There were unexpectedly few students in the council room when the group of four entered.
The space felt quieter than it should have been—curtains half-drawn, ceiling lights dimmed, the air carrying the faint hum of electronics and brewed coffee. The long meeting table dominated the left side of the room, its polished surface reflecting the glow from a pair of laptop screens at the far end.
Two seniors sat midway down the table, one on each side. One of them—a senior woman seated at the side of the table—was handing out forms with practiced efficiency, barely needing to look up. Opposite him, another senior collected completed sheets, stacking them neatly with practiced efficiency. At the end of the table, two more seniors sat across from each other, laptops open, absorbed in their work.
Daisy watched the exchange ahead of her, then stepped forward when the desk cleared.
"I saw the notice that volunteers are required," she said, polite but confident. "Can we apply for that?"
The senior glanced up, already reaching for the next set of forms.
"Yes," she replied evenly. "You and your friends can fill these out and return them here. We'll review the applications and inform you if you're selected."
She slid four forms across the table.
"Great. Thank you," Daisy said, taking them and turning back to the others.
The forms were straightforward—basic personal details, contact information, past achievements, volunteering experience, and a short section asking why they wanted to volunteer now.
The group moved outside the room, settling near the corridor wall. They leaned against pillars, sat briefly on the low ledge beneath the windows, and quietly discussed what to write. Kevin joked about exaggerating his football achievements. Marcus kept his answers minimal. Daisy asked questions, thoughtful and earnest. Caroline filled her form last, her pen moving with calm deliberation.
Fifteen minutes later, they returned.
Kevin joined the short line to submit the forms while the others drifted just inside the room, careful not to disturb the seniors.
Denzel sat at one end of the table, laptop open, typing with sharp focus. He didn't look up—and they didn't greet him. Not now.
Caroline's gaze wandered, taking in the room as if seeing it for the first time. Her steps slowed near the coffee machine. She leaned closer to Daisy, speaking casually.
"Do you think it works?" she asked. "Can we just… make coffee here?"
The senior handling forms answered without looking up, tone automatic. "You can. If you become a member."
It was a common question. Freshers asked it all the time.
But to Denzel, the voice was anything but common.
His fingers paused mid-keystroke. Slowly, he lifted his head.
Caroline and Daisy had already turned away from the machine, scanning the room like curious first-timers. Caroline's posture was relaxed, expression neutral—as if she'd never been here before.
Then she turned naturally.
Her eyes met Denzel's.
For the briefest moment, their eyes met. Nothing followed—no greeting, no reaction—just a quiet understanding that this was not the place, nor the time. Caroline looked away first, as if the glance had never happened.
She raised her voice again, light, curious.
"Can we know what event this is for?" she asked. "Is it a freshers' event?"
This time, the room stilled—not because she'd raised her voice, but because no one before her had asked. Until then, students had entered, filled the forms, and left, unquestioning, despite the whispered curiosity about privileges and events.
The senior with the forms looked up. The one collecting them paused mid-stack. Even the guy opposite Denzel—who had been typing steadily despite the chatter—stopped, fingers hovering over his keyboard.
Caroline had already started walking toward the exit, timing her steps with Kevin's turn at the desk.
"Was that a guess?" the senior woman asked, surprised.
Caroline shrugged lightly. "Couldn't think of anything else."
The senior hesitated. It wasn't confidential—everyone would know eventually.
"Yes," she said. "It's preparation for the freshers' event."
"Thanks for confirming," Caroline replied easily.
Marcus noticed the shift—the way Denzel stared, the way the others' attention lingered just a moment too long. He moved without a word, stepping closer to Caroline and placing a hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the exit.
"Wait."
The voice came from the far end of the table. Calm. Measured.
The senior seated opposite Denzel hadn't stood. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't even turned fully toward them.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Caroline stopped.
She turned to face him, posture straight, expression open. "Caroline."
He nodded once. "You can go."
He turned back to his laptop.
For a heartbeat, the room resumed its rhythm.
Then—
"What's your name?" Caroline asked.
It wasn't defiant. It wasn't challenging. It sounded almost… childlike. As if she were genuinely curious, as if she hadn't heard the dismissal.
This time, he smiled faintly.
He didn't lift his head.
He didn't turn to look at her.
"Chester."
"Okay," Caroline said.
And she left. The whispers resumed, low and restless, as the room returned to its quiet noise.
By the time the room emptied, dusk had settled outside. Fading evening light slipped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the table.
Denzel packed up first, irritation sharp and visible as he left without a word. The other seniors followed soon after, conversations low and distracted.
Chester remained.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before resting them behind his head. His gaze drifted—not to the screen, but to the pile of applications set slightly apart from the rest.
His thoughts wandered back, unbidden.
He'd seen her more than once already today.
Earlier, while passing the Nova Theater without intent, the campus had been loud—chaotic with first-day energy.
And then he'd noticed the stillness.
Four students sat on the stone steps of the open theater, bags set aside. Not sprawled. Not distracted. Listening.
Three of them faced a girl who stood a step above them, hands folded behind her back, head tilted slightly as she spoke. No raised voice. No theatrics.
Yet they watched her with attention.
Not casual agreement. Not boredom.
Focus.
Chester had slowed without realizing it.
He hadn't heard her words. He hadn't needed to. Her tone carried intention—calm, deliberate, assured without arrogance. She spoke like someone accustomed to being listened to, but not dependent on it.
The others responded in quiet unison—nodding, adjusting their bags only after she moved first.
Subtle. Controlled. Intentional.
Well-played.
Freshers didn't usually move like that.
Now, not long after, the same girl's name sat inked on a form.
Caroline.
Chester exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as curiosity settled—not sharp, not urgent.
Just present.
And curiosity, he knew, was rarely harmless.