. "Yeah."
She tilted her head, studying him more carefully. "Most people were still writing when you walked out. You… really were done already?"
The question wasn't mocking. If anything, her tone carried a hint of admiration, or perhaps concern. Ethan almost laughed same if the exam was not easy i will not be here.
"I did what I could," he said instead, his voice clipped. "No point sitting there longer."
Lena bit her lip, the gesture one Ethan remembered well. It meant she wanted to say something more but wasn't sure if she should.
From the corner of his eye, Ethan noticed two students passing at the end of the hall, whispering and casting glances their way. Their gazes lingered on Lena, then on him, with open curiosity. It was the same as always: Why is she talking to him?
Ethan shifted uncomfortably. The scrutiny was a weight he'd grown used to, but standing next to Lena made it feel heavier.
She must have noticed, because her shoulders straightened, her expression sharpening into the mask she wore around others. But when her eyes returned to him, the mask faltered, just for a moment.
"Ethan," she said softly, "you look… tired."
He blinked. "I've been studying. Same as everyone else."
"It's more than that." She hesitated, then lowered her gaze. "You've lost weight."
Ethan's chest tightened. He wanted to snap back, to tell her that not everyone had chefs preparing meals or families paying for private tutors. That he had to work twice as hard, eat less, sleep less, just to stay afloat. But the words stayed locked behind his teeth. He wouldn't give her pity, nor ask for it.
"I'm fine," he said firmly.
Silence again. She shifted the notebook in her arms, clutching it tighter.
Memories assaulted Ethan—her laughter echoing across the school courtyard when he surprised her with coffee from a cheap café; the way she'd sit across from him in the library, pretending to study while sneaking notes on his paper; the nights he'd walk her home, ignoring the jeers from her friends who called him charity work.
He had treated her the way no one else did. Not like a prize, not like a pawn in some political marriage game, but like someone he wanted to protect. And for a while, that had been enough.
Until it wasn't.
"Ethan…" Lena's voice pulled him back. She seemed on the verge of saying something more, something important. But footsteps approached from behind—another group of students turning the corner. Their chatter was loud, careless, and Lena immediately stiffened.
Ethan recognized the change in her posture. The subtle retreat, the way her expression shuttered. She couldn't risk being seen too close, too familiar, with him. Not anymore.
He forced a small, humorless smile. "You should get going. Don't want to be late."
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to protest, but no words came. After a heartbeat, she nodded. "Right. You too."
They stood there a moment longer, eyes meeting in a silence heavier than any words. Then Ethan stepped past her, his stride steady, though his chest felt hollow.
He didn't look back.
The library awaited him—tall shelves stretching toward vaulted ceilings, the smell of paper and dust thick in the air. Students already filled many of the tables, whispering, comparing answers, or cramming for the next exam.
Ethan found a quiet corner, dropped his satchel, and sat heavily. He opened his notes, stared at the pages, but the words swam. His mind replayed the hallway encounter again and again.
Lena's eyes. The softness in her voice when she said his name. The way she noticed his weight, his exhaustion.
And beneath it all, the glowing pull of the ♦ Diamond card.
It hadn't disappeared. Even now, behind the lines of equations and text in his notebook, he felt it. Waiting. Whispering.
He rubbed his temples, frustration mounting. He could check it. He could see exactly what the system demanded.
But then what? He'd spend the night obsessing, maybe risk skipping study for the next exam. And if he failed, the scholarship might slip further through his fingers. He couldn't afford that—not yet.
"Not now," he muttered again, forcing his gaze to the notes. "One thing at a time."
The system pulsed once in response, almost like a heartbeat. Then it dimmed, retreating.
Ethan exhaled slowly. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out against it.
But for tonight, he would.