Foreigner

Chapter 38: It Takes (Nr) Two

Classroom 301 smells like mildew and glass cleaner. The lights are dim again, one flickering above the chalkboard like it's dying on purpose just to set the mood. Vic sits at the head of the table like always, legs wide, leather jacket draped over the back of his chair like some warlord's flag. Caleb's already here, spine straight, tablet in front of him. Adrian saunters in just behind me, chewing something with the slow patience of someone who's never been punched in the mouth for being annoying.

Dean leans against the wall by the door, arms crossed. Silent, bored. His knuckles are red again.

I take a chair in the last row—deliberately not next to anyone—and wait.

Vic taps his fingers once on the table. "We need to fill Six and Seven. Thoughts?"

Caleb doesn't even hesitate. "I've shortlisted five candidates. Two from Year Eleven, three from Twelve. All with proven track records for obedience, clean transcripts, and skill sets we can utilize. Matvey Donkin is the best candidate. Half-Russian on his mother's side with ties to the Russian mob. He doesn't talk, doesn't flinch, and I've seen him disassemble a phone with one hand."

Adrian groans like he's in a soap opera. "Christ, Caleb. Did you run background checks or schedule a date with them?"

Caleb's jaw twitches. "This isn't a popularity contest."

"That's exactly what this is." Adrian smiles lazily. "Which is why we don't need another emotionally dead sociopath in the mix. The last one's in the hospital, remember?"

I flick my eyes to Vic. No reaction.

Caleb straightens in his seat. "What we need is someone who can follow a plan. Not someone who posts gym thirst traps and hopes it qualifies as intimidation."

Adrian leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'd argue brand image is strategy. The Seven doesn't survive because we're all emotionally constipated. We survive because people want to either fear us or fuck us. Matvey's not exactly turning heads."

"Neither are your recommendations. Oscar Sandoval cried during midterms and plagiarized a French poem for Valentine's Day. That's your Number Six?"

Adrian laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "You're just mad I got promoted ahead of you."

Caleb doesn't even blink. "I'm mad you're lazy. I do the schematics. I do the blackmail files. I rerouted a donor's entire threat campaign last semester while you were busy oiling your hair."

Adrian's grin sharpens. "And yet, somehow, I'm still Number Three. It's almost like Vic prefers charisma to creepy spreadsheets."

Vic lifts a brow but says nothing. Watching. Always watching.

Dean shifts by the door but still doesn't speak.

I lean back and fold my arms, letting their voices ricochet. Caleb's surgical, Adrian's casual knives. Both trying to win Vic's nod, but they're stabbing sideways now—hoping one of them bleeds.

Vic finally raises a hand. The room stops.

"I want full profiles. SWOT analysis. We vote, same time tomorrow."

Caleb nods, already swiping through his tablet.

Adrian sighs. "Sure. I'll make mine pretty, since we're apparently doing resumes now."

Vic looks at me last. "You've been quiet, Mai."

"I'm observing," I say, expressionless. "That's what you brought me in for, isn't it?"

Something flashes in his eyes—approval, maybe. Or curiosity. It's hard to tell with Vic. His face is carved from stone and old money.

He says nothing. Just rises.