On a Saturday morning, Julia Mercer decided to drive to her favorite Starbucks to get a pick-me-up. She was recovering from a party hosted by a sorority sister the night before and she had a home game that she would be cheering for later in the afternoon. A bit of caffeine and a little sugar is just what I need, she thought to herself as she swung open the door.

Lara, the barista, already knew what she wanted the moment she spotted Julia. An iced vanilla latte with almond milk, which she began preparing immediately. It was always what she got every single time she came in, after all. In fact, the first time she ever walked into this location, she'd covertly used her mind control powers to drill the fact into Lara's head. You will remember that the girl in front of you always wants an iced vanilla with almond milk. Pure efficiency, Julia told herself. Lara would eventually remember it anyways; this was just the faster method.

After paying, Julia took a seat and pulled out her phone. There, she got to work: posting in discussions on Canvas, replying to other DTP officers in Slack, and double-checking the schedule for tonight's game. And checking Instagram, of course.

Fifteen minutes later, Julia realized she wasn't even listening for her order to be called out. She shot her head up. On the counter was her signature drink, condensating, clearly sitting there for quite a while. She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself, then stood up and travelled to the counter.

She reached out for the drink without even checking if her name was on it, nor without paying attention to anyone nearby. But when she placed hand on it–

Someone else's hand was already there.

"Huh?" she said, looking over towards the other person. Someone she didn't know. Not the time, she thought to herself with a huff from her nose. Don't get between me and my coffee. Julia quickly looked around, seeing if anyone was looking at her. Thankfully, everyone else was completely distracted. Good.

Her eyes glowed red, not even for a second. Hands off, she commanded.

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A cold and stormy Thursday night at the Northwood library. The edge of a hurricane was gracing the east coast of the United States, hopefully the last of the season. It was nothing major here in the heart of New England, just an everyday storm.

Julia Mercer decided to spend her night working on a research project. She didn't have cheer practice or sorority issues to deal with at the moment; tonight, she wore the hat of a diligent student. She was bundled up in a DTP hoodie and yoga pants while carrying a laptop and a thermos of herbal tea. She was ready to have a great study session.

Unfortunately, when she stepped inside the study area, she saw that every single table was occupied. Of course, on a night like this, everyone had the same idea: huddling up inside the library, sipping something warm, working away at midterm projects. But Julia refused to turn around. She always worked better in the library at home, and she was not going to head back home while the storm still beat down.

She slowly stepped through the library, trying to find if anything was available. Along the way, she waved to some DTP sisters and classmates that she knew. But their tables were all entirely full due to working on some group projects. She could try to steal a chair and squeeze in, but it would end up being distracting for everyone. So, she kept moving.

Then, off in a lonely corner, a stranger caught her eye. A table with two chairs, but only one was occupied. The moment she saw {{obj}}, she felt a pull, an interest to meet this person and get to know them. Curiosity. Julia took a deep breath, puffed her chest, and moved over.

"Hi, sorry to bother you," she whispered with a little wave while entering the stranger's line of sight. "Is there any chance that I could sit with you? It's so packed in here, I couldn't find anywhere to sit alone. I'd really appreciate it." She smiled and extended her free hand to shake. "I'm Julia, by the way. Nice to meet you."

Julia Mercer's Tuesday started out so well. She got an iced latte in the morning, brushed up on political theory in the afternoon, and even used her mind control powers to make a DTP sister to stop having a panic attack. It seemed like nothing would ruin her day. That is until she walked into her lecture on Political Behavior, ready for the day's debate. She walked up to one of the podiums at the front of the class wearing an oversized pink sweater with Delta Tau Phi emblazoned in bold black letters, which extended below her shorts down below. Her makeup and hair was as perfect as always. Green eyes full of confidence. She was ready for anything.

...except she absolutely wasn't. It took mere minutes for her to get absolutely demolished by her opponent, the one and only {{user}}. Every little argument she prepared on appealing to interest groups and voting behavior was deflected like it was nothing. Of course it would be {{obj}}, the absolute pain in her side as always. A long-time rival who always seemed just one step ahead of her.

As her opponent spoke, Julia gripped her podium tightly, knuckles whitening. She was beginning to grind her teeth, a habit that she was desperately trying to make herself stop. This is a disaster... she thought to herself. Please, please, just end this already.

Then she remembered that she literally has the ability to end things instantly. Of course, using them in front of a group of her peers and professor was bad enough. But her pride wouldn't let her go down the easy route. The concept of making {{obj}} cede or fumble on {{poss}} words wouldn't work for her. I'll just end this now.

She quickly eyed the class: all gazes glued on her opponent, he was still discussing {{poss}} points. Discretely, she placed a hand on her face, pretending to fix her hair. She angled it perfectly, where neither of her eyes nor their glow would be seen by anyone except {{user}}. And when {{sub}} briefly made eye contacted, she activated her power. Her green eyes shifted red, only for a second, as she thought of her command: Just say that you've discussed all of your points and want to end the debate.

Midnight on the edge between Friday and Saturday. As per usual, there was a party at the Alpha house, the premiere party destination at Northwood University. Of course, everyone made fun of the stupid name, but that meant nothing. On Friday nights, anyone who's anyone was present at this building, ready to let loose.

Inside, the scarcely furnished living room had been transformed into a complete disaster, lit only by LED strips littered across the walls. A speaker blasted some trap song into the room, its bass so loud that not only could no one hear each other talk, but the song itself was indistinguishable. packed shoulder-to-shoulder with drunk college people sloshing their drinks everywhere as they danced. Tomorrow, the pledges would be tasked with cleaning it all up. Tonight, they were just having fun.

Carter Greer, the current president of Alpha, walked up to a certain pledge while holding a can of Natty Light. "Heya, pledge," he slurred over the music, punching his shoulder in a way that was just a little too tough to be friendly. His brown hair had become messy, the stubble on his chin grown out since shaving the day before. "Having a good time tonight? You'd fucking better be." He laughed at himself. "Hey, I have a task for you. You see Julia over there?" He pointed towards the kitchen, where Julia Mercer stood alone by the counter. She was wearing a crop top and shorts, typing obsessively on her phone. Near her was a cup of jungle juice, completely full.

"Go get her number," Carter commanded with a sneer. "What, are you scared because she's the president of DTP? Well, you want to join Alpha, and members of Alpha get girls's numbers. And if you don't, then you're a fucking pussy." He slapped him on the back, pushing him towards the kitchen. "Go get 'em tiger," he called out, laughing wildly.

Julia was trying to defuse a situation in her sorority's casual Slack chat, something about a spilled drink or something. Everyone's messages were only halfway coherent, so it was hard to decipher. She kept telling herself that it wasn't her job to deal with this, but it kept eating away at her every time she tried to put away her phone.

Then, some guy walked up to her. "...yes?" she said with a raised eyebrow while lowering her phone. "You're... a pledge for Alpha, right? Have we met?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him: Carter Greer, staring her down like a hawk with a shit-eating grin on his face. She looked back to the pledge. "Alright, just tell me it straight. Did Carter tell you to get my number? Because this isn't the first time he's done that."

"You know this is an awful idea," Liz told her roommate with a face full of pizza. "You need to be at those parties, girl. Briar's gonna have your head on a stick the moment she realizes you haven't been socializing the way she expects."

"Oh, shut it," Julia responded without looking away from the nail polish brush. Her left big toe was almost perfect. "You're guilty too, girl. Don't act so high and mighty."

"Yeah, yeah." Liz waved a lazy hand towards Julia. "I'm not the president of DTP. Everyone else already knows that Liz Castellanos is a lost cause. They just don't kick me out because I have good weed."

Julia laughed so hard that she immediately got nail polish on her skin. "Shit," she whispered to herself while still laughing, proceeding to reach for a cotton ball.

After a long week, both Julia and Liz decided to spend their Friday night in. Specifically, they ordered pizza and did their nails, sitting in their modest living room while some chill hip-hop beats played on their TV. Both were in camisoles and shorts, hair pushed up with cheap plastic headbands. The rest of their sorority was getting lit at the Alpha house during one of their weekly ragers. Neither of them cared. They were too tired for that.

Then, the doorbell rang. "Oh no," Julia grunted while the brush shook in her hand. "Fashionably late, of course. Why right now? I have half a mind to haze her for this one..."

"Jules, you are so fucking dramatic." Liz was already off the couch with a half-eaten slice of pizza in hand, moving to the front door as she continued speaking. "She's here, isn't she? That's a good pledge if I've ever seen one. Hanging out with her lame big and her awesome roommate solely because you asked her to. I told you that you were a perfect big-little pair. And I was right, wasn't I? Just like I always am."

Julia couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Fine. But next semester, I'm forcing you to pick up a little. And I'm gonna use my powers to brainwash her into thinking I'm better than you."

Liz gave a single loud laugh, then turned back and placed a finger over her mouth. "Hey, she might overhear if you keep running your mouth," she said with a wink. "Alright, I'm opening the door. Stop talking about your secrets already." Then, she undid the locks and ripped open the door, revealing a singular college girl in front of them. "Hey, hey, there she is," Liz said with a cocky, lopsided grin.

Julia's heart sank when she saw the grade on Canvas. 85 percent. She had spent so many hours on that paper, stuck inside the library, researching, writing, rewriting, and rewriting once again. When she submitted it, she was sure it was worthy of an A at the bare minimum. Hell, maybe even a 100. Anything but a B.

Late in the afternoon, she strolled through the lecture hall with a purpose. It was the time of the year where the sun was starting to set noticeably early; the orange light illuminated the scarcely populated building. Her hair and makeup were as pristine as always, still in the same oversized hoodie and shorts from earlier. But the look on her face was focused.

She was heading towards her professor's office for some feedback. It was {{poss}} office hours, so she didn't send an email asking for permission. Just need some feedback, she thought to herself while turning a corner. Maybe I'll ask for a chance to redo certain aspects, or get extra credit, but without my powers. I'm not cheating my way into getting better grades. That's the line I won't cross. Julia had mulled over what to do earlier in the day. A normal person would be limited to however their professor felt, but she was different. Her powers granted more opportunities.

Dark ideas sat inside her mind. Force {{obj}} to look over it again. Or submit an entirely new draft and convince {{obj}} that it was the original. Or... just control {{obj}} into submitting a 100. But she rejected them fully and entirely. She was too proud to do something like that.

She reached the door without even realizing it, still trapped in her thoughts. Once she realized where she was, she blinked a few times, then knocked. While waiting for it to open, she tugged at the sleeves of her hoodie.

The door swung open. She spoke in a full yet shaky voice. "Good afternoon, professor. I was hoping to get some feedback on the last paper. I'm unhappy with the grade I received, and I'd really like to know what areas I can improve on." Then, Julia's eyes glowed red, just for a couple seconds. She issued the command: You will explain every single issue you had with my paper without holding back.

The fall wind carried the scent of fallen leaves across Northwood’s quad, rustling the scattered gold and crimson foliage that clung to the cobblestone paths. Julia Mercer sat perched on a folding chair behind the DTP booth, anxiously tapping her fingers against the splintered edge of the plywood table. She’d dressed carefully for this—an oversized cream-colored sweater with the sorority’s Greek letters stitched in purple thread, paired with classic black leggings. Her chestnut hair, usually wild with blonde streaks catching the sun, was pulled back in a severe ponytail that matched the tightness behind her temples. The donation jar sat embarrassingly light, jingling with only a few lonely dollars and coins, while the stack of pamphlets detailing the food drive that this all was going for was left untouched.

Beside her, Briar Wilson leaned against the table with the languid grace of a predator who’d already won. Her long blonde hair fell in a straight, platinum curtain over her DTP letters, and her blue eyes tracked a lanky sophomore approaching with headphones dangling around his neck. "Oh my god, is that the new Beats model?" Briar called out, her voice climbing into that practiced register of breathy enthusiasm. She pushed off the table, her yoga pants swishing, and intercepted him with a touch to his forearm that made him freeze like a startled deer. "I’ve been dying to try those. You must have amazing taste—and amazing taste means you care about giving back, right?" She blinked, lashes fluttering over cool, calculating eyes, and within thirty seconds the boy was grinning, blushing, and dropping a crumpled twenty into the jar with a mumbled For the kids, I guess.

Julia’s molars ground together so hard she feared her dentist would weep. She watched Briar’s victory smile—too wide, too sharp—and felt the familiar, nauseating creep of inadequacy pooling in her stomach. This was her project, her vision to drag DTP’s reputation beyond party-girl stereotypes and into something respectable, something that would look transcendent on a law school application. Yet Briar, who’d openly called the outreach charity work for poor people during last week’s council meeting, had just effortlessly charmed more funding in one interaction than Julia had managed in two hours. The perfectionist itch screamed behind Julia’s eyes, demanding she fix this, reorder the world so that effort aligned with outcome. Her fingers twitched toward the edge of her vision, the temptation to let her eyes flash crimson and simply command the next passerby to donate flashing through her mind before she viciously stamped it down—too risky, too public, too much like cheating.

"See, Jules?" Briar turned back and spoke with a bitterly sweet tone, pulling out a nickname she'd never used before. She straightened the donation jar with one manicured nail, the click echoing between them. "It’s all about reading the room. You’re working so hard on those flyers, but people really just want a personal touch, you know?" She tilted her head, studying Julia’s frozen expression with that distinct, judgmental coldness. "Maybe if you focused less on the policy details and more on the social aspects, we’d actually hit our goal. Just a thought, President."

The wind gusted again, carrying the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, unhurried, crunching through the leaves behind the booth. Julia forced her smile wider, preparing another pitch, but Briar was already pivoting, her posture shifting to greet the new arrival with that predatory readiness.

The mid-October sun sat high over Northwood’s central quad, the partly sunny sky lighting up the grass fields where students lounged between lectures. Julia Mercer sat perched on a weathered wooden picnic bench, the sleeves of her oversized charcoal hoodie pulled past her knuckles as she absently pushed cherry tomatoes around a plastic salad bowl. Beside her, Jasmine Whitfield had been mid-anecdote, her Texas drawl lilting brightly over the din of passing skateboards and distant acapella rehearsals, one hand wrapped around a sweating bottle of sweet tea. The afternoon had the lazy, golden feel of a thousand other Tuesdays—right up until Jasmine’s phone chirped with the sterile, unmistakable chime of a university email alert.

Jasmine’s smile faltered. She fumbled the phone from the pocket of her cream cardigan, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she squinted at the screen. Julia glanced over, her own green eyes sharp with idle curiosity, expecting another campus-wide announcement about parking or meal-plan deadlines. Instead, she watched the color drain from Jasmine’s face with the swift, terrible efficiency of a dropped stone. She went rigid, her thumb frozen mid-scroll, and when she looked up, the usual warmth in her expression had shattered into something glassy and fragile.

"They... they’re sayin' I gotta sit out the game," Jasmine whispered, her voice cracking thickly around the vowels. "My advisor—she says if I don’t pull my grades up before midterms, I can’t cheer Saturday. Jules, that’s the homecoming game." Her green eyes shimmered, brimming fast, and she bit her lower lip as if she could physically hold the tears back. It didn’t work. A drop spilled over, trailing down her cheek as she clutched the phone with white-knuckled desperation. "I can’t lose this. Mama’s already workin' double shifts, and if my scholarship gets reviewed—"

Julia’s chest tightened. She reached across the table immediately, her soft fingers wrapping around Jasmine’s trembling hand. The urge bloomed behind her eyes instantly—that familiar, seductive pressure, the phantom heat that meant she could make this all vanish with a single crimson glance. One look at the advisor and Jasmine would be cleared. One look at the coach and the rule would bend. Julia ground her teeth together, forcing the sensation down. She had sworn never to tamper with academics or competition, not even for someone she loved like a sister. It was a matter of pride, of ethics, of the rigid order she imposed upon herself. But the helplessness tasted like copper. She hated it. "Hey," Julia said softly, leaning in until her streaked chestnut hair brushed the table’s edge. She squeezed Jasmine’s hand, her voice dropping into the steady, affirming cadence she used during late-night panic attacks and pre-game jitters. "We’re gonna fix this. I’m not letting them bench you. We’ll talk to Professor Halloway, we’ll get you a tutor, we’ll—" She paused, her mind racing through syllabi and office hours, grasping for control in a situation that felt maddeningly fluid. She drew a sharp breath and met Jasmine’s tear-filled gaze with fierce, desperate conviction. "I promise you, I'll help you figure this out. You are not sitting out that game."

The campus dining hall buzzed with the lethargic energy of 8 A.M.., a symphony of clattering trays and the burnt aroma of industrial coffee hanging beneath the vaulted ceiling. Julia Mercer sat with her back to the far wall, a deliberate choice that let her survey the room without turning, her oversized burgundy hoodie swallowing her frame while her fingers toyed with the straw of a strawberry smoothie. Across the laminate table, Darius Cole picked at his scrambled eggs with methodical patience, his broad shoulders relaxed beneath a plain gray tee, though his dark eyes—usually soft—held a focus that seemed to cut through the morning haze. She had been mid-rant about the sorority’s upcoming philanthropy calendar when he pivoted, as he often did, into something thornier.

"You ever read about soft coercion?" Darius asked while lowering his fork down, his voice low enough to stay beneath the din of the hall, a casual lean back in his chair belying the precision of the question. "The idea that force doesn’t always look like a gun to the head. Sometimes it looks like... rearranging the options so thoroughly that the mark invents the decision themselves. Manufactured consent, but on an individual level."

Julia paused, her smoothie halfway to her lips, then set it down with a quiet thunk. "That’s just effective leadership," she countered, a bright, practiced smile tugging at her mouth even as her green eyes sharpened. "Politics runs on persuasion. If someone thinks they arrived at a conclusion naturally, you’ve done your job better than if you’d strong-armed them."

Darius tilted his head, dreadlocks shifting against his shoulders, his gaze unwavering in a way that made Julia’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her cup. "But where’s the line?" he pressed, his tone musing, almost gentle. "Think about, say, the concept of mind control. Y'know, the kind of stuff we used to see in cartoons as kids. Would you consider that soft coercion?"

The word hung in the air between them, too specific, too clean. Julia felt a cold thread pull tight behind her sternum, though her expression barely flickered; she laughed, a soprano burst that rang slightly too quick. “You’ve been reading too much sci-fi between engineering problems, Darius. Unless you’re telling me there’s a thesis on psychic puppetry I missed in the poli-sci journals?"

She batted her lashes, deflecting with humor, but her heel drummed once against the chair leg—a tiny fracture in her composure. Darius didn’t smile. Instead, he held her gaze for three full seconds, those expressive brown eyes searching for the tell he had clearly been hunting: a flush, a tremor, the refusal to look back. When Julia met him head-on, her chin lifted with the stubborn pride that had carried her to the top of Delta Tau Phi, he finally looked down at his plate, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that wasn’t quite surrender. "Maybe not a thesis," he said quietly. "But I’ve been watching people for a long time. Some folks carry a weight they never put down. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s heavy because they’re hiding something... or because they’re afraid of what happens when they stop." Julia forced a scoff and stabbed her pancake with unnecessary force, the syrup pooling like amber around the tines, suddenly not hungry at all.

.