Anaya didn't make careless mistakes.
She calculated.
Prepared.
Double-checked.
So when her presentation file didn't open in front of the entire class, it didn't feel like bad luck.
It felt wrong.
"Try again," the professor said calmly.
"I am," she replied, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.
The file icon blinked.
Error.
Whispers began.
Soft. Curious.
Across the room, he watched quietly.
Not amused.
Not judging.
Just observing.
She finally closed the laptop slowly.
"I'll present verbally," she said without missing a beat.
Confidence didn't crack.
It sharpened.
She delivered the entire analysis without slides.
Precise. Structured. Clear.
By the time she finished, the room was silent.
The professor nodded.
"Impressive recovery."
She gave a small nod and returned to her seat.
But inside—
Something was off.
After class, she reopened her laptop.
The file was gone.
Deleted.
Not corrupted.
Deleted.
Her jaw tightened.
"You don't look happy," Aarav said later when she told him.
"I don't lose files," she replied.
"You think someone—"
"Yes."
She didn't hesitate.
She replayed the morning in her head.
Her laptop had been in her bag.
Her bag had been beside her in the cafeteria.
Except for that five-minute window.
When someone had bumped into her chair.
Her eyes shifted across the courtyard instinctively.
And landed on her.
The perfectly composed girl.
Sitting gracefully with two others, laughing softly.
Anaya didn't storm over.
Didn't accuse.
She watched.
The girl's laughter paused briefly.
Their eyes met.
For a fraction of a second—
Something smug flickered.
There it is.
Later that afternoon, he approached her near the library steps.
"You handled that well," he said.
"I shouldn't have needed to handle it."
"You think it wasn't accidental."
It wasn't a question.
"No," she replied.
He studied her carefully.
"Be careful," he said quietly.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Of who?"
He didn't look toward the courtyard.
But his silence was answer enough.
"I don't need protecting," she said.
"I didn't say you did."
"Then what are you saying?"
"That Westbridge isn't just competitive."
She crossed her arms.
"I already knew that."
He stepped closer—not invading, just steady.
"Some people don't like shifts in attention."
"And you assume attention shifted."
"It did."
She held his gaze.
"And you don't mind?"
A faint smirk.
"I prefer disruption."
Her heartbeat betrayed her slightly.
Not because of the words.
Because of the tone.
Calm. Certain. Interested.
Across the courtyard, the well-dressed girl watched again.
And this time—
Her smile didn't return.
Because a small, harmless file deletion hadn't shaken Anaya.
It had made her sharper.
And sharper girls were dangerous.
Especially when they refused to lose twice.