Her eyes were clear—clear as the slanted, broken sunlight that spills across a room in late afternoon.
Jaynara Stevens still had her arms locked around Ginevra Volkova, hugging her so tightly that the joy inside her couldn't find words, could only exist as warmth and breath and trembling laughter pressed into someone else's shoulder.
Ginevra, caught in the embrace, went blank for a beat.
It wasn't Jayna's rank that stunned her.
It was the kiss.
Just a moment ago—so quick, so unthinking—Jayna's lips had touched her cheek. And in that instant, Ginevra felt as if her heart had stopped and forgotten how to start again.
Jayna smelled like early autumn fruit—sweet and clean, like September itself had leaned down and brushed past.
"Can you believe it?" Jayna finally released her a little, still glowing, still half-dazed with disbelief. She grabbed Ginevra's arm and pointed frantically at the honor-board behind the glass. "I got eighty-nine! Eighty-nine! I didn't even think I could—my God, I didn't think I could!"
Ginevra didn't really hear the words.
She just stared at Jayna.
As if she hadn't fully come back to the world yet.
"Giny," Jayna teased, grinning so wide it looked like it might crack her face open with happiness, "you're shocked too, aren't you? I knew you didn't expect it."
Then Jayna reached up and lightly pinched Ginevra's cheek—soft, affectionate, meant to snap her out of it.
Ginevra blinked.
And suddenly Jayna's smiling face was too close, too bright in her vision. Ginevra's gaze dropped—against her will—to Jayna's lips.
A tiny tilt of her head, a reflexive escape.
And the heat started at the tips of her ears and spread fast, furious, uncontrollable. She had no defense against how quickly her face betrayed her.
She shoved the bottle of water she'd been holding into Jayna's hands, the motion abrupt, as if distance could be created by giving her something to hold.
Jayna froze with the bottle clutched awkwardly in her fingers. She looked at Ginevra's turned-away face—those red ears, that stiff posture—
—and only then did her brain finally catch up to what her body had done.
That kiss.
Oh God.
What had possessed her?
A hot rush of embarrassment flooded her so completely it felt like she might evaporate on the spot.
I'm dead. I'm actually dead.
How could I do that? In public? On her face?
Ginevra's the cleanest person alive—she has that kind of pristine, terrifying neatness—and I just—
What does she think of me now?
Her mind spiraled wildly, grasping for impossible solutions.
Can time rewind? Can God delete the last thirty seconds? Please. Please. I'll be good. I'll never do anything impulsive again.
Jayna's face was burning. She squeezed the water bottle so hard it crinkled beneath her grip, and then, like someone stepping onto ice while praying it wouldn't crack, she reached for Ginevra's hand.
"I… I shouldn't have gotten carried away," Jayna said, voice small, brave in the way only the desperate can be brave. "I didn't mean to… do that. Say something, okay? Please."
Ginevra still looked… unplugged.
As if her brain had blue-screened and refused to reboot.
That kiss had done real damage.
Jayna waited for a response.
None came.
So—under the gaze of the crowd, fueled by panic and shamelessness—Jayna threw herself at Ginevra like a koala. Arms and legs, clinging, pleading with her whole body: Forgive me. Don't hate me. Don't look at me like I've ruined something.
Ginevra felt the sudden weight and immediately pushed at Jayna's flailing hands, trying to restore order. She steadied herself, breathed once, and forced her voice back into something calm.
"I didn't think you'd score that high," she said.
Her eyes flicked to the honor-board.
Jayna's name was there, printed neatly as fact.
Jayna's heart leapt—because that meant Ginevra wasn't angry.
She flashed dimples instantly, relief making her giddy. She hooked her arm through Ginevra's again as if she had a right to be there. "I'm closer to you now," she said, almost singing. "Maybe someday I really will catch up to you."
Ginevra lifted her gaze, looked at the board as though measuring the distance between them in numbers and time, and then said slowly, evenly, "Then I'll look forward to it."
Jayna leaned in near her ear, lowering her voice like they were sharing a secret in the middle of the noise. "I heard people talking. You're seriously famous. Everyone treats you like the final boss. Before I catch you, don't you dare slip, okay…?"
Ginevra glanced at Jayna's sly, delighted expression. "You're worrying too much."
From far away came a familiar voice—bright, loud, unmistakably Calista Renner.
"Wow—so Jayna really is here," Calista called out, strolling toward them with her signature swagger. "Ginevra told me I'd find you. She wasn't wrong."
Calista stopped in front of them, staring at Jayna's grin—the kind that refused to close her mouth no matter how hard she tried.
"You seriously made it?" Calista demanded, like she needed to see blood tests to believe.
"Yes!" Jayna nodded violently, face screaming Praise me. Admire me. Tell me I'm amazing.
Calista's eyebrows knitted together in suspicion. She turned and marched straight to the honor-board, scanning the list with a scowl. She didn't even care about her own rank—stuck in the same mediocre nowhere as always.
She checked the top.
First place—still Ginevra. Of course.
Then she started counting.
And then—
"What the hell!" Calista yanked up the sleeves of her tracksuit like she might fight the glass itself. "Eighty-nine?! You're eighty-nine?! Is that real?!"
She looked again. Twice. Like the ink might rearrange itself.
"You improved way too fast," Calista said, genuinely shaken. "This is insane."
Jayna rubbed the tip of her nose, smugness returning like a crown. "Obviously that's because of my personal tutor—Teacher Volkova. Beautiful, kind, and generous with her genius. Exclusive lessons. No secrets held back." She pointed at herself as if presenting a masterpiece. "Plus me—hard work makes up for lack of talent. Perfect combination."
Calista immediately transformed into a sycophant. She sidled up to Ginevra, dropping her voice into a pleading whisper.
"Teacher Volkova," she begged, leaning in far too close, "how about you take me too? One more student won't kill you. And I'm smarter than Jayna—easier to teach."
Ginevra's brow creased. She stepped aside instinctively, uncomfortable with contact, and refused with gentle precision.
"It's her effort," she said. "Not mine."
Calista sucked on her lollipop, already knowing she'd lose, but still offended anyway. Beautiful and kind? Please. Ginevra looked at her like she carried a contagious disease.
Jayna hooked Calista's arm, dragging her away from her humiliation with a bright, forgiving smile. "Tonight's on me. You can eat whatever you want."
Calista huffed, but her mood visibly improved. "That's better. I'm eating something expensive."
"Fine, fine," Jayna laughed, pushing her along. "Eat until you turn into a little piglet and then see who still wants you."
As she pushed Calista, Jayna leaned closer to Ginevra's ear again, soft and coaxing. "You're coming too. It's a celebration. Please?"
Ginevra looked at her—one quiet glance that somehow held both restraint and consent—and nodded.
They hadn't even reached the entrance of the indoor gym when Phoebe Sinclair—the newly appointed class president—ran up to them, face tight with worry.
"What's wrong, Sinclair?" Calista asked.
Phoebe was serious, upright, and painfully responsible. Jayna liked her for that. This was the first time Jayna had seen Phoebe look genuinely anxious.
"Everyone went to check the honor-board," Phoebe said quickly. "Our volleyball court was supposed to be ours this period. But all the Class Two girls came. They've got more people and they've taken over the space. Johnson went to talk to Coach Walker."
"Taken over?" Calista looked toward the court, irritation rising. "That's not how it works. Coach Walker said we were playing volleyball this period. Since when can Class Two just decide to occupy it?"
"Their class president—Rory Bennett—already spoke to their coach," Phoebe said, voice heavy. "We'll probably have to give it up."
Jayna stared at the gym with a sinking feeling. The indoor court was cool, air-conditioned, a mercy in this heat. Class Two girls were already tossing volleyballs around like they owned the place.
Ethan was too polite, too careful. What was he going to do—ask nicely and get steamrolled?
Calista groaned. "If we don't get the court, we'll be forced outside. I'm not running laps in this sun. I'll peel like a lizard."
"Maybe you and the academic rep can go talk again," Calista suggested, surprisingly practical. "Try to negotiate for just a small corner. We don't need a full court—our class doesn't even have that many girls."
Jayna agreed. She turned and nudged Ginevra forward, encouraging her to go with Phoebe.
Ginevra frowned slightly—she wasn't built for bargaining—but she followed anyway.
Jayna, with nothing better to do and a hunger for drama, dragged Calista along to watch.
As Jayna looked around, she noticed Lydia Westbrook sitting alone up in the bleachers, chin propped on her hand, separated from everyone like an island.
"That's weird," Jayna murmured. "Why is Lydia sitting by herself? Doesn't she usually have a little group?"
Calista glanced up. "Her. She never participates in sports. People say she has health issues. And…" Calista lowered her voice, smirking a little, "she ranked third overall this time. Might be sulking."
Jayna arched an eyebrow. "When she's busy doing shady stuff, she looks pretty healthy to me." She paused. "Who's second?"
Calista pointed to a short-haired girl on the court, bouncing a volleyball with easy control. "She. Rory Bennett—Class Two's president. She's only a few points behind Ginevra. She's legit."
Jayna watched Rory for a moment. Pretty enough, sure. But there was something sharp in her posture—like she wouldn't hesitate to bite.
Jayna sighed and leaned her head onto Calista's shoulder, muttering, "Ginevra going to negotiate is probably hopeless. She's not exactly… expressive."
Calista sucked on her lollipop. "Our class is all about peace and harmony," she said, then added with a lazy smirk, "except for Zoe Taylor, who's still lying in the hospital."
Jayna shot her a warning look.
Then Phoebe and Ginevra returned.
One glance at their faces told Jayna everything: they'd lost.
Ethan Johnson jogged over from the back entrance too, looking apologetic and uncomfortable, like he'd personally failed the entire class.
"We only needed a small area…" Megan Wells whispered, voicing what everyone felt.
Calista looked at the Class Two girls laughing on the court and snapped under her breath, "This is so damn obnoxious. Just because they have more people, they get to take everything?"
As if summoned by Calista's bitterness, a few Class Two girls approached, swaggering, faces full of challenge.
"What did you just say?" one of them demanded. "Who's obnoxious?"
Calista's temper flared. "The court is huge. Did you seriously have to take ours too? How much space do you need to feel important?"
"It's not 'taking,'" Rory Bennett said, stepping forward. Her voice was loud and clear, calm without being kind. "I already talked to our coach. When we arrived, your class barely had anyone here. We can't just wait around forever."
Phoebe, as Class One's president, stood her ground. "Rory. If you've already been granted permission, we're not arguing that. We're just asking—on the basis that we're all classmates—for a small section. It's hot. Nobody wants to be forced outside to run."
A girl beside Rory scoffed, eyes sliding toward Ginevra and Phoebe with pointed disdain. "Didn't you just go beg the coaches and come back empty-handed? Class One is so 'top-tier,' huh? Still a bunch of useless losers who can't even speak up."
Jayna's blood went cold.
Before Ginevra could react, Jayna reached up and covered Ginevra's ears with both hands like she was shielding something precious from filth.
"Don't listen," Jayna murmured quickly to her, voice low and fierce. "That's the kind of person who's been dead in the ground for two weeks and still thinks their mouth matters. Bad luck to hear it."
The Class Two girl exploded. "Who are you calling dead?!"
Jayna tilted her head, smiling sweetly in the most infuriating way. "Whoever's chewing garlic cloves before talking, I guess. The stench is impressive."
"You—" the girl snapped, furious, glancing to Rory for permission to attack.
"Watch your mouth," another girl spat. "No manners."
Jayna's smile sharpened. "Evil people love acting like victims. Maybe look in a mirror. Your face is powdered so white you really do look like you've been buried for two weeks—am I wrong?"
"You…!!"
The long-haired girl shook with rage, practically vibrating. If Rory hadn't grabbed her arm, she might've tried to claw Jayna's face.
Rory took a slow step forward.
And before she could say anything—
Ginevra moved.
Quietly, decisively, she shifted Jayna behind her, placing her own body between Jayna and the advancing line like a wall that didn't need to announce itself.
Ginevra didn't speak.
She simply looked at Rory and the girls beside her—eyes dark, calm, and cold enough to make the air tighten.
Rory blinked, slightly startled by the silent pressure of that stare. Then she smiled.
"I don't want this to sour the relationship between our classes over one court," Rory said, tone light and reasonable, as if she hadn't just watched her people insult and provoke. Her eyes lingered on Ginevra. "So let's settle it with a match. Since everyone wants to play volleyball—why don't we compete?"
Phoebe turned, scanning her class. "Any objections?"
"Bring it on," Calista said immediately. "I'm not intimidated?"
"Good. We'll call it a warm-up," Megan added, trying to sound braver than she felt.
"Yeah—why should we give up the court? That's not fair."
Voices rose one after another.
Phoebe nodded. "Alright. We accept."
Two coaches acted as referees. The rules were simplified: best of three. Six players on the court per team, fixed positions, two substitutes allowed.
Students crowded the bleachers—drawn by the conflict, by the spectacle. Boys from both classes showed up too, shouting support, enjoying the rare chance to watch the girls go to war in a socially acceptable way.
Jayna and Ginevra took positions near the back line.
To be honest, Jayna didn't feel confident. She hadn't played much volleyball. But she ran often, and her coordination was decent. And beside her—
Jayna glanced sideways at Ginevra, who looked absurdly composed, ready as if she'd been born knowing where the ball would go.
With Ginevra there, Jayna felt safe. Almost too safe.
"I hope we have good chemistry," Jayna said with a grin, bending slightly, knees loose.
Ginevra tightened her headband and glanced at Jayna, amused. "Don't drag me down."
"Hmph. So arrogant."
In the front row, Calista let out a battle cry and crunched her lollipop like it was bone. "I'm gonna kick their butt!"
Jayna clapped enthusiastically behind her. Great. Calista was serious. And honestly, Calista was good—she had real skill.
The match began.
It was tight—closer than Jayna expected. Class Two's Rory Bennett was no joke. Her spikes were brutal, her timing sharp, and every time she jumped the air seemed to snap with force.
Jayna's pressure mounted with every hit.
But she and Ginevra moved together—almost seamless. Jayna's body reacted quickly, keeping the ball alive, and Ginevra… Ginevra was terrifying.
She seemed to know.
To predict.
Like she could read trajectories in the air before they happened, locking onto where the ball would land and appearing there with cold certainty.
Between points, Jayna braced her hands on her knees, panting. She laughed breathlessly, half-admiring, half-accusing. "Giny… are you a robot?"
Ginevra glanced at her. "Adjust your breathing."
Jayna nodded, swallowed hard, and steadied herself. Sweat ran down her forehead, and a bead slipped into her eye, stinging. She didn't wipe it away.
This was the final set.
The deciding one.
Then, as Class Two prepared to serve—
Megan Wells, positioned closest in front of Jayna, suddenly collapsed to her knees. Her face went pale, her body folding as if her strength had simply… cut out.
Jayna's heart lurched.
She ran forward immediately and grabbed Megan, helping her up—
And in that split second, before anyone could fully react, a volleyball came flying toward them with vicious speed.
"JAYNA!"
Jayna only remembered one thing clearly:
Ginevra's voice.
She had never heard that sound from her before—raw, frantic, sharpened by fear.
Then—
A loud, metallic clang split the gym.
Everyone turned in shock as the volleyball rocketed past, smashed into the basketball hoop structure, and got wedged hard into the metal frame. The impact made the entire rig screech, a harsh noise that set teeth on edge.
Jayna snapped her head up.
Ginevra was standing directly in front of her.
And behind Ginevra's back, her left hand trembled.
Jayna's breath broke.
Calista and the others were already supporting Megan, guiding her off to the side. But Jayna couldn't move her eyes away from Ginevra.
She seized Ginevra's shaking hand and pulled it into view.
Redness was blooming across the skin.
"Are you okay?" Jayna's voice cracked, the tears arriving too fast, too humiliating. "Does it hurt? It's so red—come on, I'm taking you to the nurse's office right now—"
Ginevra's lips tightened as she endured the pain, fingers still subtly trembling.
But her eyes stayed on Jayna.
And her voice, when it came, was steady—quiet, absolute.
"You're okay," she said. "That's enough."
Phoebe ripped off her wristband in fury, face blazing. "Are you blind? Someone fell—how could you still serve? Was that on purpose?!"
Phoebe had been closest. While everyone's attention had snapped to Megan, Phoebe had seen it: the girl who'd argued with Jayna earlier had snatched the ball and fired it full-force toward that exact spot.
If Ginevra hadn't intercepted—
Phoebe's stomach turned at the thought.
Rory Bennett's brows knotted. She turned sharply to the server—Talia Vaughn.
"What is wrong with you?" Rory snapped, voice low and lethal.
"I didn't mean to," Talia denied automatically, reflexive. But her body was frozen, her face blank with delayed fear.
Because she had meant it—at least for one ugly heartbeat.
She'd served with a little too much spite, a little too much vengeance.
And the moment the ball left her hand, regret had slammed into her so hard she almost couldn't breathe. She didn't want to hurt anyone—didn't want consequences, didn't want blame. If that ball had hit the crouched girl, it would've been brutal.
She lifted her eyes.
She met Ginevra Volkova's gaze.
And her blood went cold.
Those eyes—frost and darkness—locked onto her with a fury so sharp it felt physical, like claws at the throat.
Talia staggered back two steps, suddenly unsure whether she should run.
Ginevra quietly pulled her left hand free from Jayna's grasp. She pressed her right palm over Jayna's fingers as if to calm her, a subtle message: I'm fine. Stay.
Then Ginevra narrowed her eyes.
In the chaos—while everyone was still clustered around Megan, still staring at the wedged volleyball and the rattling hoop—
Ginevra slipped away.
She walked straight up to Talia Vaughn.
Her pupils tightened, a predatory focus sharpening her entire face. She didn't say a word.
She simply reached out, grabbed Talia by the collar with a force that made fabric bite into skin—
—and dragged her toward an empty corner.
Rory Bennett's face flashed with shock. She lunged forward and grabbed Ginevra's arm.
"Ginevra—what are you doing?!" Rory demanded.
Ginevra turned her head slightly.
Her eyes were terrifying.
Rory's grip loosened involuntarily.
"Get lost," Ginevra said.
And Rory, for the first time, couldn't make herself argue. She recoiled, pulling her hand back as if burned.