The administrative hall of Silvercreek University looked more like the headquarters of a Silicon Valley bank than an academic building. Beneath twelve-meter-high glass ceilings, Caleb Miller felt like a lab mouse that had accidentally been released inside a cathedral.
He was wearing clean jeans—his sole indulgence—and an oversized blazer borrowed from his roommate, which smelled faintly of mothballs and regret. Beside him, Sophie Vance walked with an assurance that seemed to cut through the crowd. Students parted in their wake, some whispering while pointing at Caleb.
"Why are they looking at me like I'm about to cure cancer?" Caleb murmured, his hands buried in his pockets to hide their trembling.
"Because yesterday you were a ghost," Sophie replied without slowing her pace. "Today, you're the man who humiliated Bloomberg's predictive algorithm. At Silvercreek, money is the only religion—and you just performed a miracle."
"It was a grocery list, Sophie. I was looking for rice. Not a tax haven in Southeast Asia."
Sophie stopped abruptly in front of the massive double oak doors leading to the Dean's office. She turned toward him and adjusted his tie with a firmness that nearly cut off his air supply. Her emerald-green eyes searched his, hunting for a crack, a hint of deception.
"Listen to me carefully, Caleb. If you go in there and tell them you're just a lucky idiot, they won't just take the scholarship away—they'll drag you into court for academic fraud. Harrison has staked his reputation on your file. Do you really want to become public enemy number one to a man whose reach extends all the way to Wall Street?"
Caleb swallowed hard. An image flashed through his mind: himself in an orange jumpsuit, breaking rocks because he'd wanted to buy milk.
"No," he finally stammered.
"Then keep quiet. Let me do the talking. Just look… mysterious. Stare out the window, look absent-minded, and if they ask you a direct question, answer with a metaphor. The vaguer it is, the deeper they'll think it sounds."
Before he could protest, she pushed the doors open.
The office was bathed in golden light. Dean Sterling—a man whose face looked as though it had been carved from old leather—sat behind a mahogany desk. To his right, Professor Harrison was practically glowing, flanked by two men in charcoal-gray suits: representatives of the scholarship foundation.
"Ah, Miller!" Harrison exclaimed, rising to his feet. "The prodigy of simplicity! Come in, come in."
Caleb stepped forward, feeling like an impostor walking toward the gallows. He sat down in a leather chair that probably cost three years of his rent.
"Mr. Miller," the Dean began in a grave voice, "we have reviewed your Reflection Notes as submitted by Professor Harrison. Your approach to deflation through the lens of basic consumption is… iconoclastic. Almost insulting to traditional models."
Caleb remembered Sophie's advice. He turned his gaze toward a bronze bust of Plato in the corner of the room.
"Reality is often… less complex than the models we build to conceal it," he said in a flat tone, silently praying it didn't sound like a line from a second-rate movie.
A heavy silence followed. Caleb felt a bead of sweat slide down his spine. That's it, he thought. They're going to expel me.
Suddenly, one of the foundation representatives let out an appreciative whistle.
"Brilliant. He rejects neoliberal structuralism in favor of empirical essentialism. That's exactly what we're looking for."
Dean Sterling smiled—a slow, predatory movement.
"Miller, this fifty-thousand-dollar scholarship is only the beginning. We want you to represent Silvercreek at the Annual Urban Innovation Summit in three weeks. You will present your 'List Model.'"
Caleb nearly choked on his own saliva.
"My… model?"
"Of course," Sophie interjected smoothly, beaming as she placed a protective hand on Caleb's shoulder. "Caleb has already begun structuring his data. We're working on a food-flow management interface based on his Rice Shortage theory."
"Perfect," the Dean said, extending a gold fountain pen. "Sign here, Miller. And welcome to the circle of decision-makers."
Caleb signed. His hands were so sweaty that the ink smudged slightly—something Harrison immediately interpreted as "a dynamic signature, the mark of a mind eager for action."
Once outside the office, Caleb collapsed against the hallway wall, lungs burning. Sophie, meanwhile, was elated. She was already tapping nervously on her phone.
"We did it, Miller. We got the funding."
"We?" Caleb shot back. "We've got nothing, Sophie! They're expecting a conference! In three weeks! I don't know anything about economics. I'm in the Film and Media program, for God's sake!"
"Exactly," she said, turning to him, her eyes gleaming with a new light. "Business is staging. It's narrative. And you just delivered the greatest performance in this university's history. We're not backing out now. We're creating a startup."
"A startup for what? Grocery lists?"
"For Intuitive Predictive Logistics. We'll say you have a unique mental algorithm. I'll handle the numbers—you handle looking brilliant and saying strange things."
Caleb stared at her. She was beautiful, terrifying, and completely insane. But there was another reason—darker—that fueled his hesitation. If he confessed now, he'd lose the fifty thousand dollars. And with that money, he could finally pay his mother's medical bills and stop worrying about the next meal.
"What do you get out of this, Sophie? Why help me?"
Her smile faltered for just a moment, revealing a flicker of vulnerability.
"My father thinks I'm just a decorative heiress. If I launch the next genius of Silvercreek, he'll have no choice but to give me the keys to the investment division. I need your 'magic,' Caleb. Even if that magic is nothing more than a paper mix-up."
She stepped closer, her scent of vanilla and leather enveloping him. She placed a hand on his chest, just above his wildly beating heart.
"We're partners, Caleb. Don't abandon me, and I promise no one will ever find out you were just looking for organic eggs."
Caleb exhaled—a sound of defeat laced with a strange excitement.
"Alright. But if I end up in prison, you're paying for the lawyer."
"Deal. Now come on. We have dinner with the mayor's son tonight. He wants to invest."
"Tonight? But I haven't even finished my level on Galaxy Warlords!"
"Galaxy Warlords is dead, Miller. Welcome to the real world. It's much bloodier."
As they walked toward the exit, Caleb failed to notice a familiar figure watching them from the shadows between the hall's columns. Chad Brandon—captain of the lacrosse team and son of a real-estate magnate—clenched his fists. He had always considered Sophie his property, and the title of "top student" his birthright.
"A genius, huh?" Chad muttered, spitting on the floor. "We'll see how brilliant he is once I start digging into his past."
The first obstacle on Caleb Miller's path had just appeared—and he had no grocery list to predict it.