Before we continue with the chapter and see how Jane and her classmates fight against Victor's forces, I would like to share an important announcement regarding Chasing You in the Rain.
When I started writing this novel in October 2025, my goal was to finish it by May 2026. Unfortunately, due to some personal circumstances and commitments, I will be taking a break from the novel for a while.
This does not mean that I am abandoning Chasing You in the Rain. I fully intend to continue the story in the future, but I need some time away before I can return and give it the attention it deserves.
From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank every single reader who has supported this journey. In just six months, this novel reached over 37,000 reads, something I never imagined when I first started writing. For a small author like me, that number means more than words can express.
Every read, vote, comment, and message has motivated me to keep improving and continue telling this story. Without your support, none of this would have been possible.
I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you like it, please consider voting and leaving a comment. I would also love to hear your honest feedback on what I can improve as a writer when I return.
Thank you for being part of this journey from the very beginning. I truly appreciate each and every one of you.
With gratitude,
J. Robert D. Stephen
Chapter 53: The Assembly Lines
The door had barely clicked shut behind Heather and Mr. Peterson before the classroom erupted into a frantic wave of nervous chatter. Students were leaning over desks, pulling up their terminals, and desperately trying to guess what the first event parameters would look like.
But in our row, the silence was deafening.
I stood frozen in the aisle for a few long seconds, my eyes darting between the empty podium and the imposing figure of Zack. He had already looked away, his gaze drifting back down to the scratched wood of his desk. The sheer weight of what Heather had told me last night—about his cold, merciless treatment of Ashley, and his strange, buried fury toward Victor—hung over him like a suffocating shroud.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I moved past the empty chairs and stopped right beside his desk.
"Zack," I said softly, my voice barely carrying over the background noise of the room.
He didn't move at first. Then, with a slow, heavy tilt of his head, he looked up at me. The dark circles under his eyes were even more prominent in the harsh morning light. "Yeah?"
"You didn't reply to my text last night," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle, devoid of any accusation. I just wanted to find a crack in the wall he had built. "I was... I was worried about you. Heather told me the meeting ran really late."
Zack's jaw tightened, a subtle muscle twitching beneath his skin. He shifted in his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking loudly. "I saw it. I just didn't have anything useful to say, Jane. My mind was somewhere else."
"Is it still there?" I pressed, leaning slightly closer. "Somewhere else?"
Zack let out a low, humorless breath through his nose. He leaned back, locking his dark eyes onto mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "Look around, Jane. The school is putting us in a cage and telling us to tear each other apart for points. My head is exactly where it needs to be. I'm getting ready for a fight."
"But it's not just a physical fight, and you know it," I whispered, the image of a breaking Ashley flashing across my mind. "Heather told me what happened with Ashley at the table. She said you completely shut her out. Zack... she's your childhood friend. Why would you say those things to her?"
The moment the name Ashley left my mouth, Zack's entire demeanor shifted. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying rigidity. His hands clenched into fists on top of his desk.
"Heather needs to learn to keep her mouth shut," Zack growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "She doesn't know anything about Class B, and she doesn't know anything about Ashley. Whatever happened at that table was strategy. That's it."
"Strategy?" I repeated, a sudden sting of hurt catching in my throat. "Since when do you use your friends as tactical casualties, Zack? That's what Victor does. That's not you."
"You don't know what's me, Jane!" he snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden, violent burst of emotion that caused a few students in the front row to glance back in alarm.
Zack caught himself, inhaling sharply through his teeth. He lowered his head, pressing his knuckles against his forehead as if trying to physically contain the chaos inside his skull. When he looked back up at me, the anger was gone, replaced by a raw, jagged desperation that completely broke my heart.
"You don't know what I am," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Just... don't look too closely into this tournament, okay? Don't look at Class A, don't look at Victor, and don't worry about what I say to Ashley. Just stay behind Luke and Heather. Stay safe. Let me handle the ugly side of this."
I stared at him, my stomach twisting into a painful knot. The protective, fierce tone was there, but beneath it, there was a terrifying undercurrent of guilt—as if he was trying to shield me from a monster that was already in the room.
"Zack..." I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches away from his arm, desperately wanting to offer some comfort. "You're hiding something. You've been hiding it for a long time. Why won't you just let me in?"
Zack looked at my hand, his breath hitching. For a fraction of a second, the wall cracked completely. A profound, hollow agony washed over his face, and I could tell he wanted nothing more than to reach back.
But before he could speak, the PA system in the corner of the room came alive with a loud, piercing static hum, cutting the moment to pieces.
The sharp, piercing static from the PA system smoothed out into a crisp, authoritative chime that echoed through every corner of the Class C homeroom.
ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS. ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS.
Please report to the central Student Meeting Hall immediately. Repeat: all academic years, proceed to the main assembly area for the official tournament commencement.
The announcement broke the heavy spell between us. Zack instantly pulled his gaze away from my hand, his posture hardening back into that rigid, unyielding armor. Around us, the rest of the class didn't need to be told twice. Desks scraped loudly against the floor as everyone scrambled to gather their things, eager to escape the claustrophobic tension of the classroom.
"Let's go," Zack muttered, standing up. His massive frame completely blocked out the morning light for a second.
I nodded silently, pulling my hand back and grabbing my bag.
The walk down the grand, echoing corridors of Rosemond High School Academy was agonizing. The hallways were a sea of uniforms—the crisp navy of the seniors, the deep green of the sophomores, and the bright crimson of the fresh first-years. Yet, despite being surrounded by hundreds of shouting, anxious students, the space between Zack and me felt like a vacuum. Neither of us spoke a word. The raw, jagged confession he had almost let slip back in the classroom hung in the air like a heavy mist. Every time my shoulder brushed against his in the crowd, I could feel the intense, vibrating restraint rolling off him. He was completely locked away.
When we finally pushed through the double oak doors of the massive Student Meeting Hall, the sheer scale of the event hit me. The stadium-like arena was partitioned into massive, color-coded seating blocks.
Zack pointed toward the blue-bordered section labeled Senior Class C, and I followed him down the stepped aisle. Instead of looking for Luke or trying to find Heather, Zack slid into an empty row near the middle and sat down. Without thinking, I took the seat right beside him. He didn't say anything, but his shoulders relaxed just a fraction as I settled into the chair next to his.
Within ten minutes, the stadium was packed. Thousands of students from all academic years filled their respective tiers, creating a deafening roar of overlapping conversations, rustling papers, and clicking digital terminals.
Then, the bright overhead arena lights suddenly plunged into a dramatic, dim twilight. The chatter died instantly, replaced by a tense, collective intake of breath.
A single, brilliant white spotlight snapped onto the center stage. Walking out from the wings with slow, measured, and terrifyingly absolute authority was Mr. Henry Wilson, the Principal of Rosemond High School Academy. He dressed in his signature charcoal suit, his sharp grey eyes sweeping across the massive crowd with the clinical precision of a man who viewed the entire student body as pieces on a chessboard.
He stopped behind the dark mahogany podium, adjusting the microphone. His voice, when it boomed across the speakers, was perfectly calm, incredibly deep, and instantly commanding.
"Welcome, students of Rosemond Academy," Principal Henry Wilson began, his voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. "Today marks the beginning of the seasonal evaluation—a tradition designed not to break you, but to separate the exceptional from the mediocre. You have all received the preliminary parameters on your devices, but given the high stakes of this tournament, I will reiterate the foundation upon which your survival depends."
He rested his hands on the edges of the podium, leaning forward slightly as a massive holographic display materialized in the air above him, glowing with stark white text.
"Let us review the framework. Rule One through Rule Fourteen will be enforced with absolute, mechanical precision from this moment forward."
Principal Wilson's voice rolled through the stadium speakers, heavy and unyielding, as the massive holographic text shifted above his head.
"Rule One — Mandatory Participation. All students must participate in at least one tournament event. No student is permitted to remain on the sidelines.
Rule Two — Single Event Restriction. Students may participate in only one tournament event. The sole exception is the designated Class Leader, who is permitted to participate in all events. Classes with insufficient student numbers may receive repeat participation allowances.
Rule Three — Senior Alliance Restrictions. Senior classes are permitted to form alliances only with the specific classes assigned to them by the administration. Alliances cannot be chosen freely.
Rule Four — Junior Alliance Freedom. Unlike upperclassmen, all junior classes possess a strategic advantage: they are permitted to form alliances with any class they choose, regardless of year.
Rule Five — Class Star Point (C.S.P.) & Student Star Point (S.S.P.) Rewards.
Class Star Points: 1st place awards 3 C.S.P, 2nd place awards 2 C.S.P, and 3rd place awards 1 C.S.P. Fourth place receives zero.
Player Star Points for MVP rewards: 1st place leader receives 50 S.S.P, 2nd place leader receives 30 S.S.P, and 3rd place leader receives 20 S.S.P.
All participating students receive a baseline of 5 S.S.P regardless of placement.
Rule Six — Multi-Participation Exceptions. Certain large-scale sports events permit repeated participation, such as football, basketball, and other high-roster competitions.
Rule Seven — Repeat Participation Condition. Repeat participation may occur only after every eligible student who has not yet participated has already been used. Students cannot be reused while eligible participants remain on the bench."
The principal paused, his cold gaze scanning the arena before the hologram flickered, updating the next line of text in sharp, glowing red.
"Better Rule Eight: In academic events—such as advanced mathematics examinations and competitive trivia—exactly three students from each class may participate. Individual performance will award Student Star Points only; however, the collective placement of the participating trio will still determine a reduced amount of Class Star Points."
The moment those words left the principal's mouth, the entire stadium erupted into a frantic wave of shocked whispers and outraged murmurs.
"Wait, what?" students argued around us. "The rule sheet we got yesterday said individual performance didn't affect overall Class Star Points at all! When did they change it to a reduced amount of C.S.P.?"
Beside me, Zack stiffened completely. His entire body went rigid, his breath hitching sharply in his throat. I watched as his large hands gripped the fabric of his uniform pants so tightly his knuckles turned completely white, the fabric straining against his absolute fury. He was remembering the exact conversation from yesterday—the careful calculations Luke and Heather had made based on the old rule. The administration had just casually dismantled their entire opening strategy with a single word change.
Seeing him on the verge of snapping, a wave of pure terror washed over me. If he stood up or caused a scene right now, the penalties would ruin us. Without thinking, my hand moved through the small space between our seats and gently placed itself over his leg, pressing down firmly to keep him anchored.
Please, Zack, I thought desperately, my own heart hammering against my ribs. Don't do anything reckless.
"Silence," Principal Wilson's voice boomed across the microphone, instantly cutting through the uproar. The sheer authority in his tone made the entire arena drop into a dead, terrified hush. "The administration reserves the right to optimize parameters prior to the official launch to ensure maximum competitive integrity. You will adapt, or you will fail."
He didn't give anyone time to process the blow, moving directly to the next slides on the holographic display.
"Rule Nine — Strategic Item Purchases. Class Leaders may spend accumulated Class Star Points to purchase strategic items from the school administration database, including items such as the Authority Card.
Rule Ten — Item Cost Deduction System. Upon tournament conclusion, ninety percent (90%) of the total cost of any purchased strategic item will permanently count against the class's final Class Star Point total. Purchased items grant temporary leverage during the tournament, but their long-term cost is intentionally severe to discourage reckless spending."
A collective gasp of horror rippled through the senior sections. A ninety percent permanent deduction meant that if a leader panicked and bought a high-level item to win a single match, they could accidentally bankrupt their entire class's future rankings at the end of the term. It was a psychological trap designed to make the leaders paranoid of their own strategic tools.
I felt the muscle in Zack's leg twitch violently beneath my palm, his entire frame vibrating with a dangerous, explosive energy. He was spiraling, trapped between the betrayal of the rules and the suffocating secrets of his past. Desperate to keep him calm, my fingers slid just a bit closer, my grip tightening against his leg as I silently pleaded with him to hold onto his composure. We were completely at the mercy of the board, and the real nightmare hadn't even begun.
Principal Wilson's cold eyes didn't flicker as the collective panic of the student body hummed through the arena. He simply tapped his digital clipboard, and the glowing red holographic text shifted smoothly to display the final set of regulations.
"Rule Eleven — Victory Condition. The ultimate winner of the tournament will be determined solely through total accumulated Class Star Points at tournament end.
Rule Twelve — Tie Breaker System. In the event of a statistical tie, the average Student Star Points across the entire class will be calculated to the decimal. The class with the higher average wins.
Rule Thirteen — Alliance Competition Structure. Alliance groups compete collectively against rival alliances for overall placement, while individual students still compete internally for personal Student Star Points. Class Star Points remain distributed independently by academic year.
Rule Fourteen — Internal Point Trading. Classes may freely trade or exchange accumulated Class Star Points only within their officially assigned alliance structure. Transfers outside the alliance are prohibited."
The finality of his words hung in the air like a heavy executioner's axe.
Beside me, Zack's breathing had grown incredibly shallow. Beneath my palm, I could feel the intense, rhythmic pulsing of his pulse against his thigh. Rule Fourteen was the exact trap Heather had warned me about just hours ago in her room—the rule that permanently shackled us to our assigned alliance partners, forbidding any horizontal deals with the other senior classes.
And for us, that meant we were locked in with Victor's network.
Zack's head dropped slightly, his eyes boring into the glowing screen of his desk terminal as the realization settled in. The administration hadn't just created a game; they had built an absolute meat grinder. If our first-year or second-year alliance partners failed, or if Victor decided to manipulate the point trades from within our loop under Rule Fourteen, Class C would be completely drained of its resources.
My hand remained pressed firmly against his leg, my fingers curling slightly into the dark fabric of his trousers. I was terrified—not just of the rules, or the permanent deductions, or the massive scale of the tournament—but of how close Zack was to breaking. I could feel the internal battle raging inside him, the terrifying friction between the aggressive fighter who wanted to tear the stadium apart, and the boy who was secretly drowning under a mountain of guilt and hidden pasts.
As if sensing my absolute terror, Zack slowly placed his massive, rough hand directly over mine. He didn't look at me, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead toward the center stage, but his heavy fingers squeezed mine with a quiet, desperate intensity. It was a silent reassurance, a heavy promise wrapped in darkness: I'm still here. I won't snap.
"The parameters are set," Principal Wilson's voice echoed one last time, cutting through the heavy silence of the stadium. "The registration boards are now officially open. Leaders, submit your first-wave rosters. May the exceptional prevail."
Principal Wilson's cold, methodical voice sliced through the heavy, suffocating silence of the arena as the holographic rule text dissolved into a massive, multi-tiered grid.
"Now that the parameters have been established," the Principal announced, his gaze sweeping over the thousands of quiet students, "the framework must be locked. We will now officially introduce the leadership rosters for each class. These individuals carry the absolute weight of their respective branches. Their decisions under Rule Nine and Rule Ten will dictate your collective survival."
The holographic screen flared to life, illuminating the dark stadium in a sharp, blue neon glow. Rows of text quickly assembled across the glass board, lighting up year by year, class by class.
"Representing the Third-Year Seniors," Principal Wilson's voice echoed, and the glowing text flared white. "Class A: Leader Victor John, Assistant Isabelle Rin."
A synchronized, thunderous cheer erupted from the front-left section of the arena. The Class A students stood up in unison, clapping rhythmically with a polished, terrifyingly disciplined precision. It wasn't just applause; it was a display of absolute confidence.
My eyes darted straight to the top of the chart. Seeing Victor and Isabelle's names printed up there in cold, official data made the hairs on my arms stand up. Victor was officially holding the reins, and with Isabelle as his sharp, robotic assistant, his network was perfectly positioned.
"Class B," the Principal continued. "Leader Ashley, Assistant Berry Sullivan."
The Class B seating block exploded into a chaotic, emotional roar. Students stomped their feet against the metal bleachers, shouting Ashley's name at the top of their lungs to drown out the polite, obligatory clapping from the neighboring classes. I remembered what Heather had told me about the meeting—how Ashley had completely broken down when Zack ruthlessly shut her out. Now, she was carrying the entire weight of her class on her shoulders, backed by Berry Sullivan, while the guy she had known since childhood sat right next to me, completely detached.
"Class C: Leader Luke, Assistant Heather Griffin."
Our section instantly went wild. The boys in the row behind us let out piercing whistles, shouting Luke's name, while the rest of our classmates clapped frantically, desperate to match the energy of the other rooms. Beside me, Zack's hand was still resting heavily over mine, his rough fingers keeping my trembling palm firmly anchored to his leg. I could feel the explosive tension radiating off his skin as he stared at the chart.
"And Class D: Leader Ray, Assistant Adrian Vale."
A fierce, defiant shout echoed from the far edge of the senior tier as Class D cheered for Ray. They didn't have the numbers of Class A, but their shouts were laced with a raw, desperate determination.
The Principal clicked his terminal, and the holographic display shifted downward to the next tier.
"Representing the Second-Year Sophomores. Class A: Leader Irfan, Assistant Ayaan Malik. Class B: Leader Richard Ron, Assistant Sophia Reed. Class C: Leader Olivia Carter, Assistant Ethan Hayes. Class D: Leader Mary Gracelin, Assistant Clara Whitmore."
With each name read, distinct pockets of the sophomore section erupted into roaring chants and competitive shouting, trying to out-clap one another in a desperate bid for early dominance. But my chest tightened as the alignment connected in my head. Under Rule Fourteen, our Senior Class C was permanently chained to Irfan's 2nd-year Class A.
Finally, the text scrolled down to the bottom of the board.
"Representing the First-Year Freshmen," Principal Wilson boomed. "Class A: Leader Noah Bennett, Assistant Emma Brooks. Class B: Leader Zoe Walker, Assistant Liam Parker. Class C: Leader David Samuel, Harper Collins. Class D: Leader Ryan Thompson, Assistant Mia Bennett."
The freshman section broke into a high-pitched, frenetic wave of noise. The youngest students were practically screaming, their clapping loud and uncoordinated, still fueled by raw excitement rather than the strategic dread that hung over the seniors.
When David Samuel's name was called, the 1st-year Class C students let out a sharp, unified shout of approval. David Samuel—the calm, unbothered junior who had casually walked into our homeroom this morning was officially locked in as our vertical alliance partner.
Victor and Isabelle clearly knew how this vertical alignment was going to play out. Looking at the names fading into the glowing board as the applause finally died down, I realized we were already walking directly into the teeth of their trap.
"The leadership core is registered," Principal Wilson's voice boomed, the heavy sound vibrating through the stadium seats as the final cheers faded. "Roster submissions for the Opening Gauntlet will lock in exactly sixty minutes. Leaders, command your classes."
The heavy oak doors of the Student Meeting Hall could barely handle the mass exodus. Thousands of students flooded back into the corridors, a sea of colored uniform trim moving in frantic, hurried waves. The clock was officially ticking down those sixty minutes.
Zack and I walked back to the Class C homeroom in the same tight silence we had arrived in, though his hand had finally let go of mine the moment the house lights came up. The ambient noise of the hallway—the panicked calculations of our classmates, the sharp arguments over point allocations—felt incredibly distant.
When we pushed into the classroom, the atmosphere had shifted completely. The nervous dread from this morning had mutated into a desperate, chaotic frenzy. Students were clustered around desks, their digital terminals open, shouting over one another.
"We need to stack the athletic events first!" someone from the back row yelled.
"Are you insane? Did you see the point deductions on Rule Ten? If we don't secure academic points under the new Rule Eight, we're mathematically ruined!"
"Everyone, sit down."
The voice wasn't loud, but it carried an immediate, sharp authority that cut right through the noise.
Luke was standing at the front of the room, leaning against the teacher's podium. His tie was perfectly straight now, his posture immaculate, but his eyes were dark with an overwhelming exhaustion. Heather stood just a half-step behind him, her digital tablet clutched tightly against her chest, her face pale but focused.
The classroom scrambled into their seats. Zack slouched back into his usual chair, his eyes dropping to his desk, while I quickly took my place beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Luke walked out from behind the podium, stepping to the very edge of the front platform so he could look at every single one of us.
"We have exactly fifty-two minutes before our first-wave roster locks," Luke began, his voice steady, grounding the room. "I know the adjustments to Rule Eight are a shock. I know Victor and Class A have engineered a vertical trap with the point trading system. But panic is exactly what they want from us. A panicked class makes reckless choices, and reckless choices cost Star Points."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the rows until it briefly locked onto mine, a subtle, heavy look passing between us before he turned back to the crowd.
"Heather and I have spent the last hour cross-referencing our baseline stats," Luke continued, gesturing to Heather, who tapped her screen to project our internal class roster onto the main board. "We aren't going to play Victor's game, and we aren't going to let Melvin's intimidation stall our momentum. We are going to place our strongest assets exactly where the rules allow, and we are going to rely on our vertical partners in Class 2-A and 1-C to hold the horizontal lines. If anyone has a personal conflict with their projected physical or academic brackets, speak now, or prepare to execute."
Before anyone could raise a hand, the front door slid open with a sharp, pneumatic hiss.
Mr. Peterson stepped into the room. The relaxed, easygoing teacher who usually let us slide with minor infractions was completely gone. He carried a heavy, glowing administrative terminal under his arm, his expression dead serious.
"Aide down, Leader," Mr. Peterson said, nodding to Luke as he took his place behind the desk. Luke and Heather immediately stepped to the side, giving the instructor the floor.
Mr. Peterson set his terminal onto the podium, and the main classroom projector instantly overrode Luke's roster, replacing it with a gold-bordered administrative seal.
"The All-Star Committee has officially released the structural breakdown for the Opening Gauntlet," Mr. Peterson announced, his sharp eyes scanning our faces. "Since the rules have been finalized, I am here to detail the exact mechanics of the first three events you will be entering. Listen carefully, because the administration will not answer questions once the gates open."
He tapped the screen, and a massive master schedule branched out like a web.
"The tournament is split into distinct categories designed to test every facet of your capabilities," Mr. Peterson explained, pointing his stylus at the glowing headers. "We have dedicated brackets for Academics, Sports, Olympics, Arts & Calligraphy, and finally, Special Programs. Every single student will be forced to utilize their specific skill sets."
He swiped his hand across the glass, zooming into the first five events that would kick off the entire gauntlet. The screen flared, listing them in sharp, block text.
"These are the first five events you must submit rosters for right now," Mr. Peterson said, his voice echoing in the dead-silent room.
Academics: Math Trivia – A high-speed, buzzer-based analytical theory and calculation event. Three representatives per class.Sports: Running Race – A pure track endurance and speed test utilizing our lane allocations.Olympics: Dodgeball – A high-intensity elimination match inside the sub-arena. Standard survival rules apply.Arts & Calligraphy: Arm Wrestling – A raw physical strength bracket tucked into the cultural arts pavilion, designed to test power endurance.Special Programs: Find the Imposter – A psychological deduction and strategy game where one student from our class will be locked in a room with representatives from the other factions to identify a hidden saboteur.
The room went completely ice-cold at the mention of the fifth event. The sheer tactical cruelty of mixing psychological games with raw physical tests was finally out in the open.
"You have forty-five minutes," Mr. Peterson said, shutting his terminal with a definitive snap. "Rosters on my desk before the bell rings. Get to work."
Mr. Peterson tapped the terminal one last time, causing the schedule to blink with warning red indicators.
"Two final, critical details," he added, his eyes narrowing as he looked over the desks. "First, look at the scheduling markers. These events will run simultaneously. That means some of them will overlap perfectly. In our opening wave, Event One, the Math Trivia, and Event Four, the Arm Wrestling match, will be conducted at the exact same time in different pavilions. You cannot split your focus, and you cannot have leaders present at both."
He picked up his terminal, tucking it under his arm as he walked to the center of the floor. "Second, look at Event Five—Find the Imposter. This falls under Special Programs. Unlike the sports brackets, special events have no fixed timer. They last until the given objective is finished. If your representative gets stuck in that room, they are out of commission for the rest of the day, no matter how many other rosters you put them on."
A wave of stressed murmurs broke out, but Mr. Peterson raised his hand to cut them off.
"The administration has allocated dedicated tactical zones for each alliance group to prevent spying," he announced. "Class C's designated zone is the school café, which has been locked down exclusively for our vertical line. The second-year and first-year leaders are already heading there with their students. Luke, take your class down immediately. Your entire alliance needs to coordinate these five rosters before the countdown hits zero."
"Understood," Luke said, instantly turning to the room. "Everyone, pack your pads. Let's move."
The chairs scraped loudly against the floorboards as thirty-odd students scrambled to their feet. Zack stood up slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets, his face dark and unreadable as he fell into step right beside me. Heather was already at the front, holding the door open as our class filed out into the bustling hallway.
The walk down to the first floor felt like a march to a battlefield. The corridors were chaotic, with other classes sprinting toward their own designated zones—some heading to the gymnasium, others to the auditorium.
When we pushed through the glass double doors of the school café, the familiar smell of coffee and pastries was entirely gone, replaced by the sterile, tense atmosphere of a war room. The tables had been pushed together into a massive, square layout in the center of the room.
Waiting for us were the other two links in our chain. Irfan, the sharp, calculating leader of Class 2-A, was already leaning over a digital map spread across the main table, his assistant Ayaan Malik whispering rapidly in his ear. On the adjacent side sat David Samuel, the eerily calm freshman leader of Class 1-C, casually spinning a stylus between his fingers while Harper Collins methodically sorted through student profile files.
The doors clicked shut behind us, locking the three classes inside the private sanctuary.
"Good, the seniors are here," Irfan said, looking up with a razor-sharp focus as Luke walked toward the head of the table. "We have less than thirty-five minutes now, and we need to talk about who we are sacrificing to the Imposter room, and who is holding the line in the trivia brackets."
Luke, Irfan, and David Samuel sat down at the center table, their assistants immediately opening their respective class databases on the central holographic display. The chaotic energy in the café died down as the three leaders locked in. The surrounding students from all three classes crowded behind the chairs, leaning over shoulders, their faces painted with a mix of anxiety and intense focus. If they wanted to secure an easy win against Victor and the other rival networks, their strategy had to be flawless.
"We have exactly thirty-two minutes," Luke said, his voice dropping into a calm, authoritative command as he leaned over the map. "Let's break this down systematically. Event One: Math Trivia. Three spots total across the alliance. Who do we have?"
Luke scanned his own class roster, his fingers tapping the screen. "From 3rd Year Class C, I'm putting forward Josher. The guy is an absolute bookworm when it comes to advanced mathematics and theory. He can solve complex equations in his sleep."
Behind the inner circle, a loud shout came from the back of the senior crowd. "Hell yeah! Josher's got a literal calculator for a brain! Put him in!" A few seniors clapped Josher on the back, causing the quiet, bespectacled boy to blush furiously and adjust his glasses.
Irfan nodded, his sharp eyes flicking to his sophomore data. "Good. From Class 2-A, I'll match that with Markson. He topped the mid-term analytical assessments. He's fast on the buzzer."
"Markson! Markson!" a group of sophomores chanted quietly, pumping their fists in the air.
David Samuel didn't even look at his screen, casually spinning his stylus before pointing it at the board. "Then Class 1-C will lock in Adam Dorry. He's a freshman prodigy."
The freshman section erupted into eager murmurs, nodding in collective agreement. With all three leaders aligned and the crowd buzzing with approval, they plugged the names into the official submission grid. The digital clock in the corner showed they had finalized the entire academic lineup in just under seven minutes.
"Moving on. Event Two: The Running Race," Irfan said, sliding the next event profile to the center of the table. "This is pure speed and lane endurance. We need people who won't choke under pressure."
Luke leaned back, his jaw setting. "I'll handle this one myself. As the senior leader, I need to establish our presence on the track early."
The entire café seemed to collectively inhale. Then, a wave of loud cheering broke out from the Class C seniors. "That's what I'm talking about! Lead from the front, Luke!" one of the athletic guys yelled, slamming his hand on a table in excitement. The confidence in the room surged instantly.
"If the senior leader is running, we back him up with maximum velocity," Irfan said, tapping his tablet. "From my class, Azeem is taking the second slot. His sprint times are the highest in the sophomore tier."
"Azeem's a rocket!" a sophomore girl called out. "He'll clear the outer lanes easily!"
"And for the final spot, Class 1-C will input Ester," David Samuel added smoothly, Harper Collins quickly verifying the freshman's physical evaluation files. "She's a varsity track recruit. That gives us a balanced, high-speed trio."
"Go get 'em, Ester!" a few freshmen shouted, cheering for their classmate.
Luke nodded, locking the names in as the crowd's energy continued to build. "Roster two is finalized. Now, Event Three: Dodgeball."
Irfan held up a hand, interrupting before Luke could look at the physical combat files. "Wait. Look at the timeline structure on the master schedule. Dodgeball is positioned as the final block of the opening wave. That means our runners and academics will have a brief window to break and recover before the whistle blows. We should hold off on locking the dodgeball roster for a few minutes and shift our immediate focus to Event Four: Arm Wrestling. It runs simultaneously with the math trivia, and we need raw, undisputed power to secure those Class Star Points."
Luke paused, his eyes drifting away from the tactical layout. His gaze unconsciously flicked across the café, passing over the rows of waiting students until it landed directly on Zack Finn.
Zack was still sitting completely isolated in a corner booth, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, explosive energy vibrating off him. He was completely detached from the cheering, but everyone knew his capabilities. A few seniors turned their heads, following Luke's gaze, and began whispering excitedly. "If Zack plays the arm wrestling match, it's an automatic slaughter," someone muttered under their breath. "He'll tear Class A apart."
Luke hesitated, calculating the risk of unleashing a volatile Zack into the arena. But before he could make a decision, Irfan spoke up, drawing the attention back to the table.
"For the Arm Wrestling bracket, Class 2-A is putting forward Kelvin. His grip strength and muscle endurance metrics are unmatched in the sophomore division." The sophomores behind him cheered loudly, whistling and shouting Kelvin's name.
David Samuel leaned forward, a rare, sharp glint appearing in his eyes as he tapped the table. "And for the final slot, I'll take care of it personally. I will play in this event."
The freshman crowd went absolutely wild, stamping their feet on the café floor. "Let's go, David! Show the seniors what Class 1-C can do!" The atmosphere in the room was electric, the alliance finally feeling like a unified front ready to crush the gauntlet.
The sudden hush that fell over the café was suffocating. The high-energy chanting for the sports rosters dissolved instantly, replaced by a tense, nervous rustling. Event Five—Find the Imposter—was a psychological black box, and everyone in the room knew it.
At the center table, the three assistants stepped forward, moving in sync with their respective leaders to pull up the specialized student profile matrices.
"We need a completely different profile for this," Heather Griffin said, her voice sharp and analytical as she tapped her tablet, projecting a condensed list of Class C students onto the holographic screen. "This isn't about physical endurance or raw academic memorization. Special Programs look for high psychological resilience, emotional detachment, and acute behavioral observation. If we send someone who panics under interrogation, they will be weeded out in the first ten minutes."
Ayaan Malik, the sophomore assistant, nodded tightly, his fingers flying across his own terminal to cross-reference data. "Heather's right. The second-year analytics show that Class A is likely to deploy someone from Victor's inner circle—someone trained in social manipulation. If our representative can't read micro-expressions or maintain a flawless poker face, they'll be turned into a scapegoat."
"And remember the baseline risk," Harper Collins added from the freshman side, her tone characteristically cold and precise. "Mr. Peterson stated this event has no fixed timer. It lasts until the objective is complete. Whoever we send is completely off the board for subsequent rosters. We cannot afford to lose a primary physical or academic asset to an indefinite lockdown."
Luke leaned over the table, studying the filtered names Heather had highlighted. "So we look for someone under the radar. Someone who observes rather than dominates the room."
"I've already narrowed down our internal candidates based on stress-test metrics," Heather replied, sliding three specific student profiles to the center of the screen for Luke to review. "These three have the highest baseline scores in situational awareness and the lowest heart-rate spikes during simulated high-pressure evaluations."
Irfan and David Samuel leaned in, their assistants quickly mapping their own data alongside Heather's choices to see which combination would give their vertical alliance the ultimate edge in the deduction room.
Heather's fingers swiped across the holographic screen, locking onto one specific file. She looked up, her gaze cutting across the café directly toward our corner booth.
"From our class, I'm putting forward Jane," Heather announced clearly, her voice echoing through the quiet room. "Her behavioral observation metrics are exactly what this event demands. She doesn't seek the spotlight, which means she can blend in, watch the room, and pick apart the saboteur without drawing early suspicion."
I was completely taken aback. My heart skipped a beat, my hand freezing on Zack's leg as dozens of heads turned to look at me. Beside me, Zack's jaw instantly tightened, his grip on the edge of the booth sharpening as if he wanted to object.
Before anyone could speak, Irfan tapped his console. "A calculated choice. For the sophomore bracket, Class 2-A will back her up with John Christopher. He's analytical, detached, and doesn't buckle under interrogation."
"Then it's settled," David Samuel said smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, spinning his stylus with a casual, effortless grace. "And to make sure we lock in an undisputed win, I'll join the event as the freshman representative myself."
Heather immediately frowned, dropping her tablet onto the table with a sharp clack. "No, David. You shouldn't. You've already locked yourself into Event Four for the arm wrestling. Stepping straight into a psychological deduction game with no fixed timer places an absurd amount of physical and mental pressure on a single leader. You need to manage your energy for the field events tomorrow."
David didn't look flustered at all. Instead, he stopped spinning the stylus, setting it down slowly as he leaned forward across the table. He caught Heather's eyes, his expression softening into a remarkably calm, confident smile.
"I appreciate the concern, Heather," David murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smooth, and deliberately charming cadence that carried perfectly through the quiet space. "But with you managing our lines from the war room, I'm not worried about the pressure at all. Knowing you're watching my back makes the whole gauntlet look easy."
A collective, stunned silence hit the surrounding students.
Heather's professional, analytical composure shattered in an instant. Her eyes went wide, and a fierce, bright crimson blush crept rapidly up her neck and flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to snap back a rebuttal, but she was completely tongue-tied, letting out a faint, flustered sound instead as she hurriedly looked down at her digital tablet to hide her face.
From the corner booth, I watched the exchange with wide eyes, completely surprised. I had always known David Samuel was unnaturally calm for a freshman, but seeing him casually break the defenses of our class's sharpest, most stoic assistant right in the middle of a strategic lockdown was something I hadn't expected.
Even Zack let out a quiet, gravelly grunt beside me, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly at the sheer absurdity of the moment.
"Alright," Irfan broke the silence, coughing slightly to clear the awkward tension in the air. "While our freshman leader is busy... making alliances, we need to finalize the submission. Luke, lock the roster."