The crowd had thinned, leaving pockets of calm. Afternoon light slanted through skylights, painting quiet grids across the cafeteria floor.

Zachary leaned back in his chair, chopsticks poised like a conductor’s baton.
“So—what did you both answer for the virtual-construct dilemma? Question 612, the malfunctioning simulation core during a rescue trial.”

Jenny blinked.
“Oh, that one! I diverted the AI-assist to prioritize trapped civilians’ vitals instead of terrain mapping. It tanked the environment feed, but at least half the virtual people lived.”

Tom tilted his head.
“You sacrificed visibility for certainty.”

“It felt right,” she said quietly. “If it were real, I’d rather save the ones I can see than chase ghosts through fog.”

Zachary grinned.
“Admirable. I rerouted the corrupted field into a loopback illusion—the enemy AI saw twenty decoys instead of five. Risky, but fun.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Creative misuse of system error. Clever.”

Zachary tapped the table. “And you, Anderson? You haven’t confessed your method.”

“I pulled the plug,” Tom said simply.

Both of them stared.

He elaborated after a pause.
“The simulation was compromised beyond control. Restart the node, wipe corrupted variables, re-enter with a new team. Sometimes retreat is the only survivable move.”

Zachary laughed under his breath.
“You’re the kind who’d blow the bridge rather than let it fall into enemy hands.”

Jenny frowned, half-amused.
“And somehow he still passes with distinction.”

“Because he’s probably right,” Zachary said. “The AI computes multiple outcomes and ranks probabilities based on scenario keywords. A clean restart avoids systemic bias. Good answer—very good. The faculty will keep the file on you.”

They traded a few more post-exam theories—Jenny’s practical fixes, Zachary’s stylish exploits, Tom’s surgical demolitions. Three philosophies orbiting the same gravity.

“So,” Zachary said, spinning his pen cap. “Virtual-Technology Ethics Test, #608. Five rescue drones. Civilian survival versus structural containment. Command hierarchy and moral override. Thoughts?”

Jenny leaned forward.
“Lives first. Program a triage core—children, elders, injured. Save as many as possible. Buildings can be rebuilt.”

“Containment first,” Zachary countered.
“If the structure collapses, casualties multiply. Protect the spine; patch the limbs later. Otherwise tomorrow’s rescues never launch.”

“Markets again?” Jenny teased.

He smiled faintly. “Ambulances run on funding.”

Tom’s pen rolled once across the table.
“Teach the AI to choose once,” he said. “Lock the override, then record the cost. Make it remember.”

Zachary nodded slowly. “A system that learns regret. Interesting.”

“So it doesn’t forget people,” Jenny added.

“That too,” Tom said.

Silence hovered—thoughtful, not awkward. In it, something small and solid formed: respect. The beginnings of a circle unspoken.

Zachary leaned back.
“You read like a problem set, Anderson. Useful. Quiet. Dangerous if mishandled.”

Jenny laughed. “Then handle carefully.”

“No promises.”

Both of them looked at Tom; he only sipped his tea.

Evening settled over Semesta like slow gold turning to blue. Glass corridors glimmered with resonance lamps as students drifted toward dorms, laughter echoing against high ceilings.

Tom, Jenny, and Zachary crossed a skyway above the garden where the lake mirrored the first stars.

“My family runs Adam Holdings,” Zachary said. “Parent entity: Adam Corporation. Headquarters at the Central Trade Hub, Verdalis capital. Import-export, logistics, finance. National reach—soon inter-Virdan. My father calls it moving the world’s pulse.”

Jenny blinked.
“Damian Adam—B-rank hero turned industrialist. People say he sits in Verdalis’ inner circle.”

“People exaggerate,” Zachary said, though pride ghosted his mouth.
“He taught me two things: strength builds hours; trade builds years. My ambition’s both.”

“Trading swords for ledgers?” Jenny teased.

“If the ledger moves armies, why not?” He smiled.
“Besides, better dorms have better networks. I need Top Ten. My IQ score must save me from the tragedy of my push-ups.”

“Luxury,” Jenny said.

“Proximity,” he corrected. “To the people who change the world.”

Tom’s voice was soft.
“Careful what you wish for.”

They reached the balcony overlooking the dormitories. Below them, thousands of lights bloomed like constellations.

“What do your parents do?” Zachary asked.

Jenny replied, “They’re both government servants—my father teaches junior school, my mother’s a hospital clerk.”

“What about you, Tom?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes shifted, distant.
“My parents died a long time ago.”

“Tom… I’m sorry for your loss.”

The air turned heavy. Zachary stayed silent. Only the sound of their footsteps filled the space that followed.

Dormitory Walk

Evening air carried a mild chill as they left the cafeteria wing. Light rain stitched silver lines between lamps. Dormitory lights blinked on one by one. Laughter drifted from open windows; footsteps echoed up the stairwells.

The trio walked through the covered bridge linking the main hall to the residential towers. Jenny’s voice filled the spaces where silence might have grown.

“I heard dorm assignments update tomorrow. Top Ten get upper suites—bigger rooms, private terminals, lake view.”

Zachary exhaled wistfully.
“That would be poetic justice. My physical score was… let’s say not Top Ten material.”

Jenny smiled. “I saw. You almost tripped over the pressure sensors.”

“I was performing experimental maneuvers,” he deadpanned. “Gravity disagreed.”

Tom chuckled softly—a rare sound.

Zachary pointed at him. “See? Even the silent one appreciates art.”

They reached the dorm atrium. Students streamed up the staircases, buzzing about results or already dreading them. A screen scrolled with temporary rankings—placeholders of rumor and hope.

“I hope my IQ score drags me into Top Ten,” Zachary said with a grin. “Better resources. Softer beds.”

Jenny giggled behind her hand.

Tom’s gaze lingered on the dark lake before turning to the stars reflected above it. Somewhere in that reflection lay tomorrow’s gravity—one that would rearrange everything.

They parted at the landing—Jenny left, Tom and Zachary turned right. Tom paused at the lift lobby, glancing back once at the thin, bright threads that had connected them today.

Every seed of rivalry needs sunlight to grow.

He continued upward, silent and sure.

🌙 End of Episode