The West Wing was the only part of the school that didn't feel like a corporate headquarters. It was an old colonial-era brick building where the walls were thick enough to swallow the humid afternoon.
Leya slipped inside, the heavy mahogany door clicking shut behind her. She didn't want to be in the cafeteria where the girls were dissecting her outfit, and she certainly didn't want to be in the courtyard where Zazu Tembo was busy being a saint, everything bothered her.
She found a practice room at the end of the hall, small and smelling of lemon oil and dust. She pulled her cello from its case. In London, this instrument had been her only friend. Here, it felt like a heavy piece of evidence she was trying to hide.
She sat on the stool, tucked the cello between her knees, and drew the bow across the strings. She didn't play a song. She just played a single, low note that vibrated through the floorboards. Then another. It wasn't music; it was a groan.
Across the hall, Zazu was supposed to be in a Student Council meeting. Instead, he was wandering the corridors, trying to get the taste of the History lesson out of his mouth. He'd seen the way Musi looked at Leya—like she was a bug he wanted to crush—and it made Zazu feel physically ill.
He heard the cello before he saw the room. It wasn't the polite, classical music the ZIA orchestra usually produced. It was deep, mournful, and sounded like someone trying to scream without opening their mouth.
He followed the sound to the last door. It was slightly ajar. He didn't mean to spy, but he found himself frozen, watching through the gap.
Leya was different when she was alone. The "Ice Queen" posture had melted. Her shoulders were hunched, and her face—the one she usually kept so blank—was twisted with a sort of quiet agony. She was playing a melody that sounded ancient and tired.
As she finished a long, dying note, she leaned her forehead against the neck of the cello and let out a long, shaky breath.
"That didn't sound like the curriculum," Zazu said softly, pushing the door open just a few inches.
Leya bolted upright, her bow nearly flying out of her hand. She scrambled to pull her British mask back on, but her eyes were still glassy. "Does no one in this country understand the concept of a closed door?"
"It was open," Zazu said, stepping in. He felt out of place here, his athletic frame too large for the cramped room. "And I wasn't criticizing. It was beautiful. In a... depressing sort of way."
"It's not supposed to be 'beautiful,' Zazu. It's just noise," she snapped, her accent sounding brittle. She began to pack the instrument away with frantic, jerky movements.
"Why do you do that?" Zazu asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"Do what?"
"Hide. Every time someone gets close to seeing who you actually are, you hide behind that London accent and those sharp comments. You're fifteen, not a diplomat."
Leya stopped, her hand hovering over the cello strings. She looked up at him, and for the first time, she didn't look angry. She just looked exhausted. "You have no idea what it's like. Every time I walk down a hallway, people see a ledger. They see the money their parents lost. They see a criminal."
"And when they look at me, they see a hero," Zazu countered, his voice dropping. "Do you think that's any better? I have to be perfect. I have to be the son of the Revolution. If I fail a test, it's a national headline. If I choose the wrong friends, it's a political scandal."
Leya let out a short, dry laugh. "Oh, poor Zazu. The Golden Boy has to be golden. My heart bleeds."
"I'm serious, Leya," Zazu said, stepping closer. The smell of the old wood and her lavender perfume was dizzying. "We're both living in a house our parents built, and the roof is leaking on both of us. You're just the only one who admits it."
Leya looked at him, really looking at him. She saw the way his tie was crooked and the way he was gripping his phone like he wanted to throw it out the window.
"The silver coin," she whispered. "Why did you keep it?"
Zazu reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It was a simple British shilling, worn smooth by years of being rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. He held it out on his palm.
"Because it was the first thing I ever owned that wasn't a gift for being a 'good boy'," Zazu said. "Your mother gave it to me as a debt. And I realized that as long as I have it, I'm connected to something real. Not a press release. Just a debt between two kids."
Leya reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the cold metal in his hand. Her skin brushed his, and for a second, the air in the tiny room felt like it was humming.
"It's just a coin, Zazu," she breathed.
"No," Zazu said, his gaze locking onto hers. "It's a contract. And I think I'm tired of paying my parents' interest."
The silence between them wasn't cold anymore. It was heavy, expectant. Then, the heavy stomp of boots in the hallway broke the moment.
"Zazu? You in there?" It was Musi's voice, loud and intrusive.
Leya pulled her hand away as if she'd been burned. She snapped her case shut. "Go," she whispered. "Your friends are looking for you."
Zazu looked at the door, then back at her. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay in this dusty room where the rules didn't seem to apply.
"Tomorrow," Zazu said. "After school. Meet me at the back gate. I want to show you something that isn't on the campus map."
He didn't wait for her to answer. He slipped out of the room just as Musi rounded the corner, leaving Leya alone in the silence, the ghost of his warmth still lingering on her fingertips.