Day 2: Isabella (Scheduling)

You wake tangled in sheets, one leg thrown across a pillow like it betrayed you in the night. The ceiling above you offers no answers, just textured silence. You check your phone. A message from Rebekah, sent at 6:17 AM: “She teaches two today. Don’t approach her cold. Watch. Think. Let her see you thinking.”

There’s no emoji. Just words cut to function. You smile despite yourself. Rebekah’s taken to this whole “manager” thing with a little too much pleasure. Just like you did at her Fluorescence regionals to stop her self-sabotaging.

You skip breakfast. You’re too wired; too off-balance.

By midmorning, you’re in a hallway that smells like whiteboard ink and quiet panic. The Political Economics department has its own floor—modern, clean, not quite corporate. You recognize her name on the small black placard outside Room 412.

Dr. Isabella Aragon. Consent Theory in Practice.

The class is in session. Muffled voices, then a pause. Her voice slices through the air like a violin string pulled too tight—clear, crisp, impossible to ignore.

“…and if you concede autonomy too easily, then what you offer isn’t consent. It’s abdication. And that’s cowardice. Discuss.”

You don’t lean too close. Don’t want to look like a stalker. But you let the words settle in your chest. She's not just teaching a course. She’s drawing lines in the sand. Lines that have implications for what you’re intending to do.

When students begin to file out, it’s like watching creatures escaping from gravity. Some of them look inspired. A few look wrecked. Nobody looks bored.

Then she appears. She moves with that sharp-smooth cadence of a woman who owns her space down to the floor tiles. Blazer tailored, hair up in a no-nonsense twist, folder in one hand. You expect her to ignore you.

She doesn’t.

You catch her eye and nod once—neutral, respectful. She holds your gaze. Just a second too long. One eyebrow arches like a guillotine blade waiting for gravity’s permission. Then she turns and walks away without a word.

You don’t follow. You just breathe, deeper than you’d realized you needed to.

You return to Rebekah’s house a little later. It’s warm and faintly lemon-scented from whatever candle she’s got burning today. She’s on the couch, legs curled beneath her, laptop open.

“Report,” she says.

You describe it all—her class, the look, the eyebrow. Rebekah doesn’t interrupt. Just types, then sips from a mug that probably says something obscene in pink cursive.

“She’s aware of you,” she says finally. “Which means the next move’s yours. And you don’t send a contract.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes, you were,” she says, shooting you a look. “You were going to draft some smart-ass opening clause like ‘Hereby do I submit body and will for seventy-two hours commencing Thursday...’ and she’d have responded by asking what the hell made you think she’d want you.”

You swallow. “Have a little faith,” you say. “I might not know how to approach this exactly, but I’m not MILO! So, you got any ideas?”

“Ask to meet,” she says. “Ask politely. Let her smell the respect on you.”

You pace a little while she types. She lets you approve the final message:

Hi. I’d like to request a meeting with you at your convenience. There’s something I’d like to ask—formally, respectfully, and on the record. It relates to the game. Thank you for considering it.

“Short. Honest. Controlled,” she says, tapping SEND before you can second-guess it. “She already knows about the game, so it’s best to lead with it. You’re not trying to win her yet. You’re trying to deserve the right to try.”

The reply comes at 9:13 PM.

You may have ten minutes tomorrow, 4:30 PM sharp. Office hours. Use the door like anyone else.

You show Rebekah. She smiles, pleased but not surprised. “You’re in.”

You don’t sleep much that night either. But the anxiety feels different now—coiled, purposeful. Like a weapon being wound tight, waiting for its chance.