The weeks stretch into months, each day folding into the next like pages in a book where nothing remarkable is written. Greenfield International School hums with its usual rhythm: classes, assignments, and the occasional drama that flares up only to be extinguished by teachers' scoldings. But for Nila, one thing remains constant, gnawing at her—a growing frustration that she hasn't spoken to Timi since that strange hallway incident.
It's not for lack of trying. She's tried catching his eye in the classroom, even deliberately walking past him during lunch breaks. Yet, every time, he either avoids her gaze or offers a fleeting glance, distant and unreadable, before turning away.
What's his problem? she wonders.
By the time inter-house sports week arrives, the weight of his silence feels unbearable, like a knot that won't untangle. Still, there's no room for her frustration to spill over, not when the school grounds transform into a carnival of competition.
---
The week kicks off with an explosion of color and sound. Flags representing each house—Blue, Red, Yellow, and Green—flutter in the breeze, their hues vibrant under the midday sun. The air is thick with the scent of freshly mowed grass and sunscreen, mingling with the tang of adrenaline. Students, dressed in their house jerseys, swarm the fields, their energy contagious.
Nila, wearing her Green House jersey, is a whirlwind of determination. From the first relay heat, she's all focus—her legs pounding against the track, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she passes the baton with flawless precision.
The crowd roars as she crosses the finish line in the final relay, her team securing first place. She's surrounded by her teammates, their cheers ringing in her ears as they hoist her into the air.
"You're a machine, Nila!" one of them shouts.
She laughs, breathless but exhilarated. For a moment, the world feels perfect, her frustrations forgotten in the glow of victory.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she spots Timi. He's standing at the edge of the track, clad in his Blue House jersey, his posture relaxed but his presence magnetic. He's up next for the 100-meter sprint, and the way he adjusts his shoes—calm, deliberate—sends a ripple of anticipation through the crowd.
The gun goes off, and Timi becomes a blur.
His stride is effortless, each step eating up the track as if gravity bends to his will. The other runners might as well be standing still. He crosses the finish line with a solid lead, his expression calm even as his housemates erupt in cheers around him.
Nila watches as he accepts their congratulations with a nod, his demeanor composed and unbothered. No victory laps, no triumphant gestures—just quiet acknowledgment before he steps away from the crowd.
Their gazes meet briefly.
Her breath catches.
There's something there, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, before he turns and walks toward the bleachers. It's the closest thing to an interaction they've had since that day, and it leaves her feeling more unsettled than before.
The weeks go by.
By March, the energy of the sports week fades, replaced by the looming presence of final exams. The atmosphere at Greenfield shifts—students become more serious, their conversations laced with anxiety. Teachers pile on assignments, the weight of expectations heavy on everyone's shoulders.
It's on a particularly gray Monday morning that Ms. Okechukwu steps into homeroom with an air of excitement. Her usually stern expression is softened, a rare smile playing on her lips.
"Good morning, class," she begins, waiting for the chatter to die down. "I have an announcement."
The room stills, curiosity replacing the usual lethargy of the early hour.
"With exams approaching, the school has decided to organize an excursion for the final-year students. It's an opportunity to take a break from your studies and learn in a more dynamic environment."
Murmurs ripple through the room.
"We'll be visiting one of the country's major oil fields," she continues, "to gain insight into its operations. Before that, you'll lodge temporarily at Obodoma Eco Resort, where you'll spend the night before returning to campus."
The murmurs escalate into excited chatter.
"Of course," Ms. Okechukwu adds, her voice cutting through the noise, "attendance is contingent on your behavior and academic performance. Misconduct will disqualify you. Is that clear?"
The bell rings, and the class erupts into chaos as students grab their bags and spill into the hallway.
---
Amid the commotion, Nila catches a glimpse of Timi slipping through the crowd. He's always moving—quiet, deliberate, and annoyingly elusive.
*Not this time,* she thinks.
"Timi!" she calls, threading her way through the throng.
He stops but doesn't turn around immediately. When he does, his expression is as unreadable as ever, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that makes her momentarily falter.
"Hey," she starts, forcing a smile. "So, about the trip… what do you think?"
He doesn't respond. For a moment, it looks like he might, his gaze softening ever so slightly. But then he turns and walks away, leaving her standing in the middle of the hallway, her words hanging in the air like an unanswered question.
Before she can dwell on the sting of his rejection, another voice cuts through her thoughts.
"Well, if it isn't Green House's golden girl," Mendel sneers, his tone dripping with mockery.
Nila groans inwardly as she turns to face him. He's leaning against a locker, his signature smirk firmly in place.
"What do you want, Mendel?" she asks, crossing her arms.
"Oh, nothing much," he says, feigning innocence. "Just thought I'd congratulate you on your big win. Must feel good, being the best at *something* for once."
Her patience snaps. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"
Mendel chuckles, clearly enjoying her frustration. "Why would I, when I get reactions like this?"
Before Nila can retort, Chiji's voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
"Mendel, don't you have somewhere else to be?"
He turns, his smirk faltering slightly as Chiji strides up to them, her white braids catching the light. Her expression is calm, but her sharp eyes leave no room for argument.
"We were just talking," Mendel says, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Sure you were," Chiji replies, unimpressed. "Now move before I make you regret it."
Mendel hesitates but eventually shrugs. "Whatever. Come on, guys." He and his cronies slink away, their laughter fading into the background.
"Thanks," Nila mutters, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"Don't mention it," Chiji says, her voice softening. "Come on, let's get out of here. We've got better things to do."
As they walk away, Nila's thoughts drift back to Timi. The silence between them feels heavier than ever, but she's not ready to give up.
"He'll talk to me eventually", she tells herself. "And when he does, I'll be ready."
----
The hum of my breathing fills the tight space inside my helmet as I blink against the flickering HUD display. Tactical gear hugs my frame, the vest heavy with spare mags, grenades, and a radio crackling with life.
"This is command," a voice barks through the static, cutting through my disorientation. "You are to enter the school and extract the Swiss national. Repeat: extract the Swiss national. Hostiles everywhere. Time is critical."
I glance down, realizing my hands are gripping an M4 carbine fitted with a red-dot sight and suppressor. My gloved fingers tighten around the grip as I pivot toward the school building, a looming silhouette against a sky bruised by smoke and fire.
The sound of gunfire erupts ahead, sharp and relentless, accompanied by screams and the distant thud of explosions. My boots crunch on shattered glass as I move up the crumbling pathway, my senses hyper aware.
The double doors swing open with a creak as I push through, my weapon raised. The hallways are a war zone. Flickering fluorescent lights illuminate overturned desks, bullet-riddled lockers, and pools of blood that reflect the chaos.
My radio buzzes again. "Be advised: multiple armed hostiles inside. Check your corners."
A sharp noise—a boot scuff against the tiles—snaps my attention to the left. I whip my rifle around just in time to see a figure dart behind a column. Without hesitation, I squeeze the trigger. The suppressor muffles the shots as two rounds find their mark, and the hostile crumples to the ground.
I advance slowly, heart pounding against my ribs. Each step feels measured, deliberate, as though the building itself is holding its breath.
The crack of gunfire erupts ahead, deafening in the confined space. I drop to one knee, scanning the corridor as muzzle flashes light up the darkness. A group of hostiles is engaged in a firefight with allied forces at the far end.
I take cover behind an overturned table, peeking over the edge to assess the situation. Three targets. Two with AKs, one reloading a shotgun. My training kicks in.
*Deep breath. Line up the shot.*
I fire. The first man drops, his weapon clattering to the ground. The second turns, his face a mask of shock before a burst from my rifle ends him. The third charges, shotgun raised, but I sidestep his wild shot and take him down with a controlled pair to the chest.
The hallway falls silent except for the groan of the wounded and the distant rumble of an explosion outside. I move quickly, sweeping room after room. Broken chairs, scattered papers, and bullet holes greet me at every turn, but there's no sign of the target.
"Command, I'm on the second floor. No visuals on the target," I whisper into the radio.
"She's on the third floor," the voice replies. "Move fast. Hostiles are regrouping."
The stairwell is narrow and dark, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and burning insulation. As I ascend, the sound of heavy boots rushing downward alerts me to danger.
I spin just as a hostile rounds the corner, rifle aimed squarely at my chest. I duck instinctively, his burst of gunfire sparking against the wall behind me. My pistol is in my hand before I can think, and I fire twice, the recoil jarring but familiar.
More are coming. I throw a flashbang up the staircase and close my eyes as it detonates with a blinding flash and ear-splitting crack.
Pushing forward, I take out two more disoriented enemies before reaching the third floor.
The third floor is eerily quiet. Doors line the hallway, some ajar, revealing empty classrooms filled with overturned desks. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I clear each room methodically.
Finally, I find her.
She's in a small office at the end of the hall, sitting on the floor with her back to the door. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders, her figure trembling slightly as she clutches something in her lap.
"Ma'am," I call, stepping closer, my voice steady but firm. "I'm here to get you out. We need to move."
She doesn't turn.
"Ma'am?" I press, lowering my weapon slightly.
Her shoulders stiffen, and she speaks, her voice soft yet clear. "What's the matter?"
The scene begins to blur, the sharp edges of reality smudging like wet paint on a canvas. My weapon feels lighter, my gear less cumbersome.
I blink, and the hallway dissolves into a haze of colors and shapes.
Her voice echoes again, distant and questioning. "What's the matter?"
Timi hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how to answer. There was a whole world of difference between the rich kids and him, and he wasn't sure how to voice it. "I was just wondering if scholarship students are eligible for the trip," he said quietly, his gaze still focused on his desk.
Chiji's head tilted slightly as she processed his words. "Why wouldn't you be able to go?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her notebook.
Timi shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, though his stomach churned. "I don't know. I just thought maybe there are rules or something."
Chiji's smile widened, amused by his hesitation. "Well, there's only one way to find out," she said, her voice light and teasing. "Ask Mrs. Okechukwu in the staff room. Stop sitting here overthinking it."
Timi nodded, a feeling of gratitude mixed with unease washing over him. He had never felt like he truly belonged at Greenfield, and now, with the trip looming, he felt even more like an outsider. Still, Chiji's confidence gave him a small sense of reassurance, and he stood up to leave the classroom.
The corridor seemed longer than usual as Timi made his way to the staff room. He passed students laughing and chatting, their carefree voices blending into the background as he kept his head down. He couldn't shake the sense of alienation that clung to him, a sense that had been there ever since he arrived at Greenfield. The scholarship had been a lifeline, but it felt more like a reminder of how different he was from everyone else.
When he arrived at the staff room, the assistant who had been sent to guide him knocked briskly on the door before stepping aside. Timi hesitated for a moment before entering, his nerves flaring up again. Inside, the staff room was filled with the hum of quiet conversations and the scratch of pens on paper. A few teachers glanced up, then quickly returned to their work.
Ms. Okonkwo, seated behind her desk, looked up as he approached. Her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, and she was skimming through a stack of papers. She set her pen down and gave him her full attention.
"Yes, Timi? What is it?" she asked, her tone calm and businesslike.
Timi cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask if scholarship students are eligible for the trip," he asked, his voice a little unsteady.
Ms. Maren considered this for a moment, her pen hovering over the paper. "Hmm, that's a fair question," she murmured. "There's no official rule against it, but..." She tapped the pen thoughtfully. "I think this is something the principal will need to address. Wait here while I notify her."
Timi nodded, the uncertainty creeping back into his chest. The principal? "Why does it have to go that far?" he wondered. The quiet buzz of the room seemed to intensify as he waited, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity.
Moments later, an assistant appeared to escort Timi to the principal's office.
His feet felt like they were dragging as he followed the student down the long, tiled corridor. The light overhead flickered faintly, and each echo of his footsteps sounded like a slow drumbeat of fate. Every step weighed heavier than the last, not because of any wrongdoing, but because of the looming presence he knew awaited him.
The principal's office was a familiar space—but not one of comfort. It had an atmosphere that demanded attention. Every detail, from the polished mahogany floor to the spotless bookshelves lined with volumes that looked unread yet untouched by dust, spoke of control. A single clock ticked softly above the door, the only sound in the otherwise still room.
Principal Okonkwo sat behind her massive oak desk like a queen at court, every inch of her posture exuding authority. She was tall, graceful in a deliberate way, with a presence that seemed to silence the air around her. Her charcoal-grey suit was sharp, her braids pulled into a regal bun, and her eyes—those sharp, dark eyes—carried a knowledge that made people feel like children in her gaze.
Timi stood quietly, hands at his sides, trying not to let his nerves show.
"Mr. Daniels," she greeted, her voice smooth like velvet, yet with the firmness of a whip hidden behind a smile. "I understand you had a question about the upcoming trip."
"Yes, ma," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I just wanted to ask if scholarship students are allowed to go too. I wasn't sure."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, one hand gently tapping the desk. Her eyes never left him.
"And why wouldn't you be allowed?" she asked softly, though the room seemed to hum with tension beneath her words.
Timi hesitated. "Well… some of the other students said it's mostly for the full-paying ones. Like it's an optional thing for 'regulars.' And since the school already covers my fees, I didn't want to assume—"
"Assumptions," she said, cutting gently through his sentence like a knife through silk. "They are the voices of limitation. And those who place limits on others often do so because they cannot see the full canvas."
Timi blinked, unsure whether she was answering him or speaking to something else entirely.
She rose from her seat, slowly, and walked toward the large window overlooking the school grounds. Her hands clasped behind her back in a way that reminded Timi of a general surveying a battlefield.
"There is something about this trip," she began, her voice now layered, like she was speaking on two frequencies—one for Timi, and another for something far beyond him. "A… convergence of moments. Of past debts and future reckonings. Some excursions are more than travel—they are quiet doorways. And some students are more than they appear. They are keys."
She turned back to face him, her expression unreadable.
"You're eligible, Timi. Not just on paper, but by nature."
Timi shifted slightly, trying to make sense of it. "Uhm… thank you, ma. I really just wanted to know, like, if there was a form or something I missed. I don't want to hold anyone back."
Her smile deepened—not warm, but intrigued. "Ever the polite one. Humble. That will serve you well… for a time."
He gave a small, awkward chuckle. "I mean… I'm just grateful to even be here. The school's not the kind of place I ever thought I'd end up, so I'm trying to stay out of trouble and just do what I came for."
Principal Okonkwo returned to her seat slowly, her heels clicking faintly. She didn't respond immediately, instead opening a drawer and withdrawing a black envelope embossed with a silver symbol Timi didn't recognize. She didn't hand it to him. She simply placed it on the table between them and said nothing of it.
"Mr. Timi," she said finally, voice low, eyes locked on his, "sometimes the world hides you so it can reveal you at the precise moment you are needed. Remember that. And remember this—when you dream… if the sky ever turns red, don't run. Keep walking. What's on the other side is not always fire."
Timi tilted his head slightly, visibly puzzled. "Uhm… alright, ma. I'll… keep that in mind."
She smiled again, this time with an air of finality. "Good. You may go now?" she said once more, just as his hand reached the knob.
"Yes, ma?"
"You are more than eligible. You are required."
A shiver ran up his spine, but he nodded. "Okay, ma. Thank you."