The morning haze curled like soft silk across the glass skyline.
The Rolls-Royce ghosted its way through the narrow hill roads of Bukit Timah, its windows tinted dark enough to keep out both the heat and the questions.
Inside, Lucas sat in silence, his one eye scanning the sprawling mansions outside—homes that looked more like museums than places people actually lived in.
Hana, in a sharp navy-blue blazer and high-rise slacks, sat beside him, her reflection calm in the mirror-finish glass. She wasn't nervous. She was calculating.
The Nanyang Design University campus gates came into view—an ivory arch flanked by modernist marble wings. The security team didn't even stop the car. Not with the Lyra Foundation insignia on the windshield.
"First day of a new chapter," Lucas muttered, adjusting the cuff of his plain black jacket.
"Correction," Hana replied with a small smirk, "first day of a new game."
The car slid to a stop in front of the towering glass entrance to the Department of Visual Strategy and Innovation—the university's most elite division, where students didn't just draw. They built future technologies, shaped political propaganda, and sold million-dollar commercial visions before graduation.
As Lucas stepped out, whispers began like a ripple.
"Who's that?"
"That's the girl from the interview series, right? From Seoul?"
"No, I think they transferred from some experimental art school in Japan…"
"Look at that eye patch… edgy much?"
Lucas ignored them, walking with quiet confidence across the open plaza, the university's reflective pools shimmering under the rising sun.
Somewhere nearby, a drone buzzed past, scanning student IDs. Hana slipped on her sunglasses and surveyed the crowd like a hawk.
The Lyra Scholars' entrance ceremony was about to begin—an invite-only event for the top 50 scholars in the school. Everyone else had to watch the livestream. The fact that Lucas and Hana were attending without a single name on the university's public roster?
Suspicious.
But they belonged here.
The moment they entered the grand Lyra Hall—glass walls, LED runway aisle, golden-plated digital welcome screens—every clique in the room froze.
You had your old money heirs, in their tailored suits and effortless arrogance.
You had your creative elites, already projecting holographic portfolios mid-conversation.
And you had your secret watchers—those few quiet faces who looked too calm, too observant.
Lucas and Hana didn't flinch.
They walked side by side, not speaking, not smiling, but moving like they'd done this a hundred times.
Their silence was loud.