Desmond stepped out of the locker room, the scent of sweat and antiseptic clinging faintly to his skin. The hallway beyond was quiet, lit in soft amber hues, shadows stretching long in the aftermath of battle.
And waiting for him, leaning against the far wall like a statue carved from elegance and disdain, was Evelyn Nightshade.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither said a word. The silence between them was taut, humming with unspoken things. Desmond adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and approached, slow, unhurried.
"You waiting for someone?" he asked, voice even.
"I was," she replied, standing upright. Her arms dropped to her sides, fingers uncurling. "You."
Desmond stopped a few paces from her. "Should I be flattered or worried?"
"That depends," she said. "Are you used to being confronted after fights?"
He gave a small shrug. "First time at this school."
Evelyn took a step closer. "You humiliated Hector Blackwood in front of the entire class. That's not nothing."
"I didn't humiliate him," Desmond said. "He tapped out. I gave him the option to walk out without a broken rib."
"You made him look weak," she said. "To people who care about power, perception is everything."
Desmond leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed now. "Sounds like a him problem."
She studied him. "That's what I thought you'd say."
There was a shift in the air—tense, electric. Her gaze never wavered, but something behind it softened. Just a flicker. A hesitation she quickly buried.
"I've seen fighters like you before," Evelyn said. "Controlled. Efficient. You didn't waste a single movement out there."
"I like to be efficient."
"No. You like to be unpredictable," she corrected. "You held back. You let him swing until he was winded. You let him think he had control."
Desmond didn't deny it. "It worked."
"That's what worries me."
That drew his attention. "Worries you?"
Evelyn tilted her head, her voice dropping slightly. "You showed everyone that bloodlines don't guarantee results. And in a place like this—where reputation is currency—that's dangerous."
Desmond met her gaze. "You speaking for the nobles? Or just yourself?"
"I'm speaking as someone who understands how quickly tides turn."
For the first time, Desmond saw a flicker of emotion that wasn't cold calculation. Her posture was perfect, her tone was sharp—but her eyes held something deeper. Resentment? Caution? Regret?
"You've been burned before," he said quietly.
She blinked. Just once. "Maybe. Doesn't matter."
"It always matters."
They stood there in that charged stillness, like two storm fronts facing off. Neither advancing. Neither retreating.
"Do you even care what people think?" she asked.
Desmond was quiet for a beat. "I care if it gets me killed. Beyond that? Not really."
"You should," she said. "Because that's how they'll come after you. Not with fists. Not with chips. With whispers. With rumors. With sabotage."
"And what about you?" he asked. "Going to start the rumors yourself?"
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I don't spread rumors. I collect facts."
"And what fact have you collected about me?"
She stepped in then, closer than before. Their faces were inches apart now.
"That you're not what you seem," she said. "You're a Phantom user. And yet, that fight… it wasn't Phantom-type tactics. That was something else."
"I haven't used my chip in a real fight yet," he said. "I haven't needed to."
She tilted her head. "Then how did you get placed in Class A?"
Desmond let the question hang.
"I took the exam," he said eventually. "Whatever I did, it was enough."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "You said you haven't fought since you got here."
Desmond didn't flinch. "Doesn't mean I didn't train before."
She looked at him like she was peeling back layers. Searching for the truth buried beneath his calm exterior.
"You're hiding something," she murmured.
"Everyone here is hiding something."
"No," she said. "Some of us just don't lie about it."
That struck harder than she expected. Desmond's gaze sharpened.
"And yet," he said softly, "you haven't walked away."
Evelyn froze, caught off guard.
"Why are you really here?" he asked. "Curiosity? Or are you trying to figure out if I'm a threat?"
"I already know you're a threat," she said. "What I don't know is if you're reckless."
"You think I was reckless today?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked away for a moment—something rare for her.
"My father used to say… the ones who don't fit are the ones who break the board or change the game."
Desmond blinked. "You said that earlier."
"I did," she said. "And I still don't know if I believe it. But you—you might be one of those people."
"That sound like a compliment?"
"That sounds like a warning," Evelyn replied, voice low.
There was another long silence.
Then she turned and started walking, boots clicking softly on the polished floor.
"Class A won't forget what you did today," she called over her shoulder. "And neither will I."
Desmond watched her go. His expression unreadable.
And for the first time since stepping into the Academy, he felt something shift—not in the environment, but in the people around him.
She wasn't just curious.
She was watching.
And Desmond wasn't sure whether that meant she'd become an ally—or a very dangerous enemy.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaled, and pushed himself off the wall.
The game had changed.
Now it was just a matter of how he played it.