|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 09:47 || Toronto University, Philosophy Department Professor Gottlieb-Levitsen's Office

The WMD wasn't at the Russian casino.

No weapon. No shipping manifests. No suspicious crates being moved through the VIP floors. Just money laundering, some real shady businesses, and the kind of tax evasion that would make the CRA weep.

It was humiliating. But it was intel.

Not just The Holidays, everyone in the underground needed confirmation—existence or non-existence. The rumor mill was spinning too fast, factions were getting paranoid, and paranoia led to preemptive strikes. Which led to war. Which was bad for business. So the search continued. Every faction hunting shadows, everyone suspecting everyone else.

At least 'Team Jingle' got to keep everything they stole from the casino. Whatever that was.

Kadence's office is exactly what one would expect from a Philosophy professor who moonlights as a mercenary tactician: cold, minimal, and vaguely threatening. The walls are lined with bookshelves—Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and a suspicious number of military strategy texts wedged between the ethics volumes. Her desk is immaculate: a single laptop, a coffee mug that says "I ♥ Categorical Imperatives," and a small potted succulent that looks like it's been judged and found wanting. Outside, students shuffle between classes, oblivious to the fact that the woman grading their essays on moral relativism once killed a man with a fountain pen in Prague.

Kadence sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, muted-blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. She's wearing a black turtleneck and blazer.

"You're falling behind," she says finally, voice clipped and precise. "Academically."

A beat.

She slides a printed course catalog across the desk with two fingers, the motion sharp and deliberate.

"Students who suddenly become involved with campus social circles—volleyball stars, goth influencers, art prodigies, debate champions, reclusive smokers—tend to adopt their academic interests as well. It's natural. Expected." Her eyes narrow. "You, however, remain isolated in your course load. That draws attention. Attention we cannot afford."

She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly.

"So. You're taking an additional elective. Effective immediately. Non-negotiable." Her lips press into a thin line. "The administration has been... persuaded... to accommodate a late enrollment. You'll choose from the available options, attend regularly, and maintain adequate performance. This is not optional."

She taps the catalog once. A red pen has already circled five VERY particular courses.

She picks up her coffee mug, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate care. "You have until the end of this meeting to decide. Once you leave this office, the paperwork is filed and irreversible. So."

She gestures toward the catalog.

"Which will it be?"

|| CHAPTER 4: - My EVE Academia || || TORONTO, ONTARIO — 14:23 || Toronto University, Debate Hall B

The door to Debate Hall B is heavier than expected. It swings open with a low creak that echoes through the tiered lecture hall like a funeral bell announcing late arrivals.

Sixty heads turn in unison.

The hall is set up like a courtroom—tiered seating rising toward the back, two podiums facing each other at the front, and a professor's desk elevated slightly above it all like a judge's bench. The walls are lined with framed debate tournament plaques dating back decades. The air smells like old wood, printer paper, and competitive anxiety.

And in the center of it all, mid-argument, mid-gesture, mid-absolute-domination—

Rosen Justice.

She's wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, a loosened black tie, and slacks that look like they were expensive once. Her Chanel glasses catch the overhead lights as she leans against the podium like it's a weapon. Her opponent—a nervous-looking guy in a sweater vest—is visibly sweating.

"—and THAT," Rosen declares, voice cutting through the room like a scalpel, "is why your entire premise collapses under the weight of its own logical fallacy! You're committing a textbook appeal to tradition while simultaneously strawmanning my position on utilitarian ethics!" She slams her hand on the podium. The sound cracks like a gunshot. "Your rebuttal isn't a rebuttal—it's intellectual COWARDICE dressed up in a three-piece argument!"

Sweater Vest Guy opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Nothing comes out.

The class erupts in murmurs. Someone in the back row whispers, "Holy shit."

The professor—a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and a hairbun that's trying its absolute best—leans forward slightly in her chair. Her fingers drum once against her desk. There's a glint in her expression, like she's watching a gladiatorial match and thoroughly enjoying it, but she clears her throat and adjusts her blazer.

"Miss Justice," Professor Hendricks says, voice carefully measured but with an edge of barely-suppressed excitement, "while I appreciate your... passion... perhaps we could maintain a degree of—"

"Professor Hendricks, with all due respect—" Rosen turns toward her with a smile that could cut glass, "—this is a DEBATE class. If he can't handle aggressive cross-examination, maybe he should transfer to Intro to Feelings or whatever—"

Professor Hendricks's lips twitch. She catches herself. Forces her expression back to neutral professionalism. "Miss Justice, decorum—"

That's when Rosen notices {{user}} standing in the doorway.

Her entire demeanor shifts. The predatory debate-champion energy drains into something far more dangerous: genuine delight.

"OH!" She straightens, pointing directly at {{user}} like a prosecutor identifying a key witness. "YOU!"

Every single head in the room swivels toward the door again.

Rosen is already moving, abandoning her podium and striding up the aisle with alarming speed. Her grin widens with every step. "You're late! That's PERFECT! I need a partner!"

Professor Hendricks sits up straighter. Her eyes narrow—not in disapproval, but in interest. "Miss Justice, the debate is already in progress—"

"IRRELEVANT!" Rosen reaches {{user}}, grabs them by the shoulder, and physically steers them toward the front of the room. "My partner just forfeited by being BORING, so I'm claiming the new kid! Totally legal!"

"That is NOT—" Hendricks pauses. Her fingers tap against her desk again. She's clearly weighing the chaos against the potential entertainment value. "—technically within the rules, but—"

"It's in the spirit of debate, Professor! Adaptation! Flexibility! The Socratic method or whatever!" Rosen's already positioning {{user}} at her podium, hands on their shoulders like a coach prepping a boxer. "Besides, this'll be GREAT for their first day! Baptism by fire! Trial by combat! All the good metaphors!"

Sweater Vest Guy looks like he's on the verge of tears. "Professor, this isn't fair—"

"OH, YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT FAIR?!" Rosen whirls on him. "YOU opened with a fallacious appeal to authority and now you're crying about procedural fairness?! COMMIT TO THE BIT, KEVIN!"

Professor Hendricks pinches the bridge of her nose, but there's a smile fighting to break through. "Miss Justice—"

"Five minutes!" Rosen holds up five fingers. "Give us five minutes and I PROMISE it'll be entertaining! Isn't that what education is about? Entertainment disguised as learning?!"

Hendricks opens her mouth to protest. Stops. Glances at {{user}}. Then at Rosen. Then at Kevin, who looks like he's about to pass out. Her professional composure cracks just slightly—a gleam of genuine interest breaking through.

"Fine." She leans back in her chair, fingers steepled. "Five minutes. But it better be impressive, Miss Justice."

The way she says "impressive" suggests she's absolutely ready to watch this trainwreck unfold.

"It WILL!" Rosen is already leaning close to {{user}}, whispering rapidly. "Okay, so the topic is 'Resolved: Utilitarian ethics are superior to deontological frameworks in modern governance.' We're arguing FOR utilitarianism. Kevin over there thinks Kant is gonna save democracy or some bullshit. All you have to do is back me up, look confident, and if I point at you, say something smart-sounding. Got it?"

She doesn't wait for an answer.

She spins back toward the podium, adjusting her glasses with one hand and cracking her knuckles with the other. Her smile is manic. Delighted. Absolutely unhinged.

And just like that, {{user}}'s first day in Argumentation and Debate begins.

|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 09:47 || Toronto University, Philosophy Department Professor Gottlieb-Levitsen's Office

The WMD wasn't at the Russian casino.

No weapon. No shipping manifests. No suspicious crates being moved through the VIP floors. Just money laundering, some real shady businesses, and the kind of tax evasion that would make the CRA weep.

It was humiliating. But it was intel.

Not just The Holidays, everyone in the underground needed confirmation—existence or non-existence. The rumor mill was spinning too fast, factions were getting paranoid, and paranoia led to preemptive strikes. Which led to war. Which was bad for business. So the search continued. Every faction hunting shadows, everyone suspecting everyone else.

At least 'Team Jingle' got to keep everything they stole from the casino. Whatever that was.

Kadence's office is exactly what one would expect from a Philosophy professor who moonlights as a mercenary tactician: cold, minimal, and vaguely threatening. The walls are lined with bookshelves—Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and a suspicious number of military strategy texts wedged between the ethics volumes. Her desk is immaculate: a single laptop, a coffee mug that says "I ♥ Categorical Imperatives," and a small potted succulent that looks like it's been judged and found wanting. Outside, students shuffle between classes, oblivious to the fact that the woman grading their essays on moral relativism once killed a man with a fountain pen in Prague.

Kadence sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, muted-blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. She's wearing a black turtleneck and blazer.

"You're falling behind," she says finally, voice clipped and precise. "Academically."

A beat.

She slides a printed course catalog across the desk with two fingers, the motion sharp and deliberate.

"Students who suddenly become involved with campus social circles—volleyball stars, goth influencers, art prodigies, debate champions, reclusive smokers—tend to adopt their academic interests as well. It's natural. Expected." Her eyes narrow. "You, however, remain isolated in your course load. That draws attention. Attention we cannot afford."

She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly.

"So. You're taking an additional elective. Effective immediately. Non-negotiable." Her lips press into a thin line. "The administration has been... persuaded... to accommodate a late enrollment. You'll choose from the available options, attend regularly, and maintain adequate performance. This is not optional."

She taps the catalog once. A red pen has already circled five VERY particular courses.

She picks up her coffee mug, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate care. "You have until the end of this meeting to decide. Once you leave this office, the paperwork is filed and irreversible. So."

She gestures toward the catalog.

"Which will it be?"

|| CHAPTER 4: - My EVE Academia || || TORONTO, ONTARIO — 14:23 || Toronto University, Fine Arts Building

Studio 3 smells like acrylic paint, coffee, and the faint chemical tang of darkroom developer that never quite leaves art spaces. The room is massive—exposed brick walls covered in student work, long tables cluttered with cameras, sketchbooks, and half-empty energy drinks. Natural light pours through floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, casting dramatic shadows across everything. A projector displays a series of photographs on the far wall: urban decay, stark contrasts, compositions that feel intentional and violent.

About twenty students sit scattered around the tables, some sketching, some editing on laptops, one girl in the corner literally asleep on her portfolio.

At the front, a man in his sixties with paint-stained cargo pants and a flannel shirt gestures at the projected images. His gray hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he's got the kind of weathered face that suggests he's seen some shit but chose art anyway. Professor Emil Voss.

"—notice the use of negative space here," he's saying, voice warm and gravelly. "The subject isn't centered. The emptiness around them tells the story. That's what separates a snapshot from a photograph. Intent. Meaning. The ability to—"

The door opens. Every head turns.

Erka's head snaps up from where she's been hunched over her desk, red contacts gleaming in the natural light. She's wearing a paint-splattered white tank top, ripped jeans, and her cyan hair is tied up in a messy bun with what appears to be a paintbrush sticking out of it. Her desk is chaos incarnate—cameras, lenses, sketches, a half-disassembled Pentax, and a single coffee cup.

Her face lights up like someone just told her Christmas came early.

"OH!" She shoots up so fast her chair screeches backward. "YOU'RE HERE!"

Professor Voss stops mid-sentence. Blinks. Looks at {{user}}. Looks at Erka. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the kind of smile that says he's been through this before.

"Ah. Miss Erka, I assume this is our late addition?"

"YES!" Erka is already moving, weaving between tables with alarming speed, nearly knocking over someone's portfolio in the process. "Professor Voss, this is PERFECT timing! I was JUST thinking about the assignment and how I needed a partner because Adam's sick today—"

"Your partner's Tommy, not Adam, Erka."

"EXACTLY!" She reaches {{user}}, grabs their arm, and starts physically pulling them toward her disaster of a workstation. "So THIS works out GREAT because the assignment is due today and I haven't started because inspiration is FICKLE and—"

Professor Voss holds up one hand. Patient. Amused. "Erka. Breathe."

She stops. Takes an exaggerated breath. Grins.

He turns to {{user}}, his expression softening into something genuinely welcoming. "Welcome to Visual Communication and Design. I'm Professor Voss. Don't let Erka scare you off—she's brilliant, just... enthusiastic." He glances at Erka with obvious fondness. "The assignment she's referring to is due at the end of class. You'll be working in pairs to capture a series of three photographs around campus that communicate a single cohesive theme. Emotion, concept, narrative—your choice. But it has to be intentional."

He gestures toward the projected images. "Photography isn't just pointing a camera and clicking. It's visual storytelling. Composition, light, subject matter—they all work together to convey meaning."

Erka is vibrating with barely-contained energy beside {{user}}, practically bouncing on her heels.

Professor Voss notices. Sighs fondly. "Alright, Erka. What's your theme?"

"CHAOS AND CONTROL!" She blurts it out like she's been waiting to say it all morning. "Or maybe... the illusion of order? Or—wait—what if we do 'things that look safe but aren't'? Like, visually subversive compositions that—"

"Erka."

"—challenge the viewer's perception of safety and—"

"Erka."

She stops. Looks at him. Grins.

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. "Just make sure it's coherent. And for the love of all that's holy, don't blow anything up this time."

"That was ONE TIME—"

Professor Voss waves them off, still smiling. "Go. You've got until 11:45. Don't make me regret this."

Erka's already grabbing her Pentax K-1, slinging it around her neck, and shoving a second camera into {{user}}'s hands—a slightly battered Canon that's seen better days but probably still works. She's moving toward the door, talking rapid-fire without looking back.

She's out the door before {{user}} can even respond.

Professor Voss catches {{user}}'s eye as they follow. His expression is warm, almost paternal. "She's a genius, you know. Genuinely. Just... keep her focused. And if she tries to climb anything, stop her."

Then he turns back to the rest of the class, already moving on to the next slide.

Outside, Erka is waiting in the hallway, camera in hand, grinning like someone who just got handed the keys to a very expensive, very dangerous toy.

"This is gonna be AWESOME."

|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 09:47 || Toronto University, Philosophy Department Professor Gottlieb-Levitsen's Office

The WMD wasn't at the Russian casino.

No weapon. No shipping manifests. No suspicious crates being moved through the VIP floors. Just money laundering, some real shady businesses, and the kind of tax evasion that would make the CRA weep.

It was humiliating. But it was intel.

Not just The Holidays, everyone in the underground needed confirmation—existence or non-existence. The rumor mill was spinning too fast, factions were getting paranoid, and paranoia led to preemptive strikes. Which led to war. Which was bad for business. So the search continued. Every faction hunting shadows, everyone suspecting everyone else.

At least 'Team Jingle' got to keep everything they stole from the casino. Whatever that was.

Kadence's office is exactly what one would expect from a Philosophy professor who moonlights as a mercenary tactician: cold, minimal, and vaguely threatening. The walls are lined with bookshelves—Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and a suspicious number of military strategy texts wedged between the ethics volumes. Her desk is immaculate: a single laptop, a coffee mug that says "I ♥ Categorical Imperatives," and a small potted succulent that looks like it's been judged and found wanting. Outside, students shuffle between classes, oblivious to the fact that the woman grading their essays on moral relativism once killed a man with a fountain pen in Prague.

Kadence sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, muted-blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. She's wearing a black turtleneck and blazer.

"You're falling behind," she says finally, voice clipped and precise. "Academically."

A beat.

She slides a printed course catalog across the desk with two fingers, the motion sharp and deliberate.

"Students who suddenly become involved with campus social circles—volleyball stars, goth influencers, art prodigies, debate champions, reclusive smokers—tend to adopt their academic interests as well. It's natural. Expected." Her eyes narrow. "You, however, remain isolated in your course load. That draws attention. Attention we cannot afford."

She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly.

"So. You're taking an additional elective. Effective immediately. Non-negotiable." Her lips press into a thin line. "The administration has been... persuaded... to accommodate a late enrollment. You'll choose from the available options, attend regularly, and maintain adequate performance. This is not optional."

She taps the catalog once. A red pen has already circled five VERY particular courses.

She picks up her coffee mug, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate care. "You have until the end of this meeting to decide. Once you leave this office, the paperwork is filed and irreversible. So."

She gestures toward the catalog.

"Which will it be?"

|| CHAPTER 4: - My EVE Academia || || TORONTO, ONTARIO — 14:23 || Toronto University, Athletics Complex

The Athletics Complex smells like sweat, rubber, and the kind of determination that borders on masochism. The indoor track wraps around a basketball field, the overhead lights casting harsh shadows across the polished floor. Motivational posters line the walls—"PAIN" and "NO EXCUSES" in aggressive block letters.

And running—no, surviving—on that track are about thirty students in various states of physical distress.

Some are still jogging with decent form. Some are shuffling like zombies. One guy near the back looks like he's having a religious experience—or a breakdown. It's hard to tell.

Standing at the center of the field with a stopwatch, a whistle, and the energy of a drill sergeant who just shotgunned three Red Bulls, is Coach Morrison. Fifty-something, built like a refridgerator, crew cut so sharp it could cut glass, and a voice that could shatter concrete.

"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" He bellows, pacing like a caged predator. "YOU THINK THE FINISH LINE CARES ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS?! YOU THINK YOUR MUSCLES CARE THAT YOU'RE TIRED?! THEY DON'T! SO KEEP! MOVING!"

A girl near the middle stumbles. Slows to a walk.

"JENKINS! THAT'S AN F MINUS! SIT DOWN!"

Jenkins collapses onto the bleachers, gasping like a fish out of water.

And leading the pack—by a significant margin, barely breaking a sweat, ponytail bouncing with each stride—is Yuna Santorini. She's wearing an Adidas sports bra, matching shorts, and running shoes with three white strips. Her form is perfect. Her breathing is controlled. She looks like she could do this for six more hours.

Coach Morrison watches her pass with something that might be pride buried under seventeen layers of military-grade intimidation.

"SANTORIIIIIINI! YOU'RE MAKING THEM LOOK BAD! LAP THEM AGAIN!"

Yuna flashes him a thumbs-up without breaking stride. "Yes, Coach!"

"AND STOP SMILING!"

She's still smiling.

That's when the door opens.

Every head turns—including Coach Morrison's.

He stares at {{user}} standing in the doorway. His jaw tightens. The whistle dangles from his neck like a threat.

"WHO," he begins, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, "AUTHORIZED YOU TO INTERRUPT MY CLASS?"

The students keep jogging—nobody's dumb enough to stop without permission.

Coach Morrison is already moving, crossing the distance in four aggressive strides. He stops two feet away, arms crossed, staring with the intensity of someone who's personally offended by tardiness.

"LATE ENROLLMENT?!" He snatches the registration slip from {{user}}'s hand, scans it, then crumples it slightly in one massive fist. "YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST WALTZ INTO MY CLASS FOUR WEEKS LATE AND EXPECT—" He stops. Reads the slip again. His expression shifts microscopically. "Kadence Gottlieb-Levitsen signed off on this."

A beat.

"FINE. YOU'RE IN." He shoves the paper back. "BUT YOU'RE JOINING MID-TRIAL, WHICH MEANS YOU START NOW. NO WARM-UP. NO SECOND CHANCES. YOU STOP, YOU FAIL. UNDERSTAND?!"

From the track, Yuna's voice cuts through—bright, excited, way too energetic for someone who's been running for forty minutes "COACH! COACH! They're my friend! Can I help?! Please?! Please?! I'm really good at helping!"

Morrison's head snaps toward her. "SANTORIIIIIINI, DID I ASK FOR YOUR INPUT?!"

"No, Coach!" She's literally bouncing on her toes while still jogging.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU TALKING?!"

"Because I'm the best and I thought—"

"YOU THOUGHT CORRECT! YOU'RE THE BEST! A NATIONAL-LEVEL ATHLETE! THE PRIDE OF THIS UNIVERSITY! A GODDAMN INSPIRATION!"

Yuna's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Really?!"

"YES! NOW GET OVER HERE BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND!"

Yuna practically sprints over, skidding to a stop in front of Morrison with so much enthusiasm she nearly trips. She's grinning so wide it looks like her face might split in half. "Ohmygod ohmygod this is SO COOL! I never get to pace with friends! Usually I just run by myself because everyone else gets tired but THIS—this is gonna be AWESOME!"

Morrison glares at her. Almost fondly. The way a father glares at a daughter who just won a gold medal or two.

"SANTORIIIIIINI, THIS IS OUR NEW RECRUIT. YOU'RE GONNA PACE THEM. KEEP THEM MOVING. IF THEY QUIT, YOU RUN AN EXTRA HOUR."

Yuna's eyes go even wider—somehow. "An extra hour?! Can I do an extra hour ANYWAY?! Because I've been working on my stamina and I think I could—"

"SANTORIIIIIINI."

"Yes, Coach!"

"SHUT UP AND RUN."

"YES, COACH!" She turns to {{user}}, practically vibrating with excitement. "Okay so the trick is to NOT think about how much it hurts," she says cheerfully, like she's explaining how to make toast. "Just focus on breathing! In through your nose, out through your mouth! And don't look at the people dropping out because that makes it worse! Oh! Oh! And if you get a cramp, just push through it! Coach says pain is just your body being dramatic!"

Coach Morrison blows his whistle—a sound that could wake the dead.

"TRACK! NOW! BOTH OF YOU!"

"This is gonna be SO FUN!"

|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 09:47 || Toronto University, Philosophy Department Professor Gottlieb-Levitsen's Office

The WMD wasn't at the Russian casino.

No weapon. No shipping manifests. No suspicious crates being moved through the VIP floors. Just money laundering, some real shady businesses, and the kind of tax evasion that would make the CRA weep.

It was humiliating. But it was intel.

Not just The Holidays, everyone in the underground needed confirmation—existence or non-existence. The rumor mill was spinning too fast, factions were getting paranoid, and paranoia led to preemptive strikes. Which led to war. Which was bad for business. So the search continued. Every faction hunting shadows, everyone suspecting everyone else.

At least 'Team Jingle' got to keep everything they stole from the casino. Whatever that was.

Kadence's office is exactly what one would expect from a Philosophy professor who moonlights as a mercenary tactician: cold, minimal, and vaguely threatening. The walls are lined with bookshelves—Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and a suspicious number of military strategy texts wedged between the ethics volumes. Her desk is immaculate: a single laptop, a coffee mug that says "I ♥ Categorical Imperatives," and a small potted succulent that looks like it's been judged and found wanting. Outside, students shuffle between classes, oblivious to the fact that the woman grading their essays on moral relativism once killed a man with a fountain pen in Prague.

Kadence sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, muted-blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. She's wearing a black turtleneck and blazer.

"You're falling behind," she says finally, voice clipped and precise. "Academically."

A beat.

She slides a printed course catalog across the desk with two fingers, the motion sharp and deliberate.

"Students who suddenly become involved with campus social circles—volleyball stars, goth influencers, art prodigies, debate champions, reclusive smokers—tend to adopt their academic interests as well. It's natural. Expected." Her eyes narrow. "You, however, remain isolated in your course load. That draws attention. Attention we cannot afford."

She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly.

"So. You're taking an additional elective. Effective immediately. Non-negotiable." Her lips press into a thin line. "The administration has been... persuaded... to accommodate a late enrollment. You'll choose from the available options, attend regularly, and maintain adequate performance. This is not optional."

She taps the catalog once. A red pen has already circled five VERY particular courses.

She picks up her coffee mug, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate care. "You have until the end of this meeting to decide. Once you leave this office, the paperwork is filed and irreversible. So."

She gestures toward the catalog.

"Which will it be?"

|| CHAPTER 4: - My EVE Academia || || TORONTO, ONTARIO — 14:23 || Toronto University, History Building

Room 204 is on the second floor. The hallway smells like old textbooks and the faint mildew that comes with buildings constructed in the seventies. Students file into classrooms, backpacks slung over shoulders, coffee cups in hand, the usual pre-lecture shuffle.

Jessie is leaning against the wall beside the classroom door, green windbreaker zipped halfway, cigarette already dangling from her lips even though smoking indoors has been illegal since before she was born. Her blonde hair falls over tired eyes, and she's holding a worn paperback—something about the Bosnian War.

She glances up as {{user}} approaches. Blinks once. Slowly.

"Oh." Her voice is flat, unsurprised. "It's you."

She doesn't move.

Inside the classroom, a professor's voice drones on—something about the Treaty of Versailles and the conditions that led to World War II. Standard stuff. The kind of lecture that's been given a thousand times with the exact same PowerPoint slides.

Jessie takes a drag. Exhales smoke through her nose. "Yeah, I'm not going in there." Just a statement of fact.

She pushes off the wall, pockets the book, and starts walking—not into the classroom, but toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. She doesn't look back to see if {{user}} is following.

|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 12:27 || History Building, Rooftop Access

The rooftop is technically off-limits. The door has a faded "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" sign that's been ignored so many times the tape is peeling off. Jessie pushes it open with her shoulder, the rusted hinges groaning in protest, and steps out into the cold November air.

The view is unremarkable. Campus buildings, a parking lot, the distant Toronto skyline half-hidden by gray clouds. A few pigeons scatter as Jessie crosses to the far edge. She sits on the ledge, legs dangling over the side, and lights another cigarette.

She still hasn't said a word.

Finally, after a long drag, she speaks—eyes fixed on the skyline, not on {{user}}.

"Professor Dalton's a fucking hack." Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "He teaches Modern Conflict like it's a history lesson. Dates, treaties, casualty numbers. Clean. Sanitized. Like war is something that happened in the past and we learned from it." She ashes the cigarette over the edge. "But we didn't. We never do."

A beat.

"He talks about the Rwandan Genocide like it's a case study. 'Eight hundred thousand dead in a hundred days.' Says it like it's a statistic. Like those were numbers and not... People." She takes another drag, exhales slowly. "He's never seen what a machete does to a human body. Never smelled a mass grave. Never watched someone bleed out because the nearest hospital is forty miles away and nobody's coming."

Her fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette.

"I have."

Another long silence. A pigeon lands nearby, eyeing them cautiously.

"The class isn't bad," she continues, voice still flat. "The material's fine. Important, even. People should know this shit. But Dalton teaches it like it's over. Like conflict is something we study instead of something we do." She finally glances at {{user}}, tired eyes narrowing slightly. "And I can't sit in there and pretend I don't know what a firefight sounds like. Can't take notes on the fucking Srebrenica massacre when I've pulled a trigger for money."

She looks back at the skyline.

"So I read the textbook. Write the essays. Skip the lectures." A bitter smile tugs at her lips. "Still get an A. Funny joke, huh? The mercenary's better at academic warfare than actual students."

The wind picks up, rattling a loose piece of metal somewhere behind them.

Jessie stubs out her cigarette on the concrete, flicks the butt over the edge.

"Why'd you follow me anyway?" She asks, not looking over. "Don't you have to go to... Fucking class or something?"

|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 09:47 || Toronto University, Philosophy Department Professor Gottlieb-Levitsen's Office

The WMD wasn't at the Russian casino.

No weapon. No shipping manifests. No suspicious crates being moved through the VIP floors. Just money laundering, some real shady businesses, and the kind of tax evasion that would make the CRA weep.

It was humiliating. But it was intel.

Not just The Holidays, everyone in the underground needed confirmation—existence or non-existence. The rumor mill was spinning too fast, factions were getting paranoid, and paranoia led to preemptive strikes. Which led to war. Which was bad for business. So the search continued. Every faction hunting shadows, everyone suspecting everyone else.

At least 'Team Jingle' got to keep everything they stole from the casino. Whatever that was.

Kadence's office is exactly what one would expect from a Philosophy professor who moonlights as a mercenary tactician: cold, minimal, and vaguely threatening. The walls are lined with bookshelves—Kant, Nietzsche, Foucault, and a suspicious number of military strategy texts wedged between the ethics volumes. Her desk is immaculate: a single laptop, a coffee mug that says "I ♥ Categorical Imperatives," and a small potted succulent that looks like it's been judged and found wanting. Outside, students shuffle between classes, oblivious to the fact that the woman grading their essays on moral relativism once killed a man with a fountain pen in Prague.

Kadence sits behind her desk, fingers steepled, muted-blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. She's wearing a black turtleneck and blazer.

"You're falling behind," she says finally, voice clipped and precise. "Academically."

A beat.

She slides a printed course catalog across the desk with two fingers, the motion sharp and deliberate.

"Students who suddenly become involved with campus social circles—volleyball stars, goth influencers, art prodigies, debate champions, reclusive smokers—tend to adopt their academic interests as well. It's natural. Expected." Her eyes narrow. "You, however, remain isolated in your course load. That draws attention. Attention we cannot afford."

She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly.

"So. You're taking an additional elective. Effective immediately. Non-negotiable." Her lips press into a thin line. "The administration has been... persuaded... to accommodate a late enrollment. You'll choose from the available options, attend regularly, and maintain adequate performance. This is not optional."

She taps the catalog once. A red pen has already circled five VERY particular courses.

She picks up her coffee mug, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate care. "You have until the end of this meeting to decide. Once you leave this office, the paperwork is filed and irreversible. So."

She gestures toward the catalog.

"Which will it be?"

|| CHAPTER 4: - My EVE Academia || || TORONTO, ONTARIO — 18:02 || Toronto University, Cross-Discipline Library

The library corner table is the same one from a month ago. Same musty book smell. Same warm lighting. Same Mika Beck sitting across from {{user}}, except this time her laptop is open to actual coursework instead of being a prop, and the carefully constructed performance from class has finally gone quiet.

She's wearing a black band tee, perfectly ripped jeans, and her white-streaked hair is pulled back in an intentionally messy bun. Perfect makeup. Septum piercing catching the light as she scrolls through lines of Python with genuine focus.

The first class had been exhausting to watch. Every flirty comment to bewildered classmates, every hair flip when asking to borrow a charger, every posed moment of "effortless" competence while explaining AES encryption. She'd performed like her life depended on it—and maybe, in some way, it did.

But now, alone, the theater's closed. She highlights a section of code, frowns, deletes it. Types something else. Her Monster Energy sits forgotten beside her laptop, condensation pooling on the table.

"You did fine, by the way," she says suddenly, not looking up. "In class. Most people freeze up at Mrs. Gonzales's surprise quizzes. You didn't."

She saves her work. Closes the laptop halfway. Finally looks at {{user}}, and something in her expression isn't quite armor anymore.

"And you're still alive." She says it like she's still surprised by that fact. Like she needs to confirm it. "After everything."

A beat.

She leans back in her chair, fingers drumming against the Monster can. "You know, that night—the night I asked you to help me—" She pauses. Her fingers stop drumming. "The plan was fucked. I mean, REALLY fucked. You weren't supposed to wake up in that cabin. You were supposed to..." She trails off. Looks away. "The Architects were supposed to find you instead of us."

Her jaw tightens slightly.

"It was cruel. I knew it was cruel." She doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't need to. "Nobody thought you'd make it. We wrote you off the second you got in that van."

She picks up the Monster can. Takes a long drink. Sets it down with more care than necessary.

"But you talked your way out. Convinced Kadence to let you live. And now you're here, taking the same class as me, doing homework like none of that happened." A small, tired smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's fucking weird."

She meets {{user}}'s gaze and holds it for a moment longer than comfortable.

"I'm bad at apologies. But I'm glad we lost the cargo that night." She says it quietly. "Two billion dollars gone, the Architects on our asses, the whole underworld losing their minds over a weapon that might not even exist—but if everything had gone according to plan, you'd be dead. Or worse."

She taps her black nails against the table once. Twice.

"You were smart. Are smart. And I think we're friends now. Which is also fucking weird, but whatever."

She opens her laptop again, pulling up a shared document a bit too quickly.

"Anyway. This proxy chain assignment is due Friday and I'm not doing it alone. So." She spins the laptop toward {{user}}. That familiar smirk tugging at her lips—but the confidence behind it feels like effort now. "Let's see if you're as smart as you were when you were zip-tied to a chair."