I called my mom because it was the only thing I could do that still felt normal.
I didn't call to ask permission. I didn't call to complain. I didn't call to say I was scared, because if I said that out loud, it would become a fact. I called because there are moments where you need to hear a voice that existed before this university, before the rankings, before the briefings, before the word mandatory started sounding like a threat.
My mom picked up on the second ring.
"You're awake early," she said.
"I'm always awake," I replied, and heard the lie in my own voice.
She didn't call me out. That's how she loved. She let you keep your pride as long as you didn't drown in it.
"Where are you right now," she asked. "Dorm?"
"Yeah," I said, staring at my backpack on the bed like it was going to bite me. "Boys dorm. The big one."
"The big one," she repeated, like she didn't trust me to understand scale.
I laughed. "Mom, you don't get it. This campus is not a campus. It's like a small country pretending it's a university."
She made a soft sound, the kind she made when she was trying to imagine something that didn't fit inside her normal frame.
"Explain," she said.
So I did.
I told her about Utopia Tower first, because Utopia Tower was where the story always began. The tall glass building that looked like it had been dropped into our city by someone with too much money and too much confidence. From a distance it looked clean and modern, like a promise. Up close it was a maze of elevators, stairwells, hallways that curved into other hallways, and lecture rooms that all looked the same until you stepped into the wrong one and realized you were about to sit through someone else's economics class by accident.
"It has lecture rooms and practical rooms on different floors," I said. "Like, a lot. Not just a few. Floors that feel like entire separate schools."
"How many floors," she asked.
"Enough that students stop counting and start naming them by trauma," I said. "You know how some places you say second floor, third floor. Here you say, that floor where everyone cries after biochem quiz."
She laughed once, but it faded quickly.
"And it's not just Utopia Tower," I continued, because that was the part that made it hard to explain. "The tower is just the center, like the heart. But around it there are compounds. Huge ones. Engineering has their own buildings. Computing has their own. Business has their own. There are walkways connecting everything, covered paths, gates that make you swipe IDs, and if you don't know the map you can get lost like you're in a game."
"A game," she said.
"Yeah," I replied. "Like one of those maze games. You take a shortcut, you end up somewhere you've never seen. You follow a crowd, you end up at the wrong campus. I swear the first month I lived off landmarks. Like, if you see the fountain, turn left. If you see the basketball courts, you went too far. If you see a statue, you're definitely lost."
My mom made a small, concerned noise.
"It sounds too big," she said.
"It is too big," I replied, and then corrected myself because I didn't want to sound like I was afraid. "It's impressive. Like Harvard campuses. That vibe. That kind of scale where you feel small but also like you could become someone here."
"Harvard," she repeated, skeptical.
I smiled. "Not Harvard, mom. Harvard vibe. The place looks like it wants to be legendary."
She went quiet.
I looked out the window at the compound below. Even from the dorm, you could see how far the campus stretched. The fields. The courts. The long lines of buildings with perfectly trimmed edges. The lights still on in some rooms even though it was early.
There were basketball courts everywhere. Not just one or two. Whole sections. Outdoor courts, indoor courts. Courts with lights for night games. A part of the campus with hoops lined up like someone expected an army of players.
"There's too many basketball courts," I said.
"Like they built this place assuming every student would become a pro athlete."
"And you," my mom asked lightly, "did you become one."
"I became a professional survivor," I said.
She laughed again, more real this time.
"And there are esports rooms," I added. "You know those rooms that look like a gaming café but cleaner. Rows of PCs. Headsets. Chairs that cost too much. Some students practically live in there. They skip lunch. They take naps on the couches because the AC is always on and it's cold and the couches are soft, and they tell themselves it's just a break but they're actually hiding from life."
My mom sighed. "That sounds unhealthy."
I shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "It's college."
"And dorms," she asked. "You said big one. Are there more."
"There are two main dorm zones," I said. "Boys dorms in one area, girls dorms in another. Separate. Far enough that if you want to walk from one to the other it becomes a whole journey. Like, you pack water."
"Why so separated," she asked.
I paused.
Because control, I thought.
Because systems like separation.
But I didn't say it like that.
"It's just how they built it," I said. "They say it's for safety and order and stuff."
My mom hummed. "And you're safe?"
I wanted to say yes immediately. I wanted to reassure her like a good son.
Instead I answered honestly, but carefully.
"I'm… okay," I said. "I'm not alone."
That made her voice soften. "Friends?"
"Yeah," I said, and for a moment my throat tightened in a way I didn't expect. "I got friends here."
I didn't tell her the whole truth. That these friends had become my shield. That sometimes being with them was the only reason the campus didn't swallow me. That when the headmaster died, the first thing I did was look at my phone not for news but to see if my group chat was still alive.
"I thought you said people here were competitive," she said.
"They are," I replied. "But it's weird. It's like… you compete in exams and then you share notes after. You roast each other and then you cover each other. It's not soft. It's not pretty. But it's real."
My mom was quiet. I could picture her sitting at our kitchen table, holding her phone, listening.
"Tell me about your day," she said.
So I told her the parts that felt safe to tell.
I told her about the libraries, because libraries were the one place that still pretended to be calm. There were multiple libraries, not just one. A main library with floors of books and silent zones and study pods. Smaller libraries tucked into different compounds. Some with private rooms you could reserve.
"Private rooms," she said. "So you can study quietly."
I laughed. "They're not soundproof, mom. They act like they are, but they're not."
"What do you mean."
"We used to reserve those rooms and hang a Do Not Disturb sign on the door," I said. "Like we were doing important research."
"Were you," she asked.
"In our own way," I said, grinning. "We played Monopoly in there once. Full game. Snacks. Trash talk. We were yelling quietly, which is still yelling."
My mom sighed like she already knew me.
"And nobody stopped you?"
"They knocked once," I said. "We all froze like criminals. Then we whispered. Then we pretended we were discussing study strategies."
"Did it work?"
"It worked because the staff didn't want to deal with us," I said.
My mom laughed softly.
I leaned back in my chair and let myself breathe for a second. Talking about stupid things made the fear feel farther away.
Then the silence crept back in.
My mom noticed it.
"What's wrong," she asked.
I stared at the backpack again. The printed logistics notice still open on my phone screen. Departure Monday. Lodging assigned. Mandatory compliance.
"Mom," I said slowly, "this school has layers."
She didn't speak.
"Like," I continued, "there's what students see. And then there's what's behind it."
"What do you mean," she asked, voice careful now.
I hesitated. Because I didn't want to sound like a conspiracy guy. But I had eyes. I had ears.
And I had watched too many adults in suits move through campus like they owned the air.
"The founder," I said, choosing words like I was walking through a minefield, "and the administrators. They're… connected."
"Connected to what," my mom asked.
"Projects," I said. "Funding. Tax cuts. Big development stuff. You don't build a campus this huge without deals. You don't get this many compounds, this many courts, these huge buildings without someone paying and someone benefiting."
My mom's voice went quiet. "Are you sure."
"I'm not saying I got proof," I said quickly. "I'm saying you can feel it. Like, the way they talk. The way they treat certain majors. The way some rooms are always locked. The way some people come and go like ghosts."
She didn't interrupt.
"And after what happened," I added, "it feels like they're bending."
"Bending," she repeated.
"To power," I said. "To whoever keeps the money and keeps the doors open. That's why they move like they're being watched too."
My mom was silent for a long moment.
Then she said softly, "You're not doing anything dangerous, right."
I laughed, too sharp. "Mom, the most dangerous thing I do is drink too much coffee and argue with my friends."
"JP," she warned.
I exhaled. "I'm serious. I'm just… noticing."
She sighed. "Noticing is fine. But don't make yourself a target."
I wanted to tell her that targets are chosen, not volunteered. That sometimes just being good at something makes you visible. That sometimes silence makes you safer but also makes you disappear.
Instead I said, "I won't."
My mom's voice softened again. "You said you have friends."
"Yeah."
"Do they have you," she asked.
I looked down at my hands.
Because that was the part I didn't say out loud. That I didn't show affection the normal way. That I insult them and joke and act like I don't care, but I do care. Too much.
"Yes," I said finally. "They have me."
My mom hummed gently. "Good."
We stayed on the call longer than we needed to. Talking about small things. Food. Weather. Her neighbor's noisy dog. Anything that didn't involve mandatory briefings or off-city training campuses.
When we hung up, the room felt quiet again.
But not empty.
I checked my group chat.
TZ had sent a dumb meme about military training turning us into robots. XH reacted with a single emoji. HS sent a reminder about packing a notebook and charger. Kitty didn't send anything. June didn't send anything.
NS sent a message.
"Be ready tomorrow. Don't oversleep."
I stared at that line.
Not because it was rude. Because it was NS.
He used to be the guy who laughed everything off until it mattered. Now he was the guy who treated everything like it mattered. He was watching XH more than he watched the campus. He was inserting himself into the spaces between people like he belonged there.
He was becoming a third wheel without asking permission.
Not in a loud way.
In a strategic way.
It was subtle enough that if you accused him, you'd sound paranoid.
But I wasn't stupid.
I had seen NS watch Kitty too long when XH wasn't looking. I had seen him clock June's reactions like he was memorizing her pattern. I had seen him choose seats that placed him between people without making it obvious.
And I had seen him grab XH's wrist the other day like he had the right.
I didn't know yet whether NS was doing it out of protection or out of something darker.
Maybe both.
I set my phone down and stood up.
My room was messy. Laundry piled. Books open. Notes scattered. Life.
Campus 2 was massive enough to make you feel small, and intimate enough to trap you in the same few faces every day.
Utopia Tower. Engineering compound. Business compound. Computing compound. Basketball courts. Esports rooms. Libraries with fake privacy. Dorms separated by distance and rules.
A maze.
And the worst thing about a maze isn't getting lost.
It's realizing someone designed it that way.
Outside my window, the rain began again, soft and steady, tapping like a reminder.
Monday was coming.
The relocation was coming.
And Year Two, I realized, wasn't going to be survived by talent alone.
It was going to be survived by loyalty.
And loyalty, I had learned, was never as simple as people pretended it was.