The bell dragged the class into the next hour without ceremony.
Students dropped back into their seats with leftover disappointment, like smoke after a small show that ended too soon. Gossip thinned. Attention scattered. XII-C forgot. Silvestor didn't.
He sat the way he always did–back straight, eyes lowered, pen resting but still. No satisfaction. No anticipation. Just waiting – like someone who already knew what would arrive.
A physics teacher entered with a young intern beside her.
Chairs scraped. Students stood – except Jazz.
"Good morning, teacher," the class greeted.
"Good morning. Sit," the physics teacher said, stepping aside. "This is Jane, our intern. She'll handle today's session. Be supportive." She moved to the back and sat down.
Jazz clicked his tongue softly.
"Who cares," he muttered, still searching through his bag, books shifting, fingers checking gaps between pages and covers.
The intern stepped forward, hands lightly clasped, voice steady despite visible nerves.
"Good morning. I'm Jane. This is my first session. If anything feels unclear, tell me openly. I improve, you understand better. Fair trade."
A girl in the third row stood.
"Miss, why physics?"
Jane smiled – not offended, but interested.
"Physics," she repeated. "Good question. But I'll answer with a question too. Do you want to hear it?"
The class leaned in out of reflex.
"Tell me one thing," she said, "anything at all – from home, school, street, travel – that is completely unrelated to physics."
The room paused – then derailed on purpose.
A few students blinked. A few smirked. The trap was obvious.
So they chose chaos.
"That wall clock," a boy said.
"Physics," she replied calmly.
"My grandma's cooking."
"Heat. Chemistry. Physics too."
"That broken relationship," someone joked from the back.
"Biology. Psychology. Hormones. Still physics underneath."
A girl stood and pointed to the girl beside her.
"She's unrelated to physics."
The class exploded in laughter.
Jane laughed too – brief, controlled.
"Very funny. But she occupies space, has mass, temperature, motion, electrical signals in her brain. Fully physics-approved."
More answers followed – faster now. Random. Naive. Deliberately off-track.
A student tactic. Stretch the opening. Delay the lesson.
"Silly," Jazz murmured.
He slid his hand into his pocket out of habit, searching for his lighter. When bored, he played with it – flame tricks, thread burns, stupid experiments on hair strands.
His fingers found paper instead.
Not metal.
He pulled it halfway out, frowned, then unfolded it.
"What the fuck–"
He said it aloud.
The class snapped toward him instantly. Some expected anger. Some expected disruption. The intern teacher stiffened slightly.
"Did I bore you?" she asked carefully. "Any issue with my teaching?"
Jazz didn't hear her. Didn't see anyone.
His gaze locked forward.
On Silvestor.
Silvestor did not turn. Did not look back.
But in his right hand, resting calmly above the desk, Jazz's lighter spun slowly between his fingers – open, shut, open – a brief flame flashing once like a private signal.
And only then did Silvestor smile.
Jazz relaxed the moment he saw the smile.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't friendly. But it was controlled – and that control cooled him faster than anger would have. The classroom's attention shifted with him, line by line, desk by desk, until every gaze settled on Silvestor's hand.
Jazz's lighter turned slowly between Silvestor's fingers.
Whispers ignited at once.
"Isn't that Jazz's?"
"That scum's got guts."
"He wants to die early."
"Jazz never shares that lighter."
"He keeps it like treasure."
"When did he take it?"
Speculation spread faster than laughter. Voices layered over each other, feeding heat into rumor until the noise rose past comfort.
"Silence."
The physics teacher slammed her palm against the textbook on the back desk. The crack cut through the room. She stood immediately.
"You – Jazz – sit down," she said sharply. "Whatever is between you two, I don't care. This is my class hour. You will sit and listen to the intern."
Her gaze swept the room.
"And if anyone tries their petty tricks on Jane, I'll extend this class after the bell. Test me."
The warning landed.
Silvestor lifted two fingers without turning around and moved them once – down, then still.
A simple signal.
Sit.
Jazz saw it clearly. So did half the class. He closed his eyes, released a slow breath, and dropped back into his seat.
A ripple passed through the room.
Students stared as if reality had shifted shape. In their eyes, Jazz was the untouchable one – the peak predator of the school. Yet the boy they treated like background noise had just checked him with two fingers.
Even the physics teacher blinked.
Could it be him? she wondered. The chairman's morning student?
Jazz unfolded the paper fully.
The handwriting was compact. Controlled. No decoration. No wasted space. Like someone who conserved both ink and mercy.
I'll help you.
Notes. Micro notes. Keys. Shortcuts. Derivations. Explanations. Equations.
Everything you need.
His brow lifted slightly.
But National Rank One is not my concern.
If you fail to get it, that failure is yours.
Incompetence – or immaturity of understanding.
His smile narrowed.
In return – you will work with me.
Not for. With.
He noticed the distinction instantly.
No questions. No rejection.
Whatever it is, you will do it.
A deliberate pause sat in the spacing that followed.
Don't worry.
Everything will remain within your reach.
Nothing troublesome.
The final line stood alone.
I prefer staying low-key.
Across the room, Silvestor listened to the lecture without writing a word. His eyes stayed on the board, posture unchanged. He didn't turn. Didn't measure reactions. Didn't confirm impact.
At the back, Jazz crushed the paper in his fist – then stopped. He didn't throw it away. The wrinkles stayed. The message stayed with them.
National Rank One surfaced in his mind like a title carved in metal. Power. Recognition. Reach. The kind of authority that didn't ask permission. The image steadied him more effectively than anger ever could.
He exhaled slowly.
Violence stepped back. Calculation stepped in.
Jazz reopened the uneven folds with unexpected care, pressing the paper flat against the desk until the lines were readable again. He took out his phone, captured the sheet cleanly, and sent the image to Jackson, Gilbert, and James.
No caption. No explanation.
Their phones vibrated within seconds.
Across different rooms and seats, three screens lit up. They didn't need context. They understood immediately who wrote it – and what it meant.
Rage sharpened in all three faces.
Replies came fast.
No.
No.
No.
Blunt. Immediate. Rejection without diplomacy.
Gilbert paused longer than the others. He read it again before typing.
Jazz – this condition is too dangerous. Think twice.
Send.
Jazz read the messages in silence. His thumb hovered for a moment over the screen – not to answer, but to feel the weight of their refusal.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not amused.
Certain.