By the third day, I had a system.
I always did.
People were patterns. Variables pretended to be chaos, but they weren't. You watched long enough, applied the right pressure, adjusted the angle, and eventually everyone revealed the same things—where they bent, where they compensated, where they broke.
Aylia Zehir hadn't done any of that yet.
Which meant it was time to test her.
I spotted her before she saw me.
Library steps this time. The stone ones tucked just off the quad, where students pretended to study and mostly watched each other instead. She sat too straight, spine rigid like posture was something she had to remind herself to maintain. A notebook rested neatly on her knees, pen moving in deliberate strokes—not rushed, not relaxed either.
Focused.
But not comfortable.
Like focus was something she had to hold onto, not something that came naturally.
I altered my route without breaking stride.
Not close enough to crowd her.
Close enough to register.
She didn't look up.
Interesting.
Most people glanced reflexively—checked who was near them, adjusted their posture, made space. She didn't. Her eyes stayed locked on the page, lashes low, jaw set.
I stopped.
Nothing.
I cleared my throat.
That did it.
She looked up slowly, eyes sharp, assessing—and tired in a way that didn't fit someone her age. Not sleepy. Not bored.
Worn.
"Yes?" she said.
Not hi. Not can I help you. Just yes.
Direct. Efficient.
"Peer guide," I reminded her. "That's me."
Her mouth flattened like she'd bitten back a comment. "I didn't forget."
"You looked like you did."
"I was studying."
"It's eight in the morning."
"So?" she said, genuinely unimpressed.
I tilted my head, studying her face. "You always this defensive, or am I still special?"
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Do you rehearse that line, or does it come naturally?"
A couple of students slowed nearby, pretending not to listen. I ignored them.
"Walk with me," I said.
"That wasn't a request."
"It was," I replied evenly.
She watched me for a moment—really watched me—like she was calculating cost versus effort. Then she sighed, closed her notebook, and stood.
Strike one.
Most people resisted just to prove they could.
We started walking.
The silence stretched, heavy but not awkward. She broke it first.
"So what exactly does this 'guiding' involve?" she asked. "Or are you improvising as you go?"
"I make sure you don't get lost," I said. "Socially. Academically."
She let out a short laugh. No humor in it. "I think I'll survive."
"That confidence is premature."
She stopped.
I took two more steps before realizing she hadn't followed. When I turned, she was standing perfectly still, chin lifted.
"I'm not lost," she said calmly. "And I don't need managing."
"Everyone needs managing," I replied. "They just don't like admitting it."
She met my gaze, steady. No flinch. No retreat. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
There it was again.
That precise way she spoke—never raising her voice, never reaching for theatrics. Just refusing to soften the truth.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You don't belong here."
Her jaw tightened. Just barely.
"I know," she said.
The admission should've satisfied me.
It didn't.
"I didn't mean financially," I added, watching her carefully. "I meant temperamentally."
She inhaled slowly through her nose, then exhaled. "If you're trying to intimidate me, you're doing it wrong."
"How so?"
"You're assuming I care what you think."
That landed harder than it should have.
We resumed walking, but this time she set the pace. Not fast. Not slow. Intentional.
I started noticing the details then.
The way her steps shortened on the stairs. The brief tightening around her mouth when she climbed. How she pressed her lips together like she was pushing something down. Pain, maybe. Fatigue.
A weakness.
Good.
"You're quiet today," I said.
"I'm always quiet."
"No," I corrected. "You're selective."
She shot me a look. "And you're observant."
"I have to be."
"Why?"
I didn't answer.
We reached the science wing. She stopped outside her classroom, hand on the doorframe.
"So," she said, "is this where you disappear until the next forced interaction?"
"For now."
She nodded once, then hesitated.
"Yes?" I prompted.
Her hand drifted—briefly—to her side before she caught herself, posture snapping back into place like muscle memory.
"Nothing," she said. "Just… don't make this harder than it has to be."
I studied her face. Pale. Controlled. Determined in a way that didn't rely on confidence.
"I don't," I said. "I just apply pressure."
She held my gaze a second longer, then turned and went inside.
I didn't follow.
That afternoon, I tested something else.
I took her seat in the common area.
The one by the window, half-shadowed, far enough from the noise to think. She stopped short when she saw me there, annoyance flickering before she smoothed it out.
"You're in my spot."
"There are no assigned seats."
"There are understood ones."
I leaned back, stretching my legs. "Adapt."
She stared at me, then calmly set her bag down across from me instead.
"Happy?" she asked.
"No," I said honestly. "But this is informative."
She rolled her eyes. "You enjoy this."
"Enjoy what?"
"Provoking people."
"I enjoy clarity."
"Well," she said, opening her notebook, "you're not getting it from me."
"Everyone gives eventually."
She looked up slowly. "I won't."
The confidence wasn't loud.
That was what made it dangerous.
Later, when she stood to leave, she swayed—just slightly—before catching herself.
That time, I was sure.
She noticed me noticing.
Her chin lifted. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something you need to figure out."
I stood. "You already are."
Her breath hitched. Not fear.
Something else.
She walked away without another word.
I watched until she disappeared into the crowd.
She was hiding something.
Pain. Pressure. A limit she was pretending didn't exist.
And for the first time, I didn't just want to identify it.
I wanted to see what happened when she reached it.
That was new.
And I had a feeling it would cost us both.