Foreigner

Chapter 42: Fracture

The room smells like dust and authority. Late sunlight slips through the tall, barred windows of classroom 301, casting gold and shadow across the warped floorboards. It's quiet except for the occasional squeak of a chair leg or the scratch of a pen on paper. The air holds the kind of tension you can only get when no one knows if they're being judged or chosen.

At the front of the room, near the teacher's desk, Adrian sprawls like he owns it — legs out, one arm hooked lazily over the back of his chair. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows like he's about to get his hands dirty, but everyone knows better. He's showy. Polished. Looking bored on purpose. Next to him but far enough away, Caleb sits with his spine straight and his fingers curled neatly around a fountain pen. There's a sheet of lined paper in front of him, completely blank.

They haven't said much since this trial started. Just enough to make it clear they hate each other.

The trialists — twelve of them — were handed fabricated crisis scenarios an hour ago and told to present their solutions. Most are bullshit. A few have promise. But none of that matters.

They're not being tested for leadership. They're being watched to see who cracks first.

One of them — a wiry kid in a red flannel — wraps up a breathless monologue about student protests and the abuse of power by heads of class. It's not awful. But it rambles. No clear hierarchy, no sense of control. He's still catching his breath when Caleb clears his throat.

"If you want to manage chaos, don't act like you're a part of it," Caleb says, voice steady and slow like he's reading off a diagnosis. "You were disorganized. Emotional. Too quick to sacrifice authority for popularity."

The boy nods, eyes darting to Adrian for mercy. He doesn't get it.

"Wow," Adrian mutters, leaning forward just enough to catch the light. "You sure know how to motivate a team."

Caleb doesn't look at him. "Teams don't need motivation. They need structure."

Adrian smiles — tight, sharp, and mean. "Spoken like someone who's never led one."

Someone snorts. The room stiffens. A few of the trialists shift forward in their chairs, suddenly interested. The show has started.

I sit on the sidelines, perched on a stone windowsill near the front of the class — one boot up on the white stone, notebook open across my knee. I haven't written anything down. I don't need to.

Adrian and Caleb are unraveling all on their own.

Adrian taps the teacher's desk with one finger. "You realize these aren't your chess pieces, right?"

Caleb lifts his head slightly, the cracked gold of the window catching the edge of his glasses. "No. These are candidates. The difference is that chess pieces at least understand their limitations."

Adrian leans forward. His voice is lower now, like it's just between them. "Careful. You might choke on that superiority complex."

I turn a page in my notebook. Not because I need to — just to hear the sound of it.

The next trialist is called. He stumbles up front and glances between the two of them like he's waiting to get hit.

Neither Adrian nor Caleb is watching him.

They only see each other.

¤ ¤ ¤

The next evening, the second trial hits close to home.

The library always feels colder after hours. The heating's uneven, and the lamps flicker like they're nervous to be here. They've turned the upstairs research area into a viewing gallery. Trialists are scattered in private study rooms — glass boxes, each sealed off from the others. Inside, they're being fed selective intel. Lies, mostly. Half-truths spliced with just enough fact to make it feel believable.