Tuesday Morning Collision
January 24th, 2023
Brooklyn College Courtyard – 9:47 AM
Snow had turned into icy slush, lining the brick pathways like worn-out intentions. Students shuffled between buildings, half-awake, headphones in, caffeine in hand.
Ethan stood at the center of it all. Still. Watching.
Black coat sharp. Scarf loose. Eyes alert, even behind that mask of indifference.
Beside him, John was scrolling on his phone, muttering, "First Tuesday of the semester. Already feels illegal."
Then came the thud.
A football landed inches from Ethan's boots, splashing sludge onto his pants.
John looked up. "Oh no."
From across the quad strutted David Mercer—Brooklyn College's golden boy. Captain of the football team. Popular. Loud. Swagger dialed up to 11. And under it all… envious.
"Damn, my bad, bro," David called out, walking over with a smirk that screamed on purpose. "Didn't see the philosophy club meditating in the kill zone."
Ethan didn't move. "You missed your target. That's consistent."
David grinned wider, glancing at John. "He always talk like this? Or did some witches eat his emotions?"
John shook his head. "Man, not today…"
David stepped closer, spinning the ball on his finger. "Heard you wrote some deep essay about sexual tension and market logic on male economic behaviour.You good, man?"
Ethan's gaze was calm. "I prefer tension over stagnation."
David leaned in, fake-friendly. "Let me know if you ever wanna drop the loner act and join the world. Might be good for your testosterone."
Ethan was about to reply—something sharper—when a voice cut through the tension.
"Mercer. Walk away."
The courtyard stilled.
All eyes turned.
Walking toward them with her usual quiet command was Vivienne Smith.
Fourth-year. President of the College Council. Head of the Political Psychology Club. The type of woman professors deferred to and rivals avoided.
Dark navy coat tailored to perfection. Auburn hair pulled into a soft knot. A clipboard in one hand, controlled elegance in her stride.
David blinked. "Viv?"
She didn't spare him a look. "This isn't your space right now."
David's jaw tensed. "It's a free—"
"Walk," she said again, more quietly. And that tone—low, unimpressed—made the choice for him.
With a muttered curse, David turned and walked off, tossing the ball over his shoulder.
Vivienne finally faced Ethan.
"You wrote Market Impulsivity Under Sexual Pressure, correct?" she asked, clipboard tapping against her thigh.
Ethan raised a brow. "Word travels."
"It does when professors quote it during council meetings." She stepped closer. "Professor Denz wants to reference your work in his journal. Also, I want to speak with you regarding a panel I'm curating—Talent Anomalies in Undergraduate Systems."
John muttered under his breath. "Okay… what?"
Vivienne ignored him. Her eyes stayed on Ethan.
"I know talent when I see it," she said. "But what's rare is controlled unpredictability. You understand tempo, risk, pattern disruption… and you don't need validation. That's lethal."
Ethan studied her. "And you're collecting weapons, not friends?"
A small smirk. "Always."
Then, before he could reply, she gestured. "Walk with me. There's something I want to show you."
They turned, leaving John half-speechless behind them.
As they moved through the corridor toward the west building, students noticed.
Two senior TAs glanced up—one of them subtly straightened her hair. A group of well-dressed girls outside the law annex whispered as Ethan passed, eyes following his frame, not just because of his looks… but because of who he was with.
Vivienne, unfazed, kept walking, speaking softly enough for only him to hear.
"By the way," she said, "the council vice-president asked about you. She's curious. I told her you were a controlled variable in an unstable market."
"And that impressed her?"
Vivienne looked over, amused. "It terrified her. Which is better."
Ethan exhaled once, something like a laugh.
They stopped at a glass-walled seminar room where three professors stood inside, deep in debate over projections.
Vivienne turned to him.
"You're not invisible anymore, Ethan Vale," she said. "Not after this week."
Then she opened the door.
And the silence that followed didn't feel like peace. It felt like the breath before impact.