Prep Session

The classroom lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows on the clean linoleum floor. The walls, lined with posters on logic patterns and math tricks, bore the quiet seriousness of rooms designed for academic warfare. Rows of desks faced the chalkboard, where formulas from a prior session still lingered in faded white scrawl.

Sarah sat near the front, her back straight, a set of practice questions fanned neatly before her. A timer on her desk ticked with mechanical precision—fifty-nine minutes left. She gripped her pencil like it was an anchor.

Outside the room, Mia hovered in the doorway, partially hidden by the frame. She didn't enter. Her eyes remained on Sarah, scanning every movement—the tilt of her head as she reread a question, the furrow between her brows, the faint bounce of her knee when the pencil paused.

Sarah didn't look up.

She was deep in it.

Mia's shoulders loosened by a fraction.

She had waited until the classroom emptied from the previous session. Then made sure this seat would be open. She'd intercepted the flyers, checked the schedule, ensured the prep workshop would be quiet but comprehensive. Just the right level of pressure.

Now it was happening. Sarah was here.

And she hadn't run.

The scratch of pencil against paper filtered into the hallway. Mia leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes briefly, listening.

Hope curled in her chest, cautious and glowing.

She wanted this to work—not just for the prep session, but for everything it represented. Forward motion. A step out of survival mode. A claim on something Sarah had once thought beyond her reach.

But even as that hope pulsed, doubt rose beneath it.

Was it too soon?

She opened her eyes again. Sarah was flipping to the next page now, checking her answer against the next set.

Her shoulders were tense, but not frozen.

Still fighting.

Mia's lips pressed into a thin line.

She wasn't just watching for success. She was guarding against collapse.

Inside, the proctor—a soft-spoken grad student with thick glasses—walked between desks, glancing at timers and pacing gently. She didn't say a word.

The room was still, save for the occasional shuffle of paper or tap of eraser.

At Sarah's desk, a faint sweat glistened at her temple, catching the yellow pool of lamplight. Her breath moved in controlled cycles, but her jaw clenched as the questions grew more abstract.

Across the room, a mechanical wall clock ticked toward the hour. Each sound echoed louder now. Louder in Mia's ears, too.

This was what preparation looked like. But it wasn't just academic.

It was psychological warfare.

Mia knew that all too well.

She stepped back slightly, pacing just outside the door. Her eyes flicked toward a bulletin board plastered with fliers. Most were old. A few curled at the corners.

One caught her eye.

Supplemental Workshop – Advanced Reasoning Skills. Location TBD. Details Announced Today.

It hadn't been there an hour ago.

Her breath stalled. Then quickened.

She moved toward it, fingers brushing the edge. Someone had handwritten beneath the heading:

Announced 3:00 PM. Workshop begins at 6.

No signature.

She checked the clock. It was 3:08.

Back inside, Sarah had just finished the first section. She shook out her hand and stretched her fingers briefly, rolling her wrist before diving into the next part. Her eyes were sharper now. Focus deeper.

Mia hesitated, then took a photo of the new flyer. Sent it to her secure folder. She would investigate later.

For now, she stepped back into her observation post.

Sarah was still writing. Still steady.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The timer marked each second, but Mia had already started counting something else:

How many moves left until this system tipped?

Because this wasn't just a test anymore.

It was a signal.

And someone else had just made their move.

She studied the flyer again, running her fingertip along the margin. Something about the paper—its grain, the exactness of the type—felt too polished to be last-minute. That meant someone had prepared it long before today, before the public announcement.

A plant.

She exhaled slowly and returned her gaze to Sarah.

She was now at the third section—data analysis. Her lips pressed tight, brows furrowed in that precise expression Mia had come to recognize: full absorption, but nearing the edge of cognitive fatigue.

Mia's grip tightened slightly on the doorframe. She counted Sarah's breaths. Four slow inhales before the pencil moved again.

Then steady rhythm returned.

Outside the window, dusk crept in across the field. The sky bloomed in muted indigos and burnt orange, shadows lengthening against the outer wall.

The prep session's final minutes ticked away.

When the timer rang, a soft chime rather than a blare, Sarah lowered her pencil with a breathless exhale. She didn't smile, but she didn't flinch either.

The proctor called time gently, collecting papers row by row.

Sarah stacked her sheet carefully, double-checked her name, then stood.

Her legs wobbled faintly from the hour of stillness, but she steadied.

Mia stepped away from the door before she was noticed.

By the time Sarah exited, Mia was gone.

But her shadow lingered at the end of the hallway, watching from a turn beyond the vending machines.

She saw Sarah stretch her neck, shake out her arms, and pause by the board.

She saw her notice the new flyer.

She saw her tilt her head, lips parting in confusion.

Then she saw the flicker of resolve cross her face.

Sarah took a photo of it, too.

Then she turned and walked toward the stairs with purpose.

Mia exhaled, long and silent.

Whatever came next—Sarah was moving.

And Mia would be ready.

Still, she lingered longer than necessary.

She replayed the image of Sarah in her seat—the way her hands moved, the steadiness despite uncertainty. It wasn't perfect performance Mia had hoped for.

It was resilience.

And that meant more.

The supplemental flyer still buzzed in her pocket, its presence a reminder: the test wasn't over.

It was evolving.

She tucked her phone away and turned from the hallway.

Shadows shifted as she moved, stretching ahead of her. The air outside had cooled, thick with the scent of grass and faint chalk dust clinging to her sleeves.

She didn't look back.

But she didn't walk away, either.

She waited.

She thought about the time. About 6 p.m. sharp.

She thought about where that workshop might be.

She tapped her knuckles against the metal railing at the edge of the stairwell.

If someone wanted Sarah to attend that session, they had ensured the bait was subtle—barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for.

And Sarah had seen it.

Which meant Mia had less time than she'd hoped.

The stakes were shifting.

The next move had to be precise.

She adjusted her coat collar, drew a breath, and disappeared into the stairwell's descending dark.