CHAPTER 1: THE BUDGET BLOODBATH
The gavel slammed down and fifty thousand dollars hung in the balance.
Nobody moved. The Crestwood Academy Council Chambers didn't just smell like espresso and old money it smelled like the future being decided by teenagers who'd been told since birth that second place was a personality defect.
Mahogany walls. Marble floors. Portraits of alumni who'd gone on to run countries, companies, and occasionally ruin both. One Supreme Court Justice had famously said his time on Student Council was "more brutal than three tours in litigation."
Nobody thought he was exaggerating.
Kay sat front row left and ignored the portraits. He'd memorized them at fourteen cross-referenced their careers, identified which ones had plateaued and which ones had scandals. Filed it under 'context' and moved on.
He had better things to look at.
His holographic interface hung in the air beside him a spreadsheet so dense it looked like a city at night. He'd calculated the angle twice to make sure it didn't block the council's view of the podium. Then he'd calculated it again because the first two attempts felt imprecise.
His watch caught the light. Silver. Minimalist. A Lange & Söhne the movement alone had taken a master watchmaker three months to build. It didn't just tell time. It reminded everyone else their time was borrowed.
Marcus leaned in. "She's here."
"I know."
"Burgundy blazer. Gold buttons. The one she only wears when she's about to be insufferable."
"I know."
"She also brought a paper sketchpad. Like she files her taxes on a clay tablet."
"It's tactical."
"The tactic is 'I've never heard of cloud storage and I'm proud of it.'"
"She wants the council to see her creating in real time. It makes her look instinctive instead of calculated. Stop analyzing her tactics."
Marcus looked at him for three seconds. "You already analyzed her tactics."
Kay said nothing.
Which meant yes. Two weeks ago. With footnotes.
Across the aisle, Lina didn't sit. She occupied the chair.
One leg crossed over the other. Burgundy blazer hanging open. White shirt with a smear of crimson paint on the collarbone still there from seven AM, surviving three chances to wash it off. She'd looked at it in the mirror. Left it exactly where it was.
Her pen moved. Not reviewing. Not rehearsing. Drawing. Right now. While the room filled around her like she was a fixed point and everyone else was weather.
The sketchpad was angled so the first four rows could see something was happening without seeing what. Because knowing something was happening and knowing what was happening were two different weapons, and she'd always preferred the first.
Chloe dropped into the seat beside her without breaking her stream.
"432 concurrent viewers."
"Good."
"Someone already did the math on his watch."
"Ramen equivalent?"
"Three lifetimes. Maybe a small country's GDP."
"Current bet?"
"Sixty percent say he dismantles your proposal in under four minutes." Chloe grinned, phone panning the room.
"40% think you'll do something that gets edited from the official record."
"The 40% are optimists."
"The 40% watched you at the last budget meeting."
Lina smiled. Didn't reach her eyes.
Her eyes were already across the room.
Kay was looking at his hologram. Jaw set. Completely still the specific stillness of someone who'd run twelve versions of this meeting and was currently on version thirteen. She'd been watching him do that for two years. Still hadn't figured out if it was confidence or armor.
Probably both.
Her hand moved without permission. Drew a figure at a podium. Sharp jaw. Perfect posture. Data surrounding him like a crown he'd built himself.
She turned the page.
Chloe's screen flickered to life on every monitor in the room the council's displays, the wall projector, the tablet by the door that had slowly surrendered to becoming Chloe's second broadcast channel.
"Just so everyone's aware" she panned with the steady hand of someone who'd decided journalism was a contact sport "432 viewers, the school paper sent a photographer, and a prediction bracket's already running." She grinned. "Bets are open. I'm not responsible for your financial decisions."
The live chat exploded:
User69: is that kay's watch? i did the math. could fund a coastal nation for 4 months
ArtGirl99: lina's paint smudge is STILL THERE from this morning. she didn't wash it off. she is a WEAPON
Guild4Life: spreadsheet check CONFIRMED. he brought the big one. someone pray
ChaosQueen: bet 6 mins before kay evaporates her with logic. counter-bet she sets his hologram on fire
MathWiz: that watch is a Lange & Söhne. the movement took a watchmaker 3 months. he's wearing 3 months of someone's life on his wrist
Kay saw the last comment in his peripheral vision. Didn't react. Filed it under 'accurate.'
The watch had been his grandfather's a man who built things with his hands and believed objects should outlast the people who made them. It wasn't a status symbol. It was a philosophy.
The chat couldn't access that information.
The chat would reach the wrong conclusion.
The chat was welcome to it.
He stood.
Three steps to the podium. No microphone adjustment. No pause for effect. He didn't need effect. He was the effect.
The holographic interface followed him, expanding as he moved a living architecture of numbers that made the room's overhead lights look provisional.
"For the past six months," Kay said, voice low and controlled, "the Innovation Guild has built a proprietary AI assistant. It optimizes student schedules, predicts academic bottlenecks before they happen, and automates club admin a process currently eating eleven hours per student per semester."
He turned to face the room.
Blue eyes. Still. The specific eye contact of someone conducting an audit and finding you wanting.
"Efficiency: 83% and climbing. Projected ROI within two quarters: two hundred percent. Measurable. Documented. Reproducible by any independent audit this council wants to run." Two seconds of silence. In a room full of people who filled silence with performance, it was its own form of dominance. "The Innovation Guild isn't asking for charity. We're offering an investment with verifiable returns and a zero failure margin."
The final beat. Surgical.
"The question isn't whether Crestwood can afford this. It's whether Crestwood can afford to watch every competitor build theirs first."
Silence.
The chat blinked. Then:
MathWiz: THAT LAST LINE. TATTOO IT ON MY CHEST.
ArtGirl99: migraine but also attracted to the confidence. need to lie down and think about my life
Guild4Life: does he blink. has anyone confirmed blinking
ChaosQueen: 4 minutes 11 seconds. I WIN. PAY UP.
And then, from across the room. Quiet as a blade.
"Can it feel anything?"
Every head turned.
Lina hadn't stood. Hadn't looked up. Still drawing, pen still moving, like the question had escaped and she was only mildly interested in where it went.
"Define 'feel,'" Kay said. Voice betraying nothing.
"Your AI." She turned a page. Unhurried. The rustle of paper a quiet rebellion. "Can it feel something so big it doesn't have a name for it? Can it lose sleep over something it made?" She looked up. Dark eyes. Steady. "Can it sit in front of a blank canvas at 2 AM overwhelmed by something it can't optimize, can't route around and pick up a brush because that's the only language left?"
"It can generate"
"I'm not asking what it generates."
The room stopped breathing.
"I'm asking what it grieves."
ArtGirl99: GRIEVES. SHE SAID GRIEVES. I AM NOT OKAY.
User69: the vibe shift just broke my shoulder
Guild4Life: i was ready to mock her and now i'm having feelings. refund please
ChaosQueen: plot twist: they're both right and that's devastating
Kay's voice stayed flat. "Grief isn't a relevant metric for a scheduling app."
"It's the only metric that matters for a school full of humans."
She stood.
The room rearranged itself. Not dramatically. Just shifted. Like air pressure changing and everyone recalibrating without being told.
She walked down the aisle with the unhurried precision of someone who understood the floor was a stage and every step was a sentence she meant.
She reached the front. Stopped beside him.
Close enough that the chat had a collective heart attack.
ChaosQueen: SAME FRAME
ArtGirl99: the height difference is SENDING ME
Guild4Life: separate them before i make bad decisions
User69: kay's jaw just did the thing. SCREENSHOT THE JAW
Lina walked to the corkboard. Pulled one sheet from her sketchpad. Pinned it in a single motion practiced, precise, rehearsed until it looked like instinct.
A painting. Small. Intimate. Devastating in the way small things are when they shouldn't be.
A robot slumped at a desk. Chrome shoulders curved inward. Optical sensors dark.
And rolling down one metal cheek impossibly, with more feeling than it had any right to carry
A single tear.
She stepped back.
Let the room find it.
"This," Lina said, quiet but cutting, "is what optimized looks like from the inside."
Someone laughed. Nervous. Uncertain.
Chloe zoomed in.
The chat exploded:
ArtGirl99: THE ROBOT IS CRYING AND NOW I'M CRYING
User69: why does it look like it needs a hug
Guild4Life: because it shares a building with lina. that would break anyone
Kay looked at the painting.
The robot. The tear. The composition background layered with actual depth, brushwork controlled where it needed to be.
Then he made his first mistake.
He opened his mouth.
"Lina, I've seen more structural integrity in a wet napkin than in that proposal. Sit down before you embarrass the Vanguard further."
Gasps.
Guild4Life: HE DID NOT
ArtGirl99: WET NAPKIN??
ChaosQueen: check lina's blood pressure
Lina's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"The robot's crying because you used the wrong blue." He pointed. "Cerulean. For a tear meant to convey existential grief masked by mechanical stoicism. But cerulean's too warm. It reads as sadness, not grief. You needed manganese blue maybe a phthalo wash. But you didn't research that, did you? You just painted what felt right."
The room went silent.
Lina's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
ArtGirl99: HE KNOWS COLOR THEORY
User69: KAY JUST BECAME 300% MORE DANGEROUS
Guild4Life: someone check if he's single for strategic reasons
"You," Lina managed, "know nothing about art."
"I know you used the wrong blue."
"It's not wrong, it's intentional, it's–" She stopped. Breathed. "You know what? I'm not defending my artistic choices to a spreadsheet with legs."
"The composition is strong." Still flat. Clinical. Like he couldn't stop. "The layering creates depth. The brushwork is clean. The concept is derivative we've all seen crying robots but the execution is technically proficient."
Lina blinked.
Someone whispered: "Did he just compliment her?"
ArtGirl99: HE COMPLIMENTED HER
ChaosQueen: enemies to lovers ACTIVATED
Guild4Life: ABORT ABORT ABORT
Lina opened her mouth
And they both looked down.
Same moment.
At their shoes.
Limited edition. Metallic silver with crimson accents. Numbered. Ten pairs in the entire city. A pop-up that required camping forty-eight hours just for a wristband.
The exact same shoes.
Kay's heart stopped.
No. Not her. Not the girl who thinks 'vibe' is a valid metric. Anyone but her.
Lina's stomach dropped.
You're kidding. The robot lover owns MY shoes. The ones I nearly got arrested for. MY shoes.
They stared.
The room stared.
The chat froze for three seconds then:
ChaosQueen: MATCHING SHOES
ArtGirl99: I'M SCREAMING
User69: CHECK IF THEY HAVE THE SAME UNDERWEAR
Guild4Life: this is a romcom
Kay tucked his feet under his chair so fast he almost kicked the leg.
Lina did the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
Their eyes met.
Absolute horror.
The President pinched his nose. "We'll deliberate and"
"Wait."
Everyone turned.
Back row. Quiet girl. Glasses. Chess club pin.
Mira Chen. Vice President. The only person who'd read the entire Club Charter including the appendices.
"Article Seven, Section Four says if two proposals are equally compelling, the council can require a joint project as a condition of funding."
She adjusted her glasses.
"I move that Kay and Lina collaborate on a combined event. Something showcasing both innovation and art. Success: they split the fund. Failure"
Small smile. Precise.
"the money goes to Chess Club."
The room erupted.
Kay's head snapped to Lina. Lina's to him.
"Absolutely not," they said together.
ChaosQueen: IN UNISON. THEY SPOKE IN UNISON.
ArtGirl99: SOULMATES
Guild4Life: ABORT THIS IS NOT A DRILL
The President raised his hand. "Motion carries. Two weeks. Plan a joint event. Submit for approval. Success: you split the funding. Failure" He looked at Mira, already sitting back down, serene. "Chess Club gets new boards."
Lina whirled on Kay. "Two weeks? With him?"
Kay closed his laptop. Slow. Controlled. White-knuckled.
"I'll clear my schedule."
"You don't have a schedule. You have a spreadsheet."
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
Chloe stood. "For the record, chat's taking bets on how long before one of you commits a crime. Over/under is forty-eight hours. Kay's odds are better because Lina 'looks like she'd hide a body better.' Direct quote."
Lina grabbed her sketchpad. "I'm leaving."
Kay picked up his laptop. "Finally. Agreement."
They walked to opposite exits.
The crowd parted.
At the door, they reached for the same handle.
Their fingers touched.
Static cracked audible, sharp, ridiculous.
They both recoiled.
Kay stared at his hand. "Don't touch me."
Lina wiped her fingers on her blazer. "I need holy water."
She walked out.
Kay stood frozen for three seconds. Long enough for the chat to screenshot. Long enough for Chloe to caption it: "When you realize you're trapped with your nemesis for two weeks."
Then he left.
Marcus caught him in the hallway.
Had to jog to keep up.
"Bro."
Kay didn't slow down.
"Bro."
"Don't."
"You complimented her painting. In front of the council, the school, and five hundred live viewers."
"It was a technical assessment."
"You cited specific blue pigments. By name. By emotional temperature."
"Color theory is documented science."
"You have matching shoes."
Kay stopped.
A sophomore saw his face and chose a different hallway.
Marcus continued in the careful tone of someone who'd calculated the risk: "Someone posted a side-by-side. Same shoes, same pop-up, same release. Different lives, same choice." He paused. "Top comment says 'the enemies-to-lovers pipeline doesn't walk. It coordinates footwear.'"
The jaw muscle.
"I'm going to delete that thread."
"Chloe owns the server. She's built different. She can't be destroyed."
Kay resumed walking. Faster.
"Also," Marcus said, because today was apparently the day he'd chosen death, "someone found a photo. You at the pop-up. Forty-two hours in, hair slightly wrong, holding ticket number seven."
Kay said nothing.
"She was number eight."
Silence.
"One ticket apart, bro."
"Drop it."
"The chat's calling it—"
"Drop it."
Marcus dropped it.
But his eyes said: I'm not dropping it internally. I'm holding it very carefully for later.
Kay put his hand in his pocket.
It was still tingling.
Across campus, Lina hit her dorm room door with her shoulder and didn't stop until her back was against the far wall.
Hand raised. Staring at it.
The tingling hadn't stopped.
She dropped onto the bed. Phone buzzed fourteen times.
Chloe: okay so the thread's at 1.8k likes. they found both ticket stubs. number seven. number eight. you were in the same line for 48 hours and never saw each other and now you have the same shoes and I DO NOT believe in fate BUT
Chloe: also he knew about phthalo blue. PHTHALO, lina. that's not something you know by accident
Chloe: also also the static was AUDIBLE. the chat has 17 screenshots of your face and you looked like you'd been struck by lightning
Chloe: I'm not saying anything. just presenting data. journalistically.
Lina locked her phone.
Stared at the ceiling.
Unlocked it.
Found the thread. Blurry photo. Kay at the pop-up rain-damp, hair undone, holding a numbered wristband. The expression of someone who'd decided to be here and wouldn't be moved by weather or time or anyone's opinion.
Ticket number seven.
She'd stood in that rain. For forty-eight hours. Because something about the collaboration felt necessary a Japanese label and a conceptual artist making something that shouldn't work but did. She wasn't going to let that pass just because it required sacrifice.
She'd been number eight.
She locked her phone.
Picked up her sketchpad.
Found the crying robot.
Stared at the tear.
Cerulean's too warm, he'd said. You needed manganese. Phthalo wash underneath for the cold register.
She grabbed a brush.
Mixed the colors.
Layered them over the cerulean thin, careful, the way she'd been taught to correct without destroying.
Held it up.
It was, she would not say out loud, better.
It grieved instead of cried.
She set the brush down.
"Absolutely not," she said to the empty room. To the wall. To the frequency in her hand that wouldn't quiet.
She opened to a new page.
Started drawing.
No plan. Just the pen moving where it wanted.
She didn't look until it was done.
A figure at a podium. Sharp jaw. Steady eyes. Data surrounding him like a crown he'd built precise, brilliant.
And somewhere inside it, too small to see unless you were looking:
A door.
And the door was open.
She stared at it.
Closed the sketchpad.
In the empty Grand Hall, Mira Chen gathered her bag without rushing.
Walked to the corkboard. Looked at the crying robot the new tear, the right blue, the brushwork that knew what it was doing.
Then at where Kay had stood.
The faint echo of his hologram still hung in the air, already fading.
She pulled out her phone. A thread with no name, no timestamp, no profile picture older than four months.
Typed: Phase one complete. Static on contact. Shoe reveal exceeded projections. The chat already has a shipping name.
Reply in 8 seconds: How long until they realize the joint proposal was always the outcome?
Mira looked at the door they'd both walked through.
The way neither had moved first.
The way they'd moved at exactly the same moment.
They won't, she typed. They're too busy being furious to look at the board. That's the advantage.
Three dots. Then:
The best players don't win the game. They design the board so winning is the only option left.
Mira looked at the chess pin on her lapel. Turned it once between her fingers the habit she'd been trying to break since she was nine, the tell she'd never quite hidden.
She left it turning.
Put her phone away.
The game had an architect.
Kay and Lina were still looking at their shoes.
She walked out.
The War of Crowns had just found its strategist.