The sunlight pierced through the delicately tiled glass windows, casting elaborate shadows on the walls. The designs were ornate — regal almost — symbols of the Academy's power and long-standing dominance. As the warmth touched my skin, I blinked slowly, adjusting to the morning.
It was a new day — the first official one. A signal for my plans to begin. Today, the smartest person I had ever met would arrive: Sean. But for now, I had other things to deal with.
I shifted, feeling weight beside me. Rocky.
He was fast asleep next to me, his body curled oddly, a blanket half-tossed over him. He had fallen asleep here — in my bed — apparently too tired last night to finish unpacking or set up his own space. I'd intended to be irritated, but something about the way he slept… peaceful, undisturbed, almost childlike. It gnawed at me.
How was he able to sleep like that?
I turned away. I didn't have the luxury of sleep. Not really. Not with everything that had happened — and everything I knew was coming. Still, I wouldn't cry. My tears would be worthless right now. I'd save them for later — for when it was over. After all, it's better to cry in a mansion than on the roadside.
I dressed quickly, my fingers brushing over the crisp fabric of the school uniform. Today was introduction day — the orientation. The moment to observe the teachers, memorize patterns, and prepare for the games that were about to begin.
Before I left, I woke Rocky. He yawned, stretching with an almost lazy grace.
"Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't mean to crash your bed. I was helping my sister unpack. Didn't realize how late it got."
There was a flicker in his eyes — something faded, like a light briefly dimmed.
Maybe I wasn't the only one hiding behind a mask.
I nodded and left the room.
Outside, the boys were already gathering in the main courtyard. The sky above was soft and overcast, as if it too was unsure what this day would bring. Mr. Adekunle, our boarding house master, stood tall at the front. His presence wasn't loud — but it was powerful.
"Line up," he said. The command buzzed through the air like electricity.
He was a man of paradoxes — strict but watchful, protective yet ready to discard weakness. Like a young lion, proud of his cubs, but unafraid to remind them that the wild didn't care.
We stood in rows, the soft murmur of students quieting under his gaze.
"You're not children anymore," he began. "You've entered a new world. You're here because someone believed you could be great. That belief will be tested every day. You'll be pushed. You'll fail. You'll rise. Or fall."
Silence followed — the deafening kind. Not from lack of sound, but the weight of his words.
Then he added, "Today is orientation. You'll be introduced to the structure, your teachers, and the opportunities that await you. Some of you will rise to global recognition. The Academy has produced geniuses — politicians, inventors, artists. You'll be judged not only by your knowledge, but by your initiative."
That was it. The moment the game began.
Inside the hall, introductions started. I stood in the back, observing.
"My name is Darasimi," a voice rang out — confident, almost rehearsed. "And I intend to be the best this school has ever seen."
He was short, conventionally attractive, and annoyingly loud. The kind of person who demanded attention, even if he hadn't earned it. As he walked toward me, I already knew who he was.
Darasimi Blackwell — heir to the Blackwell Corporation. Future king of networking. In my previous life, he had built a reputation out of carefully constructed lies. He still had that same fake smile now.
"Hey," he said, offering a handshake. "We're going to have a good time here, right?"
I took his hand. It was cold. Distant. Much like him.
"Sure," I said, matching his tone.
"You seem sharp. I like that." He leaned in slightly. "We should talk later. People like us need to stick together."
I raised an eyebrow. "People like us?"
"Outliers," he said simply. Then walked away.
I watched him go, the tilt in his walk, the slight twitch in his eye. He already thought he was running the show. That made him dangerous — and useful.
At around 9:40 a.m., after a simple breakfast, we met the girls at the cafeteria.
That was when I saw her.
Aramide.
Long braids fell down her back, her bronze skin catching the light as she walked. She didn't just move — she glided. Regal. Distant. Cold.
She was the embodiment of ice. Detached and disciplined. Her eyes scanned the room but landed on nothing. Not even me.
I approached.
"Aramide," I said evenly.
She turned, slowly. Her expression unreadable.
"Yes?"
"I know we don't know each other, but I think you're someone I'll need to work with."
Her eyes narrowed, studying me. "Is that so?"
"Yes," I replied. "You're focused. Calculated. I respect that."
"And you?" she asked. "What do you bring?"
"Foresight," I said. "And a willingness to adapt."
A pause. Then: "We'll see."
The words hung in the air. Not cold, but not warm either. Aramide was hard to reach — and she liked it that way.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nikki.
She stood by herself, pretending not to look our way. She had delicate features, flawless skin, and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
She was always smiling.
Always watching.
Nikki wasn't evil. She was worse — careless. She caused chaos simply because she could. Her father had paid her way into the school, and she moved like someone who knew the system would always bend to her.
She waved at me. I didn't wave back.
Darasimi returned as we were leaving the hall.
"Abdul," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder like we were old friends. "Let's walk."
I obliged.
"You're an observer," he said, casually. "That's rare."
"You're a talker," I replied. "That's common."
He laughed. "You're funny. I like that."
We walked a few steps in silence before he added, "Aramide's dangerous."
"She's focused."
"She doesn't play well with others."
"Neither do I."
He stopped, turned to me.
"We could do something powerful here," he said. "You, me, and maybe her. Three pieces on the board. We'd control the entire game."
"You think this is a game?" I asked.
He smiled. "Of course. Life is a game. The trick is to know the rules — and who wrote them."
As we returned to the boarding house, I felt the air shift.
This school — this place — was not just an institution. It was a machine. A stage. A battlefield. And every person was a variable.
I looked at my hands. Small. Young again.
"I have to do it right this time," I whispered.
Behind me, Rocky had returned from the senior classes. He spotted me and smiled.
"You survived orientation," he said.
"Barely," I replied.
He threw his arm around my shoulder. "Now the real fun begins."