Anabeth did not ask to lead.
That was the first mistake everyone made.
---
The system's collapse did not sound like victory.
It sounded like absence.
Sirens cut out mid-wail.
Drones lay smoking against concrete.
Screens across campus froze on half-rendered commands.
For the first time in weeks, there was no voice telling anyone what to do.
And that silence was terrifying.
---
Anabeth knelt on the ground, Rafael's weight sagging against her shoulder.
He was alive.
Barely.
His breathing was shallow, uneven—each inhale a quiet promise that he hadn't left her yet.
She pressed her forehead to his temple.
"Stay," she whispered. "Please."
Around them, chaos bloomed.
Students screamed.
Security units stood frozen, confused without directives.
Faculty shouted contradictory orders.
The system was gone.
Order was gone with it.
---
Cassian pushed through the crowd, face pale.
"He needs medical attention now," he said.
Anabeth nodded numbly.
But when she tried to stand, hands grabbed at her—not rough, not cruel, but desperate.
"Anabeth—what do we do?"
"Is it over?"
"They're saying the system's dead—what happens now?"
Voices layered over each other, fear rising like floodwater.
She froze.
They weren't looking at Rafael.
They were looking at her.
---
Mara arrived seconds later, eyes wide, breathing hard.
"It's cascading," she said. "Power vacuums everywhere. External authorities are scrambling. No one's in control."
Anabeth swallowed.
"I'm not—" Her voice cracked. "I'm not in control either."
But no one stepped away.
---
Rafael stirred weakly.
"Listen to them," he murmured.
Her chest tightened.
"I don't know how," she whispered back.
He opened his eyes just enough to see her.
"Neither did I," he said faintly. "That never stopped anyone."
Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
---
The weight shifted.
Not physically.
Responsibility does that quietly.
---
Cassian stood close to her.
"They're waiting," he said softly. "If you don't speak, someone worse will."
She shook her head.
"I didn't plan this."
"No one does."
---
Anabeth stood.
Her knees trembled.
Her hands were still shaking.
Her heart felt like it had been ripped open and told to keep beating anyway.
She raised her voice—not loud, not commanding.
Just clear.
"Everyone needs to stay calm."
The crowd hushed—not because of authority, but because of hope.
---
"There's been a system failure," she continued. "That doesn't mean lawlessness. It doesn't mean revenge. It means we take care of each other until help arrives."
Someone shouted, "Who are you to say that?"
The question sliced through her.
She answered honestly.
"I'm the one who stood in front of it," she said. "And I'm still here."
Silence followed.
Then—slowly—nods.
---
Mara whispered, "They're accepting it."
"I don't want this," Anabeth whispered back.
"I know."
---
The first test came quickly.
A group of armed private security contractors arrived at the perimeter—external authority, uncertain and nervous.
"Who's in charge here?" their leader demanded.
All eyes turned to Anabeth.
Her stomach dropped.
She stepped forward anyway.
"I am," she said.
The words felt unreal in her mouth.
---
The contractor studied her.
"You don't look like command."
She met his gaze.
"No," she agreed. "But I'm what's left."
He hesitated.
Then lowered his weapon.
"Orders?"
Anabeth took a breath.
"Secure medical aid," she said. "No detentions. No force unless absolutely necessary."
The man nodded.
Orders carried out.
Just like that.
---
Cassian exhaled sharply.
"You did it."
She shook her head.
"I guessed."
"That's leadership," he said. "Guessing with consequences."
---
News spread fast.
Not of victory.
Of collapse.
Messages flooded in from outside the campus—governments demanding explanations, corporations distancing themselves, media scrambling for narratives.
They wanted a figurehead.
They got Anabeth.
---
Hours passed.
Rafael was moved to a secure medical wing.
Anabeth didn't leave his side until Cassian physically guided her away.
"You can't lead if you break," he said.
She laughed hollowly.
"Too late."
---
The second test was harder.
Students demanded justice.
Not process.
Justice.
Names.
Punishments.
Blood, in some cases.
Anger is louder when systems fall.
---
Anabeth stood before them again.
"I won't give you revenge," she said plainly.
Boos erupted.
Someone shouted, "Then you're no better than it was!"
The words cut deep.
She waited.
Let the noise burn itself out.
Then said quietly—
"I watched people get hurt because the system didn't see them as human. I won't repeat that mistake to make you feel better."
The crowd stilled. Uneasy.
---
"I don't have all the answers," she continued. "But I promise you this—no one disappears under my watch."
That mattered.
More than she realized.
---
Later, alone in a hallway, Anabeth sank against the wall.
Her hands were numb.
Her head ached.
She hadn't cried yet—and that scared her most of all.
---
Hale was brought to her under guard.
Older now. Smaller.
"You didn't have to do this," he said.
She looked at him with tired eyes.
"You built something that needed a human cost," she replied. "Now I'm paying it."
He nodded slowly.
"You're doing better than I did."
"That's not comforting."
"No," he admitted. "But it's true."
---
Night fell.
The campus was quiet—not peaceful, just exhausted.
Anabeth stood by Rafael's bedside, watching his chest rise and fall.
"I don't know how long I can do this," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
But she stayed anyway.
---
By morning, the world would demand structure.
By tomorrow, they'd demand a successor system.
By next week, they'd try to turn her into something she didn't want to be.
---
But for now—
She was still just a girl standing in the wreckage, choosing compassion when control would be easier.
And somehow—
That was enough to hold everything together.
For one more night.