The announcement came at noon.
Not through rumor.
Not through whispers.
Through every official channel the university had.
Screens lit up across campus. Phones buzzed in unison. Professors paused mid-sentence. Students stopped walking, standing in clusters as they read the same words again and again.
INTEGRATED LEADERSHIP PROGRAM (ILP)
Four Seats. One Future.
Krit read the message once. Then again.
Nawin leaned over his shoulder without asking. "They finally made it official."
"So it's real," Krit said.
"Oh, it's real," Nawin replied. "And it's never been fair."
The ILP was spoken about the way people spoke about inheritance—something earned in theory, inherited in practice. The program promised international placements, direct pipelines into government and corporate leadership, and—most importantly—visibility.
It didn't just open doors.
It decided which doors mattered.
"Who gets in?" Krit asked.
Nawin snorted quietly. "People who already belong."
Across the cafeteria, the effect was immediate.
Upperclassmen gathered like gravity had shifted. Laughter sharpened into strategy. Names were spoken with care. Others were avoided entirely.
Tanin sat at a corner table, posture relaxed, listening more than speaking. Two faculty assistants had joined him without invitation. Someone mentioned recommendation letters. Someone else mentioned timing.
Tanin nodded at the right moments.
He didn't commit.
He didn't need to.
Krit noticed something then—something small but telling.
No one asked Tanin if he was applying.
They assumed.
At another table, Phum laughed loudly, one foot hooked around the chair leg, charisma spilling without effort. He already looked like someone being watched.
"Four seats," Phum said, grinning. "That's it? They really want us to fight."
A friend leaned closer. "You're in. Everyone knows that."
Phum's smile didn't falter. "I know."
He said it without arrogance.
Without doubt.
Nawin looked away first.
The first ILP briefing was mandatory.
That was how they framed it—mandatory information session—but everyone knew it was a filtration point. Attendance was taken. Faces were noted. Silence was remembered.
The auditorium filled fast.
Krit and Nawin sat together again, not by plan, but by instinct.
On stage, the program director smiled like someone delivering a gift that would only ever be given to a few.
"This program," she said, "is about leadership."
Krit stopped listening.
He watched instead.
Who nodded.
Who leaned forward.
Who already believed they deserved it.
"Leadership," the director continued, "requires visibility, collaboration, and—most importantly—trust."
Tanin crossed his legs neatly in the front row.
Phum sprawled comfortably two rows behind him.
Two kinds of power. Both familiar to the room.
"Applicants," the director said, "will be evaluated holistically."
Nawin whispered, "That's a lie."
Krit didn't disagree.
"Academic performance. Faculty recommendations. Public conduct."
That landed.
A subtle warning.
A reminder that everything counted.
Krit felt it then—the tightening. The shift from possibility to surveillance.
When the session ended, the auditorium didn't empty immediately. Conversations sparked fast and low. Some students left smiling. Others left quietly recalculating.
Outside, the sun was too bright for the mood.
Nawin exhaled. "Now it starts."
"What does?" Krit asked.
"The pressure to behave," Nawin said. "To be palatable."
Krit watched Tanin exit ahead of them, stopped twice by faculty. Each time, Tanin listened. Each time, he responded politely. Each time, he gave nothing away.
"Do you think he knows he's already chosen?" Krit asked.
Nawin considered. "I think he knows the system was built to recognize people like him."
"That doesn't bother you?"
Nawin's smile was thin. "It bothers me that people pretend it's merit."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
Then Nawin added, "You're thinking about applying."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Krit said.
Nawin nodded once. "Then don't lie to yourself about what it'll cost."
That evening, Tanin stood in the faculty office longer than necessary.
The dean spoke carefully. "We value students who represent the university well."
"I understand," Tanin said.
"We expect leadership from you," the dean continued. "Stability. Discretion."
Tanin met his gaze. "Of course."
On the way out, Tanin's phone buzzed.
A single message. Unknown number.
You didn't soften your answer yesterday.
Tanin stopped walking.
He typed back after a moment.
Neither did you.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.
No reply.
Tanin smiled to himself—small, thoughtful.
Across campus, Phum leaned against a railing, watching Nawin walk away without looking back.
The ILP had changed the air.
People were choosing sides already.
Phum liked games.
He liked attention.
But this—
This felt like a challenge he couldn't charm his way through.
And for the first time, that unsettled him.
By nightfall, applications were open.
Four seats.
Hundreds of ambitions.
And an unspoken understanding spreading quietly through the university:
This wasn't about who was best.
It was about who would bend—
and who would break.