The campus buzzed with an energy Ethan had already anticipated.
A notice had gone up on the college bulletin board two days ago: "Public Debate Showcase: Open Forum. Hosted by Derek Stone."
It was framed as an event to promote critical thinking and healthy academic rivalry, but anyone with half a brain knew what it really was: Derek's move. A public execution.
Ethan had watched the announcement spread through campus channels like wildfire, his expression never changing. Ryan had panicked at first, of course, but Ethan calmed him with a single sentence:
"Every trap can be turned into a stage if you know the script better than the playwright."
And Ethan knew Derek's script better than Derek himself.
Saturday evening.
The auditorium lights blazed, illuminating rows of packed seats. Students filled every corner, murmurs echoing as they speculated about the coming clash. Derek's reputation as the "golden boy" of the debate team was legendary. People expected spectacle, the sort of brutal intellectual beatdown that left opponents humiliated and gasping.
At center stage stood Derek Stone himself, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a blazer that screamed prestige. His smile was practiced, polished — the kind of charm that pulled eyes naturally. Yet, beneath that charm, there was a sharpness. A hunger.
He wasn't here to impress. He was here to destroy.
Ryan sat backstage, fiddling nervously with his notes. His hands trembled so badly the papers rustled like dry leaves.
"Ethan," he whispered, "I can't—this is Derek. He'll rip me apart."
Ethan leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, watching Ryan with an expression of detached calm.
"No," Ethan said simply. "He won't. He'll destroy himself. All you have to do is stand."
Ryan swallowed hard. "Stand? That's it?"
Ethan's eyes glinted, sharp as a blade. "Yes. Because once Derek sees he can't knock you down, he'll swing harder. And harder. Until he loses his balance. And when he does—" Ethan's lips curved in the faintest of smiles—"the crowd will never forget."
Ryan wanted to argue, but there was something in Ethan's tone — not hope, not encouragement, but inevitability. Like a chess player who already knew the game was over.
The showcase began with applause. Derek welcomed the crowd with his signature charisma, playing the host role flawlessly. He cracked jokes, threw in anecdotes, and the audience warmed instantly.
Then he turned sharp.
"Tonight," Derek said, his voice carrying, "we're not just debating ideas. We're testing strength. Clarity. The ability to rise under pressure." His smile sharpened. "My challenger — Ryan Pierce."
The name rippled through the crowd. Surprise, disbelief. Ryan? Derek was going to roast him alive. That was the consensus.
Ryan stepped onto the stage, his nervousness evident. He adjusted his glasses, clutching his notes like a lifeline. A few chuckles rose from the audience. Easy prey.
From the back row, Ethan watched silently, his posture relaxed, as if none of this concerned him.
The debate began.
Derek opened strong, as expected — eloquent, smooth, almost intoxicating with his rhetoric. His points were layered, his delivery commanding. The crowd leaned into his words.
Ryan stumbled at first, voice shaky. He tripped over phrases, fumbled with his notes. Derek smirked openly, letting the audience enjoy the spectacle.
Then Ethan's words whispered in Ryan's mind: Stand.
So Ryan straightened his back. He stopped flipping through papers. He lifted his chin and forced his voice steady.
And then something shifted.
Ryan didn't outshine Derek with charisma — that wasn't possible. But he countered Derek's arguments with precision. Where Derek was flashy, Ryan was exact. Where Derek spun narratives, Ryan cut them down with facts. Slowly, quietly, Ryan stopped looking like a sacrificial lamb and started looking like someone who could take a hit and remain standing.
The audience felt it. Murmurs spread.
Derek's brow furrowed. This wasn't supposed to happen.
So he pressed harder. His tone sharpened, his arguments grew personal.
"You speak of equality," Derek sneered at one point, "but how would you know? You're barely scraping by in your classes. What do you know of leadership?"
The crowd stirred uncomfortably. That wasn't rhetoric — that was a direct shot.
Ryan froze, panic flashing in his eyes.
Ethan, in the shadows, merely tilted his head. There it is. The overreach.
Ryan remembered. Stand.
So he breathed in, steadied himself, and replied, voice steady, "If academic performance determined one's worth to speak, then why are so many brilliant minds in history remembered not for their grades, but for their ideas?"
The auditorium went still. A few heads nodded.
Derek's smile faltered.
The clash dragged on, and Derek grew more vicious. Every time Ryan withstood the blow, Derek hit harder, louder, angrier. His polish cracked. His charisma frayed. The audience began to see it — the desperation, the arrogance.
And Ryan, trembling beneath it all, still stood.
By the end, when the moderator called time, Derek was red-faced, visibly seething, his blazer disheveled from his own movements. Ryan was pale, sweat dripping, but upright. Composed.
The silence broke into applause.
Not overwhelming, not a standing ovation — but real, genuine applause for Ryan Pierce.
Derek forced a smile through clenched teeth and shook Ryan's hand for show. But anyone with eyes could see it: Derek Stone had lost something far greater than a debate. He had lost control of the narrative.
Backstage, Ryan collapsed onto a chair, chest heaving. "I—I don't know what just happened."
Ethan stood over him, expression calm as ever.
"You survived," he said. "And survival is the sharpest humiliation you can inflict on someone like Derek."
Ryan blinked. "But I didn't win. I just… didn't lose."
"Exactly," Ethan said, his tone like ice. "That was the point."
From the edge of the backstage curtain, Clara watched them. Her notebook was clutched to her chest, her eyes narrowed in thought.
Ryan's performance had been strange — shaky yet unyielding. It wasn't natural. Not for someone like him. She'd seen Ethan earlier, leaning against the wall, calm as if the outcome had been guaranteed.
And now, listening to him speak, she realized the truth that chilled her spine.
Ryan wasn't the one fighting Derek tonight.
It was Ethan.
Derek stormed into his dorm later that night, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
He had prepared for victory. For public humiliation. For triumph. Instead, he had been made a fool — not by Ryan, but by the invisible hand guiding him.
"Ethan," Derek spat into the empty room. "I'll burn you to the ground."
His reflection in the mirror glared back at him, twisted by rage. For the first time, Derek Stone — campus golden boy, untouchable king — had cracks spreading across his perfect façade.
And Ethan Cooper had placed them there with nothing more than patience, precision, and cold calculation.