Callum
Student Council paperwork was the dullest form of power. Dozens of requests for toilet maintenance, field reservations, and flower bed budgets. Thomas was sitting across from me, cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor, sorting through club applications with more enthusiasm than I could ever fake.
“For the love of—why do the fencing kids need glow-in-the-dark swords?” I asked, holding up a neon-green sketch of some i***t’s idea of ‘modern combat style.’
“Night duels,” Thomas said without looking up. “It’s better then just plain swords at night. Someone would lose an eye.”
My brow flattened and flipped the form into the “we’ll see” pile, which was code for “absolutely not.”
I skimmed the next proposal, eyes moving but brain entirely elsewhere. Focus had left the building
