Take a Look at Your Opponents

You’ve never been the kind of guy who walks into a room and immediately knows who’s who. But tonight, your nerves are wide open, and every look, posture, and breath from the others around you feels like it's being shouted through a megaphone. You try not to stare, but your eyes drift from face to face anyway, putting together guesses, fragments, half-baked stories. They’re just players. Like you.

The guy on the far left is built like a linebacker and seems completely at ease. He slouches in his chair like it was made for him, one arm thrown over the backrest, his jaw working a piece of gum with slow, confident rhythm. Tank Marshall. You don’t even need the name. You know the type. High school hero. Big game energy. He probably thinks this’ll be as easy as running drills and pounding beer.

Next to him is a tall, sharp-featured guy in a jacket that probably cost more than your tuition. Perfect collar, pocket square, designer watch he hasn't even looked at—yet. Zeke Kensington III, if you’re not mistaken. He hasn’t smiled once. Just tapped out a rhythm on his thigh like he’s measuring time in stock fluctuations. Finance major. Or philosophy. Maybe both. Probably thinks this game is beneath him—but he'll still win it just to prove a point.

![Milo Gutierrez] (https://i.imgur.com/5VfvXQW.png)

Then there’s the one with black nail polish, layered rings, and a smile like he knows what everyone’s hiding. Milo Gutierrez. Slim, stylish, unpredictably intense. He watches Rhett talk with that half-lidded, amused expression—like he’s heard it all before and might even be bored. Or maybe he’s just waiting for the fun part. Either he’s a genius or a chaos addict. Possibly both.

Further down the row, slumped like a man permanently resigned to observing, is Professor Simon Rourke. Mid-forties at least. Dressed in tweed that looks older than you, holding a half-empty glass like it’s part of his hand. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t blink often either. His eyes are calm and unreadable, like he’s already seen how all of this plays out and hasn’t decided whether it’s worth his energy.

Next is the boardroom guy. No notes needed—he practically announces himself with that gold watch and practiced boredom. Graham West. Mid-fifties. Real estate mogul, alum, donor. The way he sits screams "executive patience," like this is a business lunch and the rest of you are talking out of turn. You doubt he’s here for the thrill. He’s here to win like it’s a merger.

And then—her.

Cassie Li. You’ve heard whispers, but this is your first real look. She’s small-framed, powerful in her stillness, and dressed in a way that’s sleek without trying. One leg crossed, spine straight, not a twitch of nerves. Her face is blank—not cold, not bored—just... composed. She doesn’t look at anyone. She doesn’t have to. The room already knows who she is. You’re not sure what makes her more intimidating: her silence, or the fact that everyone else respects it.

Then there’s you.

You’re the freshman. The no-name. The nobody. And somehow, you’re here too.

You’re not sure what exactly you're up against.

But you are sure of one thing.

You're in over your head.

And the only way out... is to win.