Kota stared down at Sebastian Rupert. This twenty-three-year-old Oxford prodigy, self-proclaimed genius, currently kneeling on the linoleum in front of his desk like a pilgrim at a shrine—and felt the absurdity of the moment settle over him like damp fog.
The classroom was empty now, sunlight slanting through the half-closed blinds in dusty bars, catching motes of chalk dust and the faint glitter of Sebastian's desperation. Kota's binder still laid open on the desk, untouched, the date scribbled at the top of a blank page. He could hear the muffled chaos of the hallway beyond the door lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping but in here it was just the two of them, the projector humming softly, and Sebastian's wide, pleading eyes fixed on him like he held the secret to the universe.
Kota thought about it rationally. He really wasn't anything special. Before Theo, he'd been a solid C+ kid decent enough to pass, smart enough to skate by, but never the standout. Homework half-finished in the back of the truck on the way to school, tests crammed for the night before, essays thrown together with Wikipedia citations and a prayer.
Theo had changed that.
Not because Kota suddenly became a genius overnight, but because Theo's influence—recommendations, quiet tutoring sessions in the principal's office, the unspoken promise of Ivy doors swinging open—had lifted his transcript from average to flawless A 4.0 wasn't earned through late-night study marathons or revolutionary insights; it was gifted, quietly, through arrangement and association.
Exposing that would be catastrophic. If Sebastian sniffed around too hard, if word got back to the administration or worse, to Khalil the whole house of cards could collapse. Theo's name, the Hawthorne legacy, the money, the favors it was all tangled up in something Kota couldn't afford to unravel.
But.
Theo was smart. Way smarter than Kota. Way smarter than Sebastian, if Kota was being honest. Theo had entered Harvard at fifteen, Oxford at eighteen, walked out with masters in English and mathematics by twenty-one, and still somehow managed to whine about not wanting to go to school like a normal teenager. He didn't brag about it; he just did it. Quietly. Effortlessly. The kind of effortless that made people like Sebastian look like they were trying too hard. (HOLY GLAZE JUST FUCK ALREADY DAMNNNNNNN)
Kota straightened up in his chair, shoulders squaring under the compression shirt. He cleared his throat, forced his voice into something deeper, sharper trying to channel the kind of jackass arrogance he'd never actually possessed but had seen plenty of times in locker rooms and hallways.
"I don't personally talk to subpar geniuses like you," he said, letting the words drop slow and deliberate, like he was doing Sebastian a favor by even acknowledging him. "You're what twenty-three? Still chasing validation from teenagers? Pathetic."
Sebastian's eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he'd been slapped and kissed at the same time. His clasped hands trembled. "Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'll do anything. Anything at all. Just… teach me. Show me how you make it look so easy. I can't—I can't bear it. Being second. Not to someone younger. Please."
Kota sighed again, long and theatrical, rubbing his temple like the weight of Sebastian's insecurity was giving him a migraine. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk.
"Hmm," he said, drawing it out. "I guess… I could do something. But not for you."
Sebastian's breath hitched. "Anything."
Kota leaned back. "I could make you the lackey of my first and most promising student. Theodore Hawthorne. The school principal. I guarantee you'll learn a lot from him. Probably more than you'd ever learn from me."
Sebastian's mouth fell open. For a second he didn't move didn't breathe just stared at Kota like he'd been handed the Holy Grail wrapped in Oxford letterhead. Then he scrambled to his feet so fast his chair scraped backward, bowed low from the waist like some eighteenth-century courtier, and bolted for the door without another word. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, frantic and uneven, disappearing toward the office wing.
Kota let out a long breath, shoulders dropping. He pulled out his phone, thumbs moving before he could second-guess himself.
Kota
9:42 AM
Please do me a favor. Told the new English teacher (Sebastian whatever) you're a super genius and now he wants to be your protégé. Go nuts.
He hit send, pocketed the phone, and stood up slowly. The classroom felt too quiet now, the projector still humming. Kota grabbed his binder, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and headed for the door. Whatever happened next, Theo's reaction, Sebastian's inevitable meltdown, the rest of the school day he'd deal with it when it came.
For now, he just wanted to survive until lunch.