Mason stood face-to-face with Professor Ripley, trying to discern why she had asked him to stay behind. Her expression was complex, a mixture of impatience, curiosity, and something he couldn't quite place.
He studied her carefully. At a modest 165 cm, she was practically dwarfed by his towering frame, yet her presence radiated authority that no amount of height could diminish. Her hair was a marvel—medium length, falling to her shoulders, split into two striking colors: platinum silver on the left, jet black on the right. Her sharp grey eyes seemed muted at first glance, calming the intensity they otherwise projected. A small beauty mark on the right side of her chin added a subtle charm to her otherwise serious demeanor.
Today, her usual military uniform had three subtle yet notable differences: a short, fitted skirt slightly above the knees, nude stockings highlighting toned legs, and the absence of the star badges most charismatics proudly displayed on their blazers.
Mason couldn't help but notice the missing badges—his gaze lingering briefly on her chest, not out of desire, but curiosity.
"Mr. Grey, it's rude to stare at a woman's chest," she said calmly, her tone cutting yet composed. "Not only are you habitually late, but it seems you might also be… a pervert."
"It's not what it looks like, ma'am," Mason stammered, averting his gaze. "I was just curious about something you said in class."
"And what does that have to do with staring at my chest?" she asked, dryly.
"Well… you said you have an Authority, which means you're a charismatic, but you don't display your badges. I was wondering why."
"It's a matter of preference, Mr. Grey. I simply choose not to," she replied.
"Is that so, Professor?" Mason muttered.
"Yes. Sometimes it's wiser to conceal your hand from time to time," she said.
She leaned slightly closer, voice firm. "The reason I asked you to stay behind is simple. You were late on your first day. I cannot let that slide. Therefore, at the end of the day, you'll return here and clean this lecture hall. You stole some of my time; now I get to reclaim some of yours. Fair is fair."
"I understand, ma'am," Mason said, shoulders slumping.
"You may leave, Mr. Grey," Professor Ripley gestured.
Mason ran off toward his next class, barely noticing her gaze following him, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Mason Christian Grey… what an interesting lad, she muttered under her breath.
---
That woman gives me the creeps, Mason thought, sprinting across the grounds. It's like she could end me right here and now.
Today wasn't going the way he had expected. Every interaction seemed to remind him that this place operated on a level far beyond normal. And that was just the start. He could only imagine what other crazy teachers he'd encounter.
"Grey! Twenty laps—now!"
The voice belonged to Captain Julian Armstrong.
"Great… just great," Mason muttered.
He accepted the challenge, seeing it as a chance to test himself, to push his limits. As he ran, he promised himself that he would take this place seriously—arrive early, train harder than everyone else, and give his all.
The battleground was sparsely populated. He didn't see Travis or Emily, only familiar faces like Summer and Gabriel. The rest were younger students, oblivious to the intensity around them.
Wait… did I mix up the schedule? Mason paused mid-lap. Then he remembered Emily's advice: adjust your schedule to stay with your friends. He hadn't followed through. Well… just go with the flow.
Summer's glare caught his attention. Still mad about that knee incident, I see. Heh… she hasn't forgotten.
Mason finished his laps faster than expected and headed to the changing room. A locker bore his name:
Mason Christian Grey
Two Beta
Locker 017
Interesting… just like my room number. Easier to keep track of things.
Inside the locker was a sleek black battle suit: sleeveless top, black pants, boots, fingerless gloves, and protective pads. Lightweight, flexible, and comfortable, Mason tested it with a few jabs and kicks.
---
"So today, we're doing mock sparring to sharpen your combat senses. Pair up, observe each other, and learn from the way you fight," Captain Armstrong instructed.
Mason wandered until he heard a familiar voice:
"So… I get my rematch after all, huh?" Summer said, her tone sharp.
"Relax, it's just a mock session," Mason replied, flashing a charming smile. "I'm starting to think you really don't like me."
"Oh, don't think you can weasel out of this, Grey. I realized after our last match—you're tricky."
"You wound me. Honestly, you had the advantage—charismatic vs. unawakened. And wasn't it Ariel who threw you out of the arena, not me? You pick fights with weaker people?" Mason teased.
Summer growled. "Are you mocking me?"
"I'm stating facts, sunshine," he replied with a smirk.
---
The sparring began. Summer struck first with a flurry of kicks; Mason sidestepped with fluid grace. She launched a series of jabs—he weaved and dodged, taunting her.
"You'll need to be faster than that," he said.
Sparks of ember orange flared in her eyes as she lunged forward. Mason executed a backflip, using momentum to stay agile. She closed in, aiming for his midsection—he countered mid-air with a swift kick, partially blocked by her guard.
They traded blows relentlessly. Mason attempted a sweeping kick; she backflipped just in time. He noted her adaptability. She's learning.
Suddenly, Mason tossed dirt from his clasped fists into her eyes. Blinded, Summer stumbled. He seized the opportunity, tackling her and pressing his forearm gently but firmly against her throat. She tapped out.
"You dirty bastard! Always with the dirt! Don't you have any other moves?" she snarled.
"If it works, I'll use it every time," Mason teased, grinning.
She spat, glaring at him. "Fucking idiot."
---
Hours later, after numerous drills, Mason and Summer collapsed in the bleachers, exhausted.
"You know, despite being a cheating bastard, you're actually a decent fighter," Summer admitted.
"Softening on me?" Mason teased.
"Don't push it, Grey," she said dryly.
Mason grinned. "Ah, there she is—the venomous tomboy who hates my guts."
"I don't hate you. I hate your antics," she replied.
"You know, if you admitted you liked me, I might say… 'Hey, I like you too. Let's go on a date.' Just saying," Mason joked.
"I'll kill you," she muttered.
"Love you too, honey," he laughed.
They shared a brief, rare silence. Mason's eyes softened. "Seriously though, you're strong, adaptable, and quick. But that temper—rushing headfirst—will cost you. Emotions can cloud your judgment in a fight."
"Solid advice, Grey," she mused.
"And your sword technique? Impressive. Mind showing me a few moves?"
"Sure," she agreed.
A new alliance was formed. Mason and Summer would train together, testing each other's limits. How long it would last, neither could predict—but for now, it was the beginning of something formidable.