Chapter 4: Back to School (Patreon)

Mark sat in the leather chair across from Principal Harris's imposing mahogany desk, fidgeting with the temporary classification card he'd received yesterday. The office's towering bookshelves and prestigious awards created an atmosphere that made him feel smaller than usual, despite his recent discovery.

"I understand your situation is quite unusual, Mr. Song," Principal Harris said, reviewing the documents spread before him. His weathered face showed genuine interest rather than the dismissive expression Mark had grown accustomed to from academy staff. "A misclassification due to an unknown ability type. That hasn't happened here in quite some time."

Mark nodded, unsure how to respond. The principal's tone suggested this was remarkable rather than shameful, a perspective he wasn't used to experiencing.

"However," Harris continued, leaning back in his chair, "while the Assessment Centre has reclassified you as U-rank pending further evaluation, the academy cannot officially recognize this change until you receive your permanent classification."

Mark's stomach dropped. "So I'm still considered F-rank here?"

"Temporarily, yes." The principal's expression softened slightly. "The U-class designation hasn't been utilized in our systems for at least fifteen years. Our last student to hold that classification graduated twenty-eight years ago. Frankly, most of our faculty aren't even aware the rank still exists within official protocols."

The weight of disappointment settled on Mark's shoulders. He'd hoped returning to the academy would mean immediate recognition of his changed status, perhaps even a transfer to a higher division. Instead, nothing had changed—he'd still sit in Foundation Division classes, still wear that simple iron pin, still endure the same dismissive treatment.

"I realize this is frustrating," Harris said, apparently reading Mark's expression. "But I can offer some accommodation while we await your comprehensive evaluation."

Mark looked up, curiosity replacing despair.

"Given your unique circumstances, I'm prepared to be lenient regarding extracurricular activities. Normally, students are restricted to programmes appropriate for their division, but I'll allow you to select any activity you wish, regardless of typical class requirements."

The offer sparked genuine interest. Mark had always been barred from advanced programmes—elite combat theory seminars, strategic analysis workshops, experimental power development sessions. All had remained locked behind division barriers that seemed insurmountable for someone with his classification.

"However," the principal's tone grew stern, "I must warn you against overreaching. While I'm granting this exception, your performance in any extracurricular activity will still factor into your overall academic evaluation. Choose something beyond your capabilities, and it could damage your final standing rather than improve it."

Mark absorbed this carefully. The principal was offering genuine opportunity while cautioning against hubris—advice that made sense given his precarious position. If he failed spectacularly in an advanced programme, it might overshadow any positive aspects of his eventual reclassification.

"Take some time to consider your options," Harris said, gathering the documents. "Submit your selection by the end of the week. And Mr. Song?"

Mark paused at the door.

"Your father would be proud that you're finally discovering your potential, regardless of how long it took to manifest."

The unexpected kindness hit harder than any previous cruelty. Mark managed a quiet "thank you" before stepping into the hallway.

Students moved past him in clusters, their conversations creating a constant hum that seemed to pause whenever he drew near. Mark caught glimpses of pointing fingers and heard fragments of whispered comments. The paranoia that had haunted him for six years whispered that they were laughing at the F-rank who thought he belonged here, but he pushed the thoughts aside.

This time, he kept his head up.

The corridor stretched ahead, lined with portraits of distinguished alumni whose painted eyes seemed to track his progress. Mark allowed himself to daydream as he walked, imagining the moment his comprehensive evaluation would finally reveal his true classification. Would they create a new division for him? Would he transfer directly to Elite Division? The possibilities felt endless after years of none at all.

Lost in these thoughts, Mark didn't notice the figure approaching from the opposite direction until impact sent both of them stumbling.

"Oh!" June Korneeva steadied herself, her platinum hair catching the overhead lights. "Mark?"

Mark blinked, recognizing her instantly despite his scattered thoughts. She stood directly before him, close enough that he could see the genuine surprise in her piercing blue eyes. For a moment, neither moved.

"June." The word escaped before he could stop himself.

Her face brightened with unmistakable pleasure. "I haven't seen you around much since the opening ceremony. How have you been?"

The question hung between them. Mark's instinct screamed at him to mumble an excuse and flee—the same response that had governed their interactions for six years. But something had shifted. The gap between them no longer felt like an impossible chasm. His unknown classification, whatever it might prove to be, had given him hope that perhaps he wasn't the worthless disappointment everyone believed.

"I've been... better," Mark said, meeting her gaze. "Different."

June tilted her head slightly, studying his face. Her expression shifted as she noticed his left eye—the milky white iris that marked his transformation. "Mark, your eye..."

"It's fine." The response came too quickly, too sharp. He forced his voice to soften. "I mean, it doesn't hurt. I can still see perfectly."

She continued staring, and Mark felt heat rise in his cheeks. The silence stretched between them, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. Students flowed around them like water around stones, but neither seemed capable of breaking the moment.

June opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag—a nervous gesture that seemed oddly human for someone whose presence commanded such reverence throughout the academy.

Mark searched for something meaningful to say, but the words wouldn't come. Six years of avoiding her had left him unpractised in normal conversation. Every potential topic felt either too trivial or too loaded with their complicated history.

"I should..." June gestured vaguely toward the Elite Division wing.

"Right. Classes." Mark nodded, grateful for the escape route she'd provided.

"Maybe we could..." She paused, seeming to reconsider whatever she'd been about to suggest. "I'm glad you're okay, Mark. Really."

The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. "Thanks."

June lingered for another heartbeat, then turned and walked away. Mark watched her go, noting how other students automatically created space for her passage—a deference he'd never receive, regardless of his eventual classification.

He shook his head and continued toward Foundation Division. His first official class awaited, and despite everything, anticipation hummed beneath his nervousness. The notes Haoyu had brought during his isolation had helped, but experiencing the academy's environment firsthand felt like another step toward reclaiming his place in this world.

The Foundation Division corridor buzzed with familiar energy—students rushing between classrooms, comparing schedules, complaining about assignments. Mark found his classroom and paused at the threshold, taking in the rows of desks and the handful of early arrivals already seated.

Mark stepped inside, choosing a seat near the back where he could observe without drawing attention. Through the window, the academy's towers stretched toward the sky, and somewhere in those heights, June was probably taking her place in an Elite Division classroom.

For the first time in years, that distance didn't feel permanent.

*

Mark stepped into the classroom and immediately spotted Haoyu's enthusiastic wave from the third row. The familiar gesture brought a smile to his face as he navigated between desks toward his friend.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up."

Bradley's voice cut through the morning chatter. Mark didn't break stride, keeping his eyes fixed on Haoyu's welcoming grin.

"What's with the weird eye, Song? Trying to look mysterious with some cheap contact lens?"

A few students turned at Bradley's comment, their conversations dying as they noticed Mark's milky white iris. Mark felt their stares but maintained his steady pace toward Haoyu's desk. Six years of similar remarks had worn away their ability to wound him, and now, knowing he possessed something beyond their understanding, Bradley's words felt particularly hollow.

Mark slid into the seat beside Haoyu, who shot a disapproving glance toward Brad before turning his attention back to his friend.

"Ignore him," Haoyu muttered, though the whispers had already begun spreading through the classroom like ripples in a pond.

"Did you see his eye?"

"What happened to him?"

"Think it's some kind of injury?"

Mark pulled out his tablet and stylus, focusing on arranging his materials while the speculation continued around him. The attention felt uncomfortable, but manageable. He'd weathered worse storms of gossip before.

"So how did it go with Principal Harris?" Haoyu asked quietly, leaning closer to avoid being overheard.

Mark glanced around to ensure no one was listening before responding. "I'm staying F-rank until my comprehensive evaluation results come through. Could be another month or two."

"Hey, that's still something though." Haoyu's optimism remained undaunted. "At least you know there's more to you than anyone realized. Who knows? In a month you might be sitting next to June in Elite Division."

The casual mention of June sent an unexpected flush of heat up Mark's neck. Their encounter in the hallway replayed in his mind—her concerned expression when she noticed his eye, the way she'd lingered as if wanting to say more, the genuine warmth in her voice when she said she was glad he was okay.

"Don't joke about that," Mark said, his voice tighter than intended.

Haoyu raised an eyebrow at Mark's reaction but wisely chose not to pursue the topic. Instead, he opened his own tablet and began scrolling through his notes from the previous weeks.

The whispers about Mark's appearance continued to circulate through the classroom, creating a low buzz of speculation that made Mark's shoulders tense. He'd hoped to slip back into academy life without drawing attention, but his transformed eye made anonymity impossible. Students he didn't recognize leaned toward their neighbours, pointing discreetly in his direction while crafting theories about what might have caused such a distinctive change.

Mark tried to focus on preparing for class, but the constant awareness of being watched made concentration difficult. He arranged his stylus beside his tablet, then rearranged it again, seeking comfort in small, controllable actions while the room buzzed with curiosity around him.

"At least they're curious rather than hostile," Haoyu observed quietly. "That's progress."

Before Mark could respond, the classroom door opened with a sharp click that immediately silenced all conversation. Professor Liu Feiyan entered the room, her protective gear catching the fluorescent lighting as she surveyed her students with the vigilant brown eyes that missed nothing.

*

Professor Liu Feiyan set her protective equipment on the desk with deliberate precision, each piece placed exactly where it belonged. She turned to face the class, her vigilant brown eyes sweeping across the rows of Foundation Division students.

"Today we continue our study of manifestation theory," she announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd learned hard lessons about power misuse. "Understanding the neurological pathways that allow Starborn consciousness to interface with Stardust particles remains fundamental to safe ability usage."

A groan echoed from somewhere in the middle rows. Mark turned to see a red-haired girl slumping dramatically in her seat.

"Professor, we've been studying theory for two weeks already," she complained, raising her hand half-heartedly. "When do we get to do something more practical? I mean, we can all activate our abilities. Isn't that enough?"

Several students nodded in agreement, their expressions reflecting similar frustration with the theoretical focus. Mark found himself sympathizing with their restlessness, even though his own situation was far more complicated than simply wanting to practice their abilities.

Professor Liu's expression hardened, her scarred forearms tensing as she gripped the edge of her desk.

"You have other courses for practice," she said sharply. "Here, you learn how to safely use your powers. Without solid foundation in theory, you're nothing more than accidents waiting to happen."

Her voice carried weight that silenced the complaints. The burn scars on her forearms seemed to catch the light, serving as a visible reminder of what happened when theory was ignored in favor of experimentation.

"The mental image that triggers manifestation isn't just visualization," Professor Liu continued, her tone returning to its professional cadence. "It's a complex neurological process that allows your consciousness to interface with Stardust particles throughout your entire body. Understanding this process improves efficiency and reduces the risk of catastrophic feedback."

Mark listened intently, though the explanation didn't quite align with his own experience. When he transformed, it wasn't about mental images so much as remembering that feeling from the alley—the sensation of something stirring within him as reality fractured around his dying body. He tried to recreate that emotional state, that desperate need for survival, rather than visualizing anything specific.

"Each Starborn's activation method differs," Professor Liu explained, "but the underlying principle remains constant. Your brain must successfully communicate with the Stardust integrated into your cellular structure. Theory helps you understand why your method works, even if it doesn't change the method itself."

The lecture continued for another forty minutes, covering synaptic interfaces and particle resonance frequencies. Mark took notes dutifully, though much of the material felt academic rather than immediately applicable to his unique situation. When the class finally ended, he stood and stretched, working out the kinks from sitting still for so long.

Students filed toward the door, chattering about their next classes. Mark gathered his tablet and stylus, looking forward to a brief break before Combat Fundamentals.

"Song."

Bradley's voice stopped him just outside the classroom. Mark turned to find Brad blocking his path, arms crossed and wearing his trademark scowl.

"Don't think I forgot about you just because you were playing sick for two weeks," Bradley said, stepping closer. "Combat Fundamentals is next, so you better get ready."

Mark sighed, the brief optimism from Professor Liu's class evaporating. His baseline capabilities weren't particularly impressive—barely above normal human levels, which was the bare minimum for any Starborn. Without transforming, he couldn't really hold his own against other students who had years of training with their established abilities.

The problem was his unpredictability. He didn't know who he'd turn into when he activated his power, or for how long the transformation would last. His first change had persisted for two weeks, while the second lasted only a bit more than an hour. The selection process seemed completely random, leaving him unable to plan or prepare for what might emerge.

Part of him wouldn't mind transforming into someone capable of teaching Bradley a lesson. The aristocratic gentleman with the rapier had possessed impressive combat skills. But harming Bradley, even in self-defense, wasn't something Mark was keen on doing. Despite being a complete dick, Bradley didn't deserve serious injury.

"Come on," Haoyu appeared at Mark's shoulder, gently steering him away from the confrontation. "Let's get to class."

Mark allowed himself to be guided down the hallway, Bradley's laughter following behind them.

*

The gymnasium for Combat Fundamentals stretched across the academy's lower level, its reinforced walls bearing scuff marks from years of training sessions. Padded mats covered most of the floor space, while mirrors lined one wall to help students observe their form. Practice weapons hung in organized racks, though Mark doubted the Foundation Division would be using anything more dangerous than foam padding anytime soon.

Professor Rachel Byrne stood at the center of the room, her muscular frame and scarred knuckles immediately commanding attention. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely, and her green eyes swept across the assembled students with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen real combat.

"Right then," she barked, her voice echoing off the gymnasium walls. "Basic warm-up. Jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and stretches. Move!"

Mark fell into the familiar routine, his body responding automatically to the exercises. Despite his weeks away from the academy, his physical conditioning hadn't deteriorated significantly. Around him, other Foundation Division students struggled through the movements with varying degrees of success. Even with their enhanced abilities, many lacked the basic fitness that Professor Byrne clearly expected.

The warm-up lasted twenty minutes, leaving several students breathing heavily. Mark felt winded but not exhausted, grateful for the gaming sessions that required quick reflexes and the walking he'd done during his isolation at home.

"Song!" Professor Byrne's sharp voice cut through the post-exercise chatter. "Front and center."

Mark jogged over, acutely aware of every eye in the gymnasium turning toward him. Professor Byrne studied his face, her gaze lingering on his clouded left eye before meeting his right one directly.

"Two weeks out sick," she said bluntly. "That puts you behind everyone else in this class. We've covered basic defensive stances, footwork, and partner exercises."

"Yes, Professor," Mark replied, unsure what response she expected.

"Anyone willing to help Song catch up?" Professor Byrne called out to the class. "Basic sparring, no powers, just fundamentals."

Haoyu's hand started to rise, but Bradley's voice boomed across the gymnasium before his friend could speak.

"I'll do it, Professor!" Bradley announced, stepping forward with barely contained enthusiasm. "Happy to help Song get back up to speed."

Professor Byrne's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly recognizing something in Bradley's eagerness. But she nodded curtly.

"Chen and Song, then. Basic sparring only. No abilities, no excessive force. This is about technique and movement."

Mark's stomach dropped as Bradley approached with a predatory grin. The larger student cracked his knuckles loudly, making no effort to hide his anticipation.

"Don't worry, Song," Bradley said quietly as they moved to an empty mat. "I'll be real gentle with you."

Professor Byrne turned her attention to organizing other sparring pairs, leaving Mark and Bradley relatively unsupervised on their section of the mat. Bradley assumed a loose fighting stance, his size advantage immediately apparent.

"Ready to learn something?" Bradley asked, then lunged forward without waiting for an answer.

His first punch came straight at Mark's face, telegraphed and obvious. Mark jerked his head to the side, the fist whistling past his ear. Bradley followed up with a left hook, but again Mark seemed to anticipate the movement, ducking under the swing with surprising ease.

"Hold still," Bradley growled, frustration creeping into his voice.

He threw a combination of punches, each one faster and more aggressive than the last. Mark found himself moving almost instinctively, his body responding to threats before his conscious mind fully processed them. He swayed back from a right cross, stepped aside from an uppercut, and pivoted away from a wild haymaker.

Bradley's breathing grew heavier, sweat beading on his forehead as his attacks consistently missed their target. The larger student's movements seemed sluggish somehow, as if Mark could read his intentions before Bradley himself fully committed to each strike.

"What the hell," Bradley panted, his face flushing red with exertion and embarrassment.

Without warning, Bradley's skin took on a grayish, stone-like texture as he activated his Harden ability. His fists became dense and heavy, capable of delivering devastating damage. He launched into a flurry of wild punches, abandoning any pretense of technique in favor of brute force.

"Chen!" Professor Byrne's voice cracked like a whip across the gymnasium. "Powers down, now!"

The hardened skin faded as Bradley reluctantly deactivated his ability. Professor Byrne strode over, her expression thunderous.

"What part of 'no abilities' didn't you understand?" she demanded, positioning herself between Mark and Bradley. "Basic sparring means basic sparring, not an excuse to pummel your partner."

Bradley mumbled an apology, but Mark wasn't paying attention to the reprimand. His mind raced as he tried to understand what had just happened. Bradley's attacks hadn't been particularly sophisticated, but they should have connected. Mark wasn't faster or stronger than his opponent, yet somehow every punch had seemed predictable, telegraphed well in advance.

The movements had felt natural, as if his body knew exactly how to respond to each threat. But that was impossible. Mark had never received formal combat training, and his gaming reflexes, while sharp, shouldn't translate to physical confrontations.

Something was different about him, something beyond the dramatic transformations he'd experienced. A residual effect, of his transformation perhaps.

Professor Byrne turned her attention to Mark, her green eyes studying him with newfound interest. The scarred woman crossed her arms, her expression shifting from anger at Bradley to something approaching curiosity.

"Song," she said, her voice losing some of its harsh edge. "You train in boxing? Martial arts of some kind?"

Mark shook his head, still trying to process what had just happened during the sparring session. "No, Professor. Nothing like that."

The answer was completely truthful. Growing up, Mark had never seen the point in pursuing traditional combat training. In a world where Starborn could run faster than sound, manipulate gravity, or generate devastating energy blasts, what good would learning to throw a proper punch accomplish? His initial F-rank classification had only reinforced that belief—if he couldn't enhance his physical capabilities beyond peak human levels, why waste time on fighting techniques that would be useless against any real Starborn threat?

"Really?" Professor Byrne's eyebrows rose slightly. "Because what I just watched didn't look like someone with zero training. Your movement patterns, the way you read his attacks—that takes practice."

Mark glanced around the gymnasium, noticing that several other students had stopped their own sparring to observe the conversation. Bradley stood off to the side, his face still flushed with embarrassment and frustration.

"I honestly don't know what happened," Mark admitted. "It felt like I could see where he was going to attack before he did it. Like his movements were obvious somehow."

Professor Byrne nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Natural instincts, then. Interesting." She paused, seeming to weigh her next words carefully. "You should consider it, Song. Taking up some formal training, I mean."

The suggestion caught Mark off guard. He'd spent six years accepting his limitations, convincing himself that his role would always be support or civilian protection at best.

"You clearly have some instincts," Professor Byrne continued. "Raw talent like that doesn't come along often, especially in Foundation Division. With proper training, you might surprise yourself with what you can accomplish."

Mark felt a strange mix of hope and skepticism. Could traditional martial arts actually benefit someone like him? The professor's words carried weight—she'd clearly seen real combat, survived situations where technique mattered more than supernatural power.

"I'll think about it, Professor," Mark said quietly.

Professor Byrne gave him a curt nod before turning back to the class. "Right then, everyone pair up again. Let's see some actual technique this time."

*

The remainder of the sparring session passed without incident. Professor Byrne paired Mark with different partners, each exchange reinforcing what had happened with Bradley—Mark's body seemed to anticipate attacks with uncanny precision. His movements flowed naturally, avoiding strikes that should have landed while finding openings that shouldn't have existed.

When the final whistle blew, students began collecting their gear and heading toward the locker rooms. Mark wiped sweat from his forehead, still processing the strange new awareness that had manifested during combat.

Bradley shouldered past him on the way out, his expression sour. "Don't get cocky, Song. You just got lucky today."

Mark didn't respond, watching as Bradley stalked away with his usual swagger slightly diminished. The encounter had clearly bruised more than just Bradley's ego—his reputation as someone who could dominate lower-ranked students had taken a hit in front of their classmates.

Haoyu jogged over, his own sparring session having concluded with considerably less drama. His dark eyes sparkled with curiosity as he fell into step beside Mark.

"Okay, what the hell was that?" Haoyu asked, keeping his voice low enough that other students couldn't overhear. "I've seen you move in video games, but that was something else entirely."

Mark gathered his water bottle and towel, considering how to explain something he didn't fully understand himself. "I honestly don't know. It felt like I could read his movements before he made them. Like watching someone telegraph their attacks in slow motion."

They walked toward the gymnasium exit, navigating around clusters of other Foundation Division students. Mark noticed several casting curious glances in his direction—word of his performance against Bradley would spread quickly through their small cohort.

"You think it's related to your powers?" Haoyu pressed, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

Mark touched the scar on his chest reflexively, feeling the raised tissue through his shirt. "Maybe. I mean, my eye stayed transformed, right? Maybe some other things stayed too."

Haoyu's expression grew thoughtful as they pushed through the gymnasium doors into the corridor. "Hmm, that might actually be true. You have been noticeably cleaner than usual lately."

Mark's elbow found Haoyu's ribs in a gentle but pointed jab. "That's not true."

Haoyu laughed, dodging away from any follow-up strikes. "I'm joking, I'm joking! But seriously, those were some decent moves back there. Natural talent or residual powers, whatever it was looked impressive."

They paused at a junction in the hallway where their paths would diverge for the next period. Other students flowed around them, the constant bustle of academy life continuing its relentless pace.

"God, I wish I could discover some hidden power," Haoyu continued, his tone wistful. "Laser vision or something equally dramatic. Maybe the ability to actually understand our engineering homework."

Mark smirked, the expression feeling more natural than it had in weeks. "Well, for my hidden powers, I got stabbed in the heart. Want to try that approach?"

Haoyu's eyes widened in mock horror. "I'll pass on that particular method, thanks. I'm quite attached to my vital organs remaining unpunctured."

The warning bell chimed through the corridor speakers, signalling five minutes until the next period began. Students around them picked up their pace, the casual conversations giving way to hurried footsteps.

"Come on," Mark said, adjusting his bag strap. "We've got the remainder of our classes to survive today."

*

The final bell of the day echoed through New Hope Academy's corridors, releasing a flood of students into the hallways. Mark gathered his belongings slowly, still processing the day's events—his unexpected performance in Combat Fundamentals, the lingering effects of his transformation, and the growing certainty that something fundamental had changed within him.

Haoyu waited by the classroom door, chatting with a few other students about their upcoming assignments. Mark shouldered his bag and joined him, ready to head home and decompress from what had already proven to be an eventful return to academy life.

They had barely made it ten steps down the corridor when a familiar voice called out behind them.

"Mark?"

Both boys turned, and Mark felt his stomach drop as June Korneeva approached them. Her blonde hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and her blue eyes held an expression Mark couldn't quite read. Students in the hallway began to slow their pace, conversations quieting as they noticed the S-rank student walking purposefully toward someone from the Foundation Division.

"June," Mark managed, his voice steady despite the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat.

Haoyu glanced between them, then cleared his throat. "I just remembered I need to check something in the library. See you later, Mark." He disappeared into the crowd with practiced efficiency, leaving Mark alone with June under the curious stares of dozens of students.

June fidgeted with the strap of her bag, her usual composed demeanor showing cracks. "Do you have some free time? I was wondering if we could talk."

Mark's automatic response formed on his lips—an excuse about homework, family obligations, anything that would extract him from this situation. For six years, he had carefully avoided extended interactions with June, convinced that an F-rank disappointment had no business in her orbit.

But something stopped him. Maybe he actually wasn't an F-rank loser. Maybe rank didn't actually matter.

"Actually, yes," Mark said, surprising himself with the words. "I have some time."

June's eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn't expected acceptance. A faint flush colored her cheeks as she glanced around at the gathering crowd of onlookers. "Would you like to go somewhere? Maybe get coffee or something?"

The suggestion hung in the air between them, awkward and uncertain. Mark could feel the weight of every stare, could practically hear the whispered conversations beginning around them. An Elite Division student, approaching someone who was clearly marked as Foundation Division, asking him out for coffee like some nervous schoolgirl.

Mark's mouth felt dry, but he forced himself to speak. "That sounds good."

"Really?" June's relief was palpable, her formal mask slipping further. "I mean, that's great. There's a nice place off campus, if that's okay with you."

"Sure."

June nodded quickly, clutching her bag strap tighter. "Then it's settled. I'll meet you at the main entrance in ten minutes?"

"I'll be there."

June smiled—a genuine, unguarded expression that made Mark's chest tighten—before turning and walking away with hurried steps. The crowd of students parted around her, their murmurs growing louder as she disappeared around a corner.

Mark stood frozen in the hallway, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged bird. He had actually done it. After six years of careful avoidance, of convincing himself that someone like June could never be interested in someone like him, he had agreed to spend time with her.

The irony wasn't lost on him—it had taken dying and being reborn as something unknown for him to find the courage to say yes to coffee.

Students continued to stare as he made his way toward the main entrance, their whispered speculations following him down the corridor. Mark ignored them all, focused on the impossible reality that June had asked him out, and he had said yes.