The files came in like a storm—clean, sharp, efficient.
Damien's tablet chimed softly as the data finished transferring, his eyes narrowing with interest rather than surprise. He was already reclined on the old dorm chair, fingers hovering just above the screen, the glow of incoming PDFs casting a faint blue across his jaw.
Victoria [19:17]
Here. Everything.
Don't lose them. And don't ask again.
'Tch. So dramatic.'
Still, as his eyes scanned the folders—Week 1 to 3, each subdivided by subject, then broken further into branches—he felt a grin twitch at the corner of his lips.
"Goddamn," he muttered. "She wasn't kidding."
It was a fortress of knowledge. Each section marked by subject, color-coded annotations curling through diagrams and blocks of theory like veins. Her handwriting—tight, crisp, not a single flourish wasted—framed bullet points like they were laws. References. Cross-links. Even footnotes where she found gaps in the teacher's lectures.
