CHAPTER 3

At 1:55 PM, I stood outside Research Lab #3, clutching my laptop, research notes, and a tumbler of strong coffee. The coffee wasn't just to keep me awake—it was to give me something to hold onto, something to ground me for what was coming.

Prof. Rivas appeared at the other end of the hallway, smiling at me. "Good afternoon, Ms. Salvacion. Early, as usual."

"Punctuality is professionalism, sir," I replied, trying not to sound too eager. I didn't want him to think I was excited about this project.

"Indeed," he nodded, unlocking the door to the research lab. "Mr. Alcaraz should be here soon."

As if on cue, I heard footsteps from the other end of the hallway. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was—I already recognized the sound of his walk. Quick but unhurried. Confident. Calculated.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Sanjo greeted before glancing in my direction. "Salvacion."

"Alcaraz," I replied curtly.

The three of us walked into the lab. It wasn't very big—two desks facing each other, a small sofa on the side, and a whiteboard on the wall. There was a window overlooking the university quad, but the blinds were half-drawn, so only filtered light came through.

"I've given you both access to the department server," Prof. Rivas said as he set his laptop on the table. "All the research materials you might need, plus the project outline. You'll be expected to deliver a comprehensive report and presentation by the end of the semester."

We both nodded.

"Good. Now, I have a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes, but I wanted to get you both settled first," he continued. "I'll check in on Friday to see your initial progress."

"Yes, sir," we replied in unison, which made Prof. Rivas chuckle.

"You two are already in sync," he teased. "That's a good sign."

I rolled my eyes as Prof. Rivas left, leaving the two of us in tense silence.

Sanjo was the first to break it, pulling out his laptop and notebook. "I've already done some preliminary research on algorithmic governance. Have you done any background reading?"

"Of course," I replied quickly, sitting at the desk across from him. "I've been following this field since junior year."

"Of course you have," he muttered, but I caught a small smile on his lips.

We started setting up at our respective desks, quietly organizing our materials. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clicks of keyboards and the occasional flipping of pages.

"So," I began, uncomfortable with the awkward silence. "How do you want to approach this?"

He looked at me, slightly surprised that I had initiated the conversation. "We should probably start with a literature review, then narrow down our focus to developing democracies."

"I think we should look specifically at the Philippine context," I said. "It's under-researched compared to other Southeast Asian countries."

"That's... actually a good idea," he replied, sounding surprised.

"You don't have to sound so shocked," I shot back, a little defensive. "I do have original ideas, you know."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I just... I was thinking the same thing."

"Oh." I paused, unsure how to react to the fact that we'd been thinking alike.

Awkward silence again.

He seemed to try to break it. "I have a contact at the Department of Information and Communications Technology who might be able to provide us with data."

"Really? That would be helpful," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral. "I have some connections with local civil society groups that are actively involved in digital rights advocacy."

He nodded, looking slightly impressed. "That could give us a good balanced perspective—government and civil society."

"Exactly," I said, feeling a little proud that he agreed with my idea.

"Look at us," he said, almost laughing, "working together like actual academics instead of trying to destroy each other."

I couldn't help but smile. "Don't get used to it, Alcaraz. This is purely circumstantial cooperation."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Salvacion," he replied, but there was a playfulness in his tone that I wasn't used to hearing.

We started working, sharing references and readings related to the topic. To my surprise, collaborating with him wasn't as impossible as I'd thought. He had a system for organizing research that was surprisingly compatible with my methodology. When I made a point, he didn't immediately contradict it; instead, he extended it or asked thoughtful questions.

Is this what it feels like to actually work *with* someone instead of against them?

After an hour, I stood up to get water from the dispenser in the corner of the room. As I filled my tumbler, I noticed he had also stood up and was walking toward the whiteboard.

"I think we should map out the key areas we want to focus on," he said, grabbing a marker and starting to write.

I walked over to the whiteboard, standing next to him. "We should include the ethical frameworks first before going into specific applications."

"Hmm, I was thinking we'd start with the applications and then extract the ethical principles from there," he replied. "A more inductive approach."

"But that's—" I started to object, but I stopped when I realized he was looking directly at me, closer than I expected.

For a second, time seemed to stop. I noticed a small scar above his right eyebrow. I also noticed that the shade of brown in his eyes changed slightly when the light from the window hit them.

I looked away, clearing my throat. "That's not how I would approach it, but I can see your point."

"We can try both," he said softly, and I could feel him studying the sudden shift in my tone. "Top-down and bottom-up."

"Fine," I replied curtly, stepping back a little.

He put the marker down, looking slightly puzzled. "Is there a problem, Salvacion?"

"No," I said quickly, but it was obvious something was off.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Because one minute we're actually having a productive conversation, and the next you're acting like I suggested we burn down the library."

I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Old habits. I'm used to questioning everything you suggest."

"Right." He nodded, going back to drawing the concept map on the whiteboard. "Four years of academic warfare isn't easy to forget."

We worked in silence for the next hour. Me at the desk, him at the whiteboard. Occasional exchanges of ideas, but it felt like we'd reverted to a formal, distant interaction.

Until, "Salvacion, can you check if these datasets would be relevant?" he asked, pointing to his laptop screen.

I stood up and walked over to look over his shoulder. I could see the screen, but not clearly enough to make out the data tables.

"I can't see clearly from here," I said, leaning in a little to get a better look.

At that exact moment, he shifted back in his chair, causing his shoulder to brush against my arm. It felt like an electric impulse, a jolt that spread across my skin. We both froze, and in our simultaneous attempts to adjust—him forward, me backward—his chair almost rolled away.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

"It's fine," I replied, equally quickly.

I read the datasets on his screen, keeping my arms crossed at a safe distance. "These look good, but we need more recent data. Most of these are from 2018."

"True," he nodded, immediately focusing on the screen and avoiding eye contact. "I'll see if we can get access to more current figures."

I went back to my desk, but I couldn't help but notice the pounding of my pulse, the heat rising in my neck. What was happening to me? I'd been in close proximity to him before—debates, group work, crowded lecture halls. Why did it feel... different this time?

Focus, Ellie. Focus.

After a few more hours of wrestling not just with the research but also with my own strange reactions, we started packing up.

"Same time on Wednesday?" he asked as he closed his laptop.

"Yeah," I replied, avoiding direct eye contact.

We walked out of the research lab together, and as the door closed, we both realized we didn't know who was supposed to lock it. We both reached for the doorknob at the same time, and our fingers brushed.

It felt like I'd been burned, and I quickly pulled my hand back. "Sorry, you go ahead."

"No, it's okay," he said, stepping back too. "You can do it."

"Alcaraz," I said, exasperated. "Just lock the damn door."

He paused, and I saw a subtle shift in his expression. There was a flash of something in his eyes—annoyance? Amusement? Something else?—before he reached out and locked the door.

"Happy now?" he asked, his voice dropping slightly lower than usual.

For some inexplicable reason, the air around us felt heavier. Maybe it was just my lingering resentment toward him.

"Ecstatic," I replied sarcastically, but it came out almost as a whisper. Why was I whispering?

We looked at each other for a split second longer than necessary. No movement, no words. Just a silent acknowledgment of... something. Something neither of us was ready to name.

Then the spell broke when my phone buzzed loudly in my pocket.

"I should go," I said, pulling out my phone. It was a text from Mia. "My roommate needs me."

"Right," he nodded, letting go of the doorknob and stepping back a few paces. "See you Wednesday."

"Wednesday," I repeated, slowly walking away.

In the elevator, I had to take several deep breaths to steady myself. What was that? That weird tension? That strange heaviness in the air? Was it anger? Irritation? Or some other kind of tension altogether?

I didn't know, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

When I got back to the dorm room, Mia was waiting for me, sprawled on her bed.

"So?" she asked excitedly. "How was the first day of torture with your archnemesis?"

"It was..." I paused, unsure how to describe it. Weird? Uncomfortable? Surprisingly tolerable? "...fine."

"Fine?" she repeated, clearly disappointed by the lack of drama. "That's it?"

"What did you expect?" I replied, dropping my bag. "That we'd try to kill each other in the research lab?"

"Not exactly. But at least something more exciting than 'fine,'" she laughed.

"Sorry to disappoint," I said, desperately trying to sound casual. "Turns out, he's capable of collaborating without looking constipated."

Mia laughed. "Progress! Maybe by the end of this, you'll even become friends."

"Not gonna happen," I said, lying down on my bed and staring at the ceiling. "This is purely professional."

"If you say so," she winked. "But you know, the way you two always go at each other... it's like there's something else you're both holding back."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I shot back, feeling the sudden heat in my cheeks.

"Nothing," she said with a mischievous smile. "Just saying... sometimes, anger is just a cover for other feelings."

"That's ridiculous," I laughed, but the laugh didn't reach my throat.

Because I remembered that moment—the half-second when our fingers brushed, the few seconds we locked eyes in the hallway, the brief brush of our shoulders.

And the scarier realization—that this might only be the first day of two months filled with moments like these.

Close calls.

That night, before going to sleep, I looked at the scoreboard on my wall again. Ellie vs. Sanjo. Four years of competition, rivalry, and battles.

I grabbed a marker and added a new entry:

Algorithmic Governance Research: Ongoing vs. Ongoing