The results of the mock exam were posted on the bulletin board like a death warrant. A sea of students swarmed the hallway, but I didn't need to push through the crowd to know the outcome. The silence from Class 9 was deafening.

I leaned against the far wall, my arms crossed, waiting. Finally, the crowd parted as Lu Shaodong strolled down the hall. He looked like he'd just woken up from a nap—untucked shirt, messy hair, and that insufferable, sleepy confidence. He didn't even look at the list. He just looked at me.

"Rank 1: Lu Shaodong – 298/300," someone whispered in the crowd. "Rank 2: Ling Yin – 297/300."

One point. A single, agonizing point.

Lu stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. He leaned one hand against the wall beside my head, trapping me in his space. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"One point, Owl," he murmured, his voice laced with honeyed poison. "I believe that means you owe me a semester of physics homework. My bag is in the classroom. Don't be late."

I felt the blood rushing to my face, not from shyness, but from pure, unadulterated rage. I opened my mouth to snap back, but a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"Lu Shaodong! Ling Yin! My office. Now."

Mr. Zhang, the head of the Physics Department and the most feared man in school, was standing at the end of the hall. His expression was grimmer than usual.

We followed him in silence. Inside the cramped, paper-filled office, Mr. Zhang didn't sit down. He tossed a glossy brochure onto the desk. The National Youth Physics Olympiad.

"This school has a reputation to uphold," Mr. Zhang began, pacing the small room. "For the last three years, we've lost the gold to our rivals at North High. This year, I'm changing the strategy. No more individual entries. We are sending a duo."

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"You two," Mr. Zhang pointed a gnarled finger at us. "Lu, you have the most intuitive grasp of theoretical mechanics I've ever seen. But your lab reports are a disaster. Ling Yin, your data analysis and experimental precision are flawless, but you lack the 'wild' imagination needed for the advanced theory sections. Together, you are the perfect candidate. Apart, you're just runners-up."

"No," we said in unison.

Lu scoffed, shifting his weight. "I don't play well with others, Zhang. Especially not with someone who probably organizes her pens by ink level."

"And I don't work with people who think 'intuition' is a substitute for actual methodology," I added, glaring at Lu.

Mr. Zhang slammed his palm on the desk. "This isn't a request. The school board has already approved it. If you win the national gold, you both get a full-ride scholarship recommendation to the university of your choice. If you refuse, I'll find two other students who are hungry enough for it, and you both lose your 'Top Student' privileges for the semester. That includes your private study room access, Ling Yin. And Lu... your 'no-uniform' pass is revoked."

Lu's jaw tightened. For a guy who acted like he didn't care about anything, he valued his freedom above all else. And for me, that scholarship was my only ticket out of my stepfather's house.

"Fine," Lu spat the word out like it was bitter.

"Fine," I whispered, feeling like I'd just signed a contract with the devil.

"Good," Mr. Zhang straightened his glasses. "The basement lab is yours from 5:00 PM to 9:00 PM every day. Start tonight. And try not to kill each other. The equipment is expensive."

As we walked out of the office, the air between us was thick with friction. Lu didn't stop walking, but he tossed a comment over his shoulder.

"5:00 PM sharp, Owl. And leave the black-rimmed attitude at the door. We're doing this my way."

"Your way involves a lot of guessing and luck, Lu," I called out. "My way involves actually winning."

He stopped, turned, and for the first time, he didn't smirk. He looked at me with a strange, calculating intensity. "Then I guess it's a good thing we're stuck together. Because I hate losing even more than I hate people like you."

He disappeared into the throng of students, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The basement lab was at the very end of the oldest building on campus. It was cold, smelled of ozone and dust, and was tucked away from the rest of the world. It was the perfect place for a breakthrough—or a disaster.

When I arrived at 4:59 PM, the door was already open. The lights were low, and the hum of the old server in the corner was the only sound. Lu was already there, but he wasn't at a desk. He was sitting on top of the lab table, a soldering iron in one hand and a dismantled circuit board in the other.

He didn't look up when I entered. "You're late."

"The clock says 4:59," I countered, dropping my heavy bag on the floor with a loud thud.

"If you're not early, you're late," he muttered, finally looking up. The blue light from the circuit board reflected in his dark eyes, making him look less like a high school rebel and more like a mad scientist.

He hopped off the table, moving with a fluid, cat-like grace. He walked toward me until he was close enough that I could see the stray ink smudge on his thumb.

"Let's get one thing straight, Ling Yin," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "In this lab, you're not the 'Perfect Scholar,' and I'm not the 'Bad Boy.' We're just two people trying to win a prize. If you can't handle that, leave now."

I met his gaze, refusing to blink. "I can handle anything you throw at me, Lu Shaodong. Just don't get in my way."

"Deal," he whispered.

For the next four hours, we didn't speak. The only sounds were the scratching of pens and the clink of glassware. But as the clock ticked toward 9:00 PM, I realized something terrifying.

He was fast. Brilliantly, terrifyingly fast. He solved problems in two lines that took me a page of derivations. But every time he made a reckless assumption, I caught it. Every time I got stuck in a loop of over-analysis, he pointed out a shortcut.

It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was the first time in my life I felt like I had a true rival.

As we packed up to leave, I noticed a small, folded piece of paper on my bag. I opened it.

You missed a decimal point on page 3. Fixed it for you. Try to keep up tomorrow.

I looked up, but he was already out the door, his silhouette disappearing into the moonlit hallway.

I looked at the corrected decimal point. He was right.

"Jerk," I whispered, but for the first time, there was no sting in the word. Just a spark of something new.