CHAPTER 2

I don't know what's worse—the blinding heat of the sun as I walked out of the library, or the heat of my blood boiling after my encounter with Sanjo. I could feel sweat trickling down my back, not because of the temperature, but because of the anger simmering inside me like hot water in my chest.

You need this more than I do, financially speaking.

Those words kept replaying in my mind as I walked back to my dorm room, like a broken record I couldn't silence. No matter how much I tried to avoid it, I couldn't help but think there was some truth to what he said.

I really needed this fellowship. Not just for my CV, but because there was no way I could afford grad school without it. The full scholarship package that came with the Alfonzo Memorial Fellowship was my only ticket out of this country, my only chance to study abroad without burying my family in debt.

But hearing that from him… as if it were a weakness, as if it were a reason to look down on me—it felt like he was slapping me over and over.

When I got to my dorm room, I threw my bag on the bed and collapsed onto it, staring at the ceiling with its crack in the middle that I'd tried to turn into a constellation in my mind. Orion's belt. Or maybe Cassiopeia.

"Ellie? Are you okay?"

I looked toward the door. Mia was standing there, holding her cup of noodles. It was our Friday night ritual—instant ramen and downloaded movies on my old laptop.

"Sanjo," I simply said, and she immediately understood.

"Ah," she nodded, walking in and sitting on her bed. "What did he do this time?"

I took a deep breath, feeling the bitterness clogging my throat. "The usual. Reminded me how insignificant I am compared to him."

Mia laughed, but I could see the annoyance in her eyes on my behalf. "Seriously. Four years, and you two still haven't gotten tired of each other."

"Tell him that," I muttered, sitting up and grabbing our pot from under the bed. "Come on, let's cook. I want to forget his face, even if just for tonight."

And for a while, I succeeded. We enjoyed a corny rom-com, with Mia pretending to be the leading lady, and with every scene, I slowly let go of my irritation toward Sanjo.

Until my phone pinged.

Prof. Rivas: Meeting tomorrow, 7 AM, Department Conference Room. You and Mr. Alcaraz. Urgent.

I frowned at the text message, feeling the brief peace evaporate.

"Bad news?" Mia asked.

"I don't know," I replied, showing her the message. "But it feels like it. Why?"

I couldn't sleep properly that night. I tossed and turned, wondering what this "urgent" matter could be. Did Prof. Rivas discover that Sanjo copied my research during sophomore year? Or did he find out that I tried to sabotage his PowerPoint presentation last semester? (I didn't actually do that, but I thought about it. Many times.)

6:55 AM. I was sitting in the Department Conference Room, a hot cup of coffee in front of me, but my veins felt like ice when Sanjo walked in. He was wearing a pressed blue polo, looking freshly showered and shaved, while I was in a sweatshirt, jeans, and damp hair I hadn't bothered to blow-dry.

"Good morning," he greeted formally, sitting in the chair farthest from me.

"Hi," I replied curtly, avoiding eye contact.

Prof. Rivas arrived a few minutes later, holding a manila folder filled with papers. He was smiling, but it wasn't his usual smile—it was stiffer, more forced.

"Good morning, Ms. Salvacion, Mr. Alcaraz," he greeted. "Thank you for coming in so early."

"No problem, sir," we replied in unison, and I frowned. I didn't want to jinx it.

"I'll get straight to the point," Prof. Rivas began, sitting between us. "The Ethics Committee received a complaint yesterday about potential academic misconduct."

My throat tightened. Academic misconduct? Who? Me? Sanjo?

"Sir?" Sanjo asked, his voice controlled but tinged with concern. "May I ask what kind of misconduct?"

"It appears that someone submitted nearly identical essays for the Philosophy of Ethics final last semester," Prof. Rivas explained. "One was yours, Mr. Alcaraz, and one was yours, Ms. Salvacion."

My eyes widened. "That's impossible!" I glanced at Sanjo. "Did you—"

"—No," he quickly replied, clearly offended. "I wrote my paper myself."

"As did I," I added, turning back to Prof. Rivas. "Sir, there must be some mistake."

Prof. Rivas shook his head. "The similarities are too significant to be coincidental. Same structure, similar conclusions, even identical quotations in places."

"But how—" Sanjo started, but he suddenly stopped. I saw the realization in his eyes, the same one hitting me.

The study carrels in the library.

We looked at each other, both remembering the days we spent studying in adjacent carrels in the library, particularly in the Philosophy section.

"We… may have used some of the same reference materials," I carefully said to Prof. Rivas. "We often study in the same area of the library."

"And we probably consulted the same sources," Sanjo added. "But I swear, I never saw her paper."

"Nor I his," I said, though I couldn't help but think about how many times I'd glanced at his laptop screen while we were studying. Out of curiosity, of course. To see his research approach. Not because I wanted to copy it.

Prof. Rivas looked at both of us, his expression unreadable. "While that may be the case, the Ethics Committee takes these matters very seriously."

My hands felt cold. Academic dishonesty. The worst possible accusation in our world. An automatic failure, potential expulsion, an indelible mark on our academic records.

"Sir," I struggled to speak, "I've worked so hard for four years. I would never jeopardize that by cheating."

"I believe you both," Prof. Rivas replied gently, and I felt a weight lift off my chest. "But the committee requires a formal investigation and resolution."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sanjo also exhale in relief, though his hands were still clenched on the table.

"What does that entail?" he asked, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

"Normally, a disciplinary hearing, possible suspension pending investigation…" Prof. Rivas began.

My heart sank. Suspension? I couldn't handle suspension, not in my final semester, not before the fellowship decision.

"…but," he continued, "given your exemplary records and the circumstances, I've proposed an alternative."

I sat up straighter, hopeful. "Alternative, sir?"

"A probationary partnership," he said. "Instead of suspension, you two will work together on a joint research project for the department, under my supervision."

"Partnership?" Sanjo repeated, almost choking on the word.

"Yes," Prof. Rivas nodded. "A substantial project that requires collaboration, ethical research practices, and mutual accountability."

Partnership. With Sanjo. The person I've been competing against for four years. The person who seems to exist solely to make my academic life difficult. The person who just yesterday implied I wasn't on his level.

"For how long?" I asked, trying to keep the horror from my voice.

"The remainder of the semester," Prof. Rivas replied. "Until the Alfonzo Fellowship decision is announced."

Two months. Two whole months of forced collaboration with Santiago Alcaraz.

"And if we refuse?" Sanjo asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Prof. Rivas's expression hardened slightly. "Then the Ethics Committee proceeds with the standard investigation protocol. Which, I should warn you, would likely delay the fellowship decision for both of you."

Dead end. No way out.

Sanjo and I looked at each other—the first time we'd made direct eye contact since he entered the room. In his eyes, I saw the same emotions I was feeling: resignation, frustration, and a small flicker of fear.

"I accept the alternative," I quickly said. I didn't really have a choice.

"As do I," Sanjo said, almost in unison with me.

Prof. Rivas nodded, looking satisfied. "Excellent. You'll be researching the ethical implications of algorithmic governance in developing democracies."

I almost gasped. It was a fascinating topic, one of the areas I wanted to explore for my graduate studies. Did he know that?

"You'll have shared access to the department's research lab," Prof. Rivas continued. "I expect you to meet three times weekly, with weekly progress reports submitted every Friday."

I could feel a headache coming on as I thought about the two months ahead—two months of dealing with Sanjo. Two months of debating, arguing, and dealing with his superiority complex.

"Any questions?" Prof. Rivas asked.

"Just one," Sanjo said. "How will this affect our individual fellowship applications?"

Of course that's what he's concerned about.

"If you complete this partnership successfully—" Prof. Rivas emphasized the word 'successfully,' "—then your applications will proceed normally. In fact, demonstrating your ability to collaborate effectively could strengthen both your applications."

Strengthen? It felt like a joke. How could two months of torture help my application?

"Sir," I began, trying not to sound desperate, "given our… history of competition, do you think we're the best partners for each other?"

Prof. Rivas smiled—a genuine smile this time. "Actually, Ms. Salvacion, I think you're exactly what each other needs."

Needs? What could I possibly need from Santiago Alcaraz except for him to disappear from my academic life?

"You have complementary strengths," Prof. Rivas continued. "Mr. Alcaraz's big-picture thinking balances your detail-oriented approach. Your persistence complements his intuitive leaps."

I was on the verge of saying, "But sir, enemies don't need to complement each other," but I held back. Not worth it.

"Now, I'll leave you two to discuss your schedule," Prof. Rivas said, standing and grabbing his bag. "I've reserved the small research lab for you starting tomorrow. 2 PM."

When he left the room, silence fell between Sanjo and me, heavy and uncomfortable.

"So," he began after a few minutes of silence. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."

"Apparently," I replied, still avoiding his gaze.

He stood up, grabbing his backpack. "For the record, I didn't copy your work."

"I know," I said, surprising both of us with my certainty. "You're too proud for that."

A half-smile flickered on his lips. "And you're too principled."

Awkward silence again.

"Tomorrow then. 2 PM," he said, turning to leave.

"Alcaraz," I called before he could walk out the door. He turned, looking slightly puzzled. "Just so we're clear, this changes nothing. We're not friends. We're not partners by choice. After this probation thing, we go back to normal."

The look he gave me was unreadable, a mix of amusement and something else I couldn't identify.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Salvacion," he replied. But instead of irritation, there was something playful in his tone. "Besides, who else would keep me on my toes if not my favorite academic nemesis?"

Favorite? I wasn't sure if that was an insult or not. But before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me alone with my cooling coffee and the overwhelming dread of what the next two months would bring.

I couldn't help but wonder—what was Prof. Rivas really up to? Why did it feel like there was an underlying agenda in pairing the two of us?

And most troubling of all, why couldn't I figure out how I felt when Santiago Alcaraz called me his "favorite nemesis"?

—

"Forced partnership?" Cassie almost shouted when I told her and Mia what had happened, as we ate lunch in the cafeteria. "As in, you have to work with him for two months?"

"Shh!" I warned her, looking around nervously. "The whole campus doesn't know about our… situation yet. And I hope it stays that way."

"Sorry," Cassie whispered, lowering her voice but not her excitement. "But seriously, this is intense. It's like one of those rom-coms where enemies are forced to work together and then they fall in—"

"Don't," I quickly cut her off. "Not funny."

Mia laughed, shaking her head as she ate her fries. "Actually, it's kind of funny. I mean, think about it—you and Mr. Perfect, stuck in a research lab three times a week."

"Torture, you mean," I replied, resting my forehead on the table. "How am I supposed to survive two months with him regularly?"

"Hmm, the same way you survived four years of rivalry?" Mia asked, a hint of a smirk in her voice. "Honestly, Ellie, sometimes I think—"

"Think what?" I asked, looking at her.

"Nothing," Mia shook her head, changing the subject. "So what's the research topic?"

"Algorithmic governance in developing democracies," I replied, and I couldn't help but feel a little excited about the topic itself, even if I didn't want to admit it. "Actually, it's interesting. A perfect blend of political theory and emerging tech."

"'Perfect blend,' huh?" Cassie teased. "Just like you and Sanjo, according to Prof. Rivas."

I threw a crumpled tissue at her. "Stop it."

"Oh, speaking of the devil," Mia whispered, glancing toward the cafeteria entrance.

I followed her gaze, and of course, there he was, walking in with his usual group—fellow academic achievers and student leaders. I noticed how many people looked up as he entered, as if his presence naturally commanded attention.

He was wearing a polo, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled in that deliberate way that probably took him twenty minutes to perfect. It was like he had a spotlight on him, with so many people, mostly freshman and sophomore girls, obviously crushing on him.

Pathetic, I thought, even though I knew there were plenty of campus girls who idolized our "Power Rivals" dynamic. There was even a blog about our "academic showdowns," which Communication Arts majors seemed to love.

But now, it felt different. For once, we had a shared secret—the impending doom of this partnership, the reason behind it. And if the students found out we'd been flagged for potential academic dishonesty…

As if reading my thoughts, he turned and our eyes met. For a second, there was a flash of recognition, a silent acknowledgment of our shared predicament. No smirk, no raised eyebrow, just a brief nod before he turned back to his friends.

"Earth to Ellie," Cassie called, snapping her fingers in front of my face. "You've been staring."

"I'm not staring," I replied defensively, taking a sip of water to hide the slight blush I felt rising to my cheeks. "Just thinking about how to survive this partnership without killing him or myself."

"Well, on the bright side," Mia said, grabbing the last fry, "at least now you have an excuse to find out what shampoo he uses."

"What? Why would I care about—"

"Oh come on, Ellie," Cassie laughed. "You have to admit he has great hair."

"I've literally never noticed his hair," I lied, even though of course, I had. I'd also noticed how the color of his eyes changed depending on what he wore, how his dimple only appeared on his right cheek when he genuinely smiled, and how he always carried an extra pen for his forgetful classmates.

Not that I was paying special attention or anything.

"Whatever you say," Mia winked at me. "But take it from someone who's had an academic rival before—sometimes, the line between hating someone and something else entirely is thinner than you think."

"That's ridiculous," I replied, but I couldn't help but let my gaze linger on Sanjo again, just for a second.

Two months. Two months of forced proximity, shared research, and regular interaction. Two months of proving ourselves to Prof. Rivas, to the Ethics Committee, and ultimately, to the fellowship committee.

For the first time, it wasn't competition between us—it was collaboration.

It sure does sound like hell to me.