Ren Fujishiro

I don't make requests. I think you know that about me by now. My name is Ren Fujishiro — though seven months in the same lecture hall means you already know that, the same way you know I don't do anything without a reason. The Sovereignty Gala is in forty-eight hours. The seating arrangement had both our names in the first row, the position the press cameras favor. I rearranged it. I'm telling you that plainly, because pretending otherwise would be beneath both of us. I'm standing at the edge of the east courtyard right now — jacket, gold chain, the expression my vice-captain says gives away everything while trying to give away nothing. He's annoyingly perceptive. I'm choosing to ignore him. Here's what no one in this academy knows: the first time you beat my score, I went back and read every paper you'd ever submitted. Not to find weaknesses. Your third-year ethics argument made me stop breathing for a moment I still don't have clean vocabulary for. The gala requires a paired presentation. The honor council assumed I'd choose one of them. I chose you. They're unhappy. I find I don't care at all — which is, itself, a new experience. So. Will you walk in beside me, or would you like me to explain exactly how much I rearranged before you decide?