Day 1: Priya (Assessing Results)

You’re sitting at her table, coffee cooling in your hands. Rebekah’s across from you, still in her sleep shirt and cardigan, legs curled up on the chair, hair damp from a quick shower. She’s rereading notes on her phone, tapping absently at the screen with one finger. You’re not sure if it’s Fluorescence strategy or watching herself score points from yesterday’s gameshow aspect of College Spread. Probably both.

There’s a kind of ease between you now—strange, considering everything. She’s your girlfriend. That word still lands a little crooked in your head. Not because it’s untrue, but because it feels too... tame. What she did to you on stage was the exact opposite of tame. What you both promised, without speaking, was defining.

She's yours. And you're hers. But you’re also both still in the game.

“Freya’ll be here soon,” she murmurs without looking up.

You nod. “I know.”

“She’ll ask about Priya.”

“Yeah.”

She glances at you over the top of her phone. “You have an answer?”

You shrug. “A few. Haven’t picked one yet.”

She doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary, then goes back to scrolling. You know she trusts you. That doesn’t mean she’s not taking inventory.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s sharp, polite and exactly on time. You set your coffee down and rise. Rebekah doesn’t move.

“Get it, will you?” she says, still typing.

You open the door to find Freya Andersen standing like she’s already mid-interview—tripod slung over one shoulder, tablet in her hand, accessories in a bag round her waist. Her expression is unreadable.

“Morning,” she says.

She steps inside without waiting for an answer, taking in the room like she’s scanning for usable geometry. Rebekah nods once toward the kitchen corner.

“Light’s best there,” she says. “Don’t touch the plants. They’re Jada’s.”

Freya doesn't respond. She just walks over, sets down her gear and begins unfolding the tripod. She places her tablet next to the camera, adjusts the lens and tilts your chair by a degree or two to ensure the best angle. Everything is efficient, controlled. Nothing’s wasted.

She doesn’t look at either of you when she speaks. “Let’s talk about last week.”

And with that, she taps the screen. The red light comes on. Her screen begins to roll a video. The footage is silent, but you don’t need sound to feel it. It’s last week’s stage show: the spotlight, the chair, Rebekah sliding onto your lap like she’s controlling the center line in Fluorescence. Her black dress hiked just enough. Her hand guiding you into her, her body making the point before her mouth even opens. In the video, your eyes are glazed. You look stunned and reverent and barely holding it together.

You remember exactly how that felt.

Freya scrubs back a few seconds, then pauses it at the moment your head tilts back, your mouth open—not in surprise, but in surrender. Rebekah’s hand is on your shoulder, her hips claiming you like you’re hers. And from that moment, you have been.

Freya doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at the still image for a moment longer than she needs to.

Then: “Yesterday ended with you coming on stage. Inside your manager. In front of a live studio audience while she executed a coordinated takedown of one of your opponents.”

She sets the tablet down, screen still frozen on that image. “So. Why? What did it mean?”

You don’t answer right away. You could deflect—make a joke, call it a stunt, say something glib about climaxing into victory. But that’s not the truth. Not remotely. And you don’t want to be dishonest about this. So instead, you say, “It meant I kept my promise.”

Freya lifts an eyebrow. Not skeptical—interested.

You glance toward Rebekah. She’s on a stool just off to the side, knees drawn up, cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s cold or guarding something. But her eyes are fixed on you, steady and unreadable.

You look back to Freya. “During the Fluorescence Regionals, I stopped. I was inside her—already there—and I stopped. Because I told her I wanted more than a one-woman victory. I wanted to see her work with her team. I wanted her to grow as a team player and trust those around her. Not just dominate the match—elevate it and her own gameplay.”

Freya says nothing, and you continue.

“She did that. 3–0, clean. She took the win her way, but she brought the others into it. She believed in them. She led them. She held up her end.”

“Then when we returned to her place after the Regionals ended, I tried to give her what she’d earned. But she stopped, too.” You look down at your hands. They’re steady now, but you remember how they shook then. “She said she wouldn’t finish until I locked in the hand. The straight flush. Full diamonds. She made herself the reward, and the line I had to cross to reach it.”

You smile a little, but it’s not for show. Just the truth of it settling in your chest. “So I crossed it.”

Freya’s voice is soft now. “So the moment on stage—”

“Wasn’t a reward,” you say. “It was a confirmation. She wasn’t just letting the audience see what she could do to me. She was letting me know I’d earned what came next. That I was hers. And she was mine.”

At the edge of your vision, you see Rebekah shift—just a small breath, a slight lowering of her gaze.

Freya watches you for a beat longer, then tilts her head slightly. “And now that you’ve crossed that line… where does the game end?”

You exhale. “It doesn’t.”

That’s the problem. “Because I want to know what happens when I run out of illusions.”

You don’t mean it to sound dramatic. It just is. The kind of thought that only feels dangerous when you say it out loud and realize you’ve already passed the point of turning back Freya doesn’t move for a moment. She doesn’t blink. Just watches you like you’re a book she forgot she was reading—and now suddenly realizes she’s invested in.

“That’s not an answer most players give,” she says.

You shrug. “Most players haven’t had their girlfriend ride them into a camera while declaring war on the board.”

From the side, Rebekah snorts softly, but doesn’t interrupt. You catch the curve at the corner of her mouth. Pride, maybe. Or recognition.

Freya checks her notes—more reflex than necessity. “So. With all that in mind you’ve drawn a new girl for this week.”

She can’t use the name, she’s still banned from identifying anyone or anything. But she means Priya, of course, and you’re ready to talk about her. You nod, once. She doesn’t follow it up immediately., but lets the silence test you, invite you to fill it. A lesser player might start babbling. She waits to see what kind of man you are. You don’t flinch.

When you do speak, your voice is quiet, measured. “She’s not like the others.”

Freya raises one brow, just slightly. “That sounds like a dodge.”

You shake your head. “It’s the opposite.”

You glance down at your hands for a moment. There’s still stage light in your memory—sweat, crowd noise, Rebekah’s breath at your ear—but Priya is a different kind of space. Quiet. Stainless. Clean enough that your intentions better not leave a mark unless you mean them.

“Look, I’ve been with all kinds of women in this game - kinky dominants, girls who just wanted anonymous sex, an insecure virgin and even someone who just doesn’t care one way or another about sex. Priya? She’s different. She knows what she wants, and if you want to get your result you better be worth her experiment.”

Freya watches you, her fingers idle against the tablet. “And you think she’s worth the work?”

“She already is,” you say. “Before the challenge. Before the points. Just… on principle.”

You pause, then say, “She’s someone who doesn’t lie about who she is, even if it means staying separate from everyone else. That’s not coldness. That’s integrity.”

“You respect that?” Freya asks.

“I envy it.”

There’s a faint clink as Rebekah sets her coffee down on the marble counter. You glance over, but she doesn’t say anything. Just meets your gaze. You can’t tell if she looks approving or slightly concerned. Possibly both.

Freya presses. “Do you think she’s open to being part of your arc? You’re high-profile now. Top of the board. The guy who got ridden into the leaderboard.”

You flinch slightly at the phrasing. Not because it’s wrong—but because it’s deliberately reductive. Freya, always pressing her thumbnail into the bruise to see if it still hurts.

“I don’t need Priya to be part of my arc,” you say, carefully. “I need to figure out if I can be part of hers.”

Freya leans back a little. Not smug. Just adjusting the angle. “So you’re not trying to win her over?”

“No,” you say. “I’m trying not to treat her like a quest.”

That earns you a pause. Even Freya doesn’t have a follow-up to that. She watches you for a beat, then shifts her gaze toward Rebekah again—backlit by kitchen light, sleeves pushed to her elbows now, like she’s either preparing to spar or to slice open something that needs cleaning.

“You two are in a relationship,” she says to Rebekah. “Maybe that’s not even the word. Going by the act on stage and what your boyfriend said, maybe I should say you own each other. But he’s still playing the game, still having sex with random strangers. What’s your take on that?”

Rebekah doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “I’m his girlfriend,” she says, evenly. “But I’m also his manager. And my job is to help him excel. Holding a card and not attempting the challenge means wasting opportunity. Wasting potential.”

She glances toward you—not accusatory, just verifying alignment. “We don’t do that.”

“So you expect him to pursue this girl, even after what you did?” Freya clarifies.

Rebekah shrugs, but it’s a shrug with weight. “I expect him to treat every card he pulls like it matters. And his selection this week? Right now, she’s the path forward. Period.”

“Even with your personal relationship in the mix?” Freya pushes.

Rebekah doesn’t blink. “We’ve already made that distinction. What’s ours is ours. But the game is different. The game is how we sharpen ourselves. On each other. On everyone else. If you think love means softening the blade, you don’t know what you’re holding.”

She lets that sit. You don't say anything. You don’t need to. She’s said it all.

Freya doesn’t challenge Rebekah’s answer. There’s nothing to push against—her stance is clear, complete, and sharpened to edge. Instead, she shifts back to you, her voice just a little quieter now. “All right,” she says. “So let me ask you the real question.”

She adjusts the angle of her tablet slightly, not for framing—just as a pause, a breath, an intentional moment. “You’re going to pursue the girl you drew. That’s the job. But what are you actually hoping to get out of it?”

You sit with the question. You could say something about the audience. About maintaining momentum. About proving yourself in the final week before break. You could talk strategy. About how her details line up neatly with one of your stronger multipliers. About availability scores and odds.

But none of that’s true enough anymore. “Perspective,” you say, finally.

Freya doesn’t react—she knows better. She lets silence do the asking.

“Every girl in this game is framed as an opportunity. Or a trap. A symbol, a power move, a kink profile. You’re not supposed to stop and wonder who they actually are—or worse, who you become around them.” You shift slightly in your seat. “But week by week this game has taught me nothing is a game. And I’m learning…and changing. I hope I’m growing, but I’m not sure really. All I know is I caught a tiger by the tail.”

You gesture vaguely—at the kitchen, the cameras, the game, the grind. “Besides, Rebekah will no more let me fail here than I’ll let her fail in Fluorescence. We drive each other to succeed.”

Freya watches you for a second longer, then taps the screen softly. Recording off. She gives a small nod—not praise. Just acknowledgement. “That’ll do.”

A while later, Freya’s gone. Rebekah’s at the sink rinsing out her cup, the sound of running water the only noise in the room. You’re still in your chair, thumb hovering over your phone—but it’s not messages you’re opening.

“You should reach out to Priya,” says Rebekah. “And I got good news on that - she’s been in the game before. I overheard her talking about it the day I was in my first challenge last year. Apparently she enjoyed it. So just be up front with her.

It’s CampusNet, the university’s semi-janky, semi-functional internal social app. Students post class notes, lab rants, shitty memes. It’s where tutoring requests and passive-aggressive club politics live side by side.

Priya’s profile is easy to find.

She hasn’t posted in days. Her last entry was a quote about mitochondrial protein targeting, followed by a dry “also stop misusing ‘theory’ in your TikToks, I will find you.”

No selfies. No filters. Just one photo of her in safety goggles, eyebrow raised like even the camera better have a reason for being there.

You tap Message.

You think for a second, then start typing:

Hi Priya,

I’m a player in the College Spread game, and I drew your card this week. I know it’s finals season and your time’s probably tight. I’m not here to chase or crowd you. Just to say I’m open to whatever shape this takes—if you’re even interested in taking a challenge. When you’ve got space, I’d love to meet. Or talk.

You sit with it for a moment. Then hit Send. You don’t expect an immediate reply. People like Priya don’t do immediate. You lock your phone. Look up.

Rebekah’s watching you now, her coffee cup clean and drying on the rack. She doesn’t speak. Just studies you for a long beat. Then nods once. She approves.