I walked into Dravid’s classroom and took my seat without speaking.

The afternoon passed in a blur of Aspect demonstrations that I ran at sixty percent and positioning exercises where Dravid watched me hold back with the patient attention of someone building a very specific file. I performed within the boundaries of Phantom Touch’s registered specifications, lifted objects at appropriate weights, maintained construct range within documented parameters, and generally behaved like the mid-tier Channeler my IHL registration claimed I was.

Dravid made a single note on his tablet when I finished.

I didn’t ask what it said.

By five o’clock, I’d completed the day’s academic obligations and returned to the 1-B common room, which had transformed from its usual state of casual occupation into something resembling a campaign headquarters crossed with a debate stage. Caden had claimed the kitchen island as his campaign base of operations, propping a handwritten sign against the coffee maker that read HOLT FOR REP in blocky letters with a smaller line underneath: "At Least I’m Honest About Being Lazy."

Marco sat beside him, eating chips and providing commentary on everyone who entered.

Theo occupied the main couch with three classmates, listening to their concerns about training schedules and conditioning intensity with the genuine warmth of someone who considered every person’s experience important enough to hear completely. He didn’t campaign. He simply existed in a way that made people want to follow him, which was worse for the rest of us because it wasn’t a strategy. It was just Theo.

Camille held court near the south windows with Zara and a rotating cast of classmates who approached like petitioners seeking audience with someone whose authority they’d already accepted. Camille’s campaign pitch seemed to consist entirely of being Camille Ortega, which was honestly more effective than anything the rest of us could produce.

Petra sat alone in the corner with her planner open, writing something she didn’t bother showing anyone. Nobody had approached her desk. From across the room her posture communicated that she considered this entire democratic process a formality that would eventually confirm what she already knew about her own superiority, and that participation from anyone else was optional but irrelevant to the final outcome.

Percy occupied the dining table with Rina, his notebook spread between them. He was explaining something about voter coalition building with hand-drawn diagrams and what looked like a Venn diagram labeled PEOPLE WHO WANT INSTITUTIONAL CHANGE, PEOPLE WHO WANT BETTER FOOD, and PEOPLE WHO WON’T MAKE EVERYTHING WEIRD. Rina listened with the careful attention of someone processing information faster than her expression suggested, occasionally writing notes in her own quiet way.

I walked to the kitchen island, poured coffee from the pot Caden had somehow not claimed as campaign infrastructure, and leaned against the counter to observe the chaos unfolding in real time.

"The prodigal candidate returns." Caden spread his arms in theatrical welcome without standing up from his claimed territory. "Ready to hear why you’re going to lose this thing?"

"I’m ready to hear why you think signs made with a marker and questionable spelling constitute a viable campaign strategy."

"It’s called grassroots organizing, Belmont. I speak the language of the people. The people’s language is crude, poorly spelled, and deeply suspicious of anyone who tries too hard. I’m authentic." He gestured to his sign. "This is authenticity."

"This is a napkin with words on it."

"Same thing."

Marco held up his phone, which displayed what appeared to be a very active group chat with at least forty unread messages. "I’ve already started a polling operation. Preliminary data shows Theo leading the male race at roughly forty percent, you at twenty-five, Percy somewhere around fifteen, and Caden at..." He paused, scrolling. His expression shifted into something between sympathy and amusement. "Caden, you’re currently polling at eight percent."

Caden stared at Marco for a full three seconds. Just stared. His face went through several stages of processing that information before settling on disbelief. "Eight."

"Eight point two, technically. I rounded down for simplicity."

"Eight." Caden repeated it like he was testing whether the number would sound better the second time. It did not. "The margin of error is plus or minus three percent, right?"

Marco nodded slowly, clearly seeing where this was going.

"So I could actually be at five percent."

"Technically, yes. You could be at five."

"Or eleven. Statistics are cruel but fair."

Caden turned to me with the expression of a man who’d just watched his stock portfolio collapse during breakfast. "Belmont, I need a favor."

"No."

"You haven’t heard what it is."

"You want an alliance. You want to pool our voter base. You want me to endorse you publicly in exchange for something you’ll define later as beneficial to both of us."

Caden opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Marco. Looked back at me. "How the HELL did you know that?"

"Because Diane Fitzgerald raised me, and that woman could negotiate a hostage release using nothing but sweet tea and eye contact."

Marco made a sound that fell between a laugh and a cough. "Dude, his mom literally runs a talent agency. Political maneuvering is genetic for this guy."

I sipped my coffee. "It’s not genetic. It’s environmental. Genetics gave me amber eyes and a scar through my eyebrow. Environment gave me the ability to identify every alliance pitch within four words of its opening."

Caden slumped. "So no alliance."

"No alliance. But if you drop out and endorse me, I’ll make sure your concerns about conditioning schedules reach the faculty meeting table."

His hazel eyes sharpened. The goofball register dropped by half a degree, replaced by something quicker and more calculating underneath. Most people missed it. I didn’t.

"What concerns?"

"The ones you’ve been documenting since day one. The efficiency gaps in Steele’s morning rotations. The fact that partner assignments follow patterns that could be optimized. The observation that Rina consistently finishes last because the pacing structure doesn’t account for Aspect types that prioritize sustained output over burst capability."