The boys' dorm cafeteria was packed to the brim. Normally, breakfast was just clumsy plates of eggs, too-salty porridge, and the occasional loudmouth noble bragging about his "rare-tier skill." But today was different.
The girls had arrived.
Because of the sprite infestation, the teachers had temporarily relocated every girl to the boys' side, and the entire hall buzzed with the same electric anticipation as if a celebrity had stepped in.
Some boys had come prepared—hair combed, collars straightened, even spritzing stolen cologne. Others had gone overboard, strapping blindfolds across their foreheads, whispering:
"Bro, maybe if we copy him, we'll get noticed too."
Zane sat at a corner table, chewing his bread like it was the dullest thing in the world. He didn't care about the parade of pretty faces walking in—he didn't even look. Brick walls were more interesting.
Meanwhile, Mira sat at his side, chin propped on her palm, practically glowing in her uniform. She wasn't oblivious—she knew the stares, the whispers, the envy. And she leaned into it, not to draw attention to herself… but to him.
Every time someone glanced her way, she made sure her hand brushed Zane's sleeve. Or her laugh was just a little too bright at something only he could hear.
The result?
The girls noticed too.
Why chase after the dozens of boys tripping over themselves for attention, when the quiet one—the blindfolded one—wasn't even trying? He wasn't impressed, wasn't fazed, wasn't playing their game.
And like moths to a flame, their curiosity burned hotter.
Zane, on the other hand, stabbed a piece of sausage and muttered, "Tastes like rubber. Figures."