I floor it, the gate blurring past as I head for campus, the weight of his last name on my back feeling heavier with every mile.
By the time I pull into the university lot, I’m running on pure adrenaline. I don’t even wait for the engine to fully settle before I’m out the door, bag bouncing against my hip.
The parking lot is a blur of moving bodies and idling vehicles. I’m half-jogging, half-sprinting toward the finance building.
I check my phone as I hit the quad. Sixty seconds.
I round the corner of the building at a clip, my sneakers skidding on the pathway, and nearly plow straight into someone standing too close to the turn.
"Whoa—easy there."
Luka catches me by the shoulders, his hands steadying me as I stumble back.
A short, breathless laugh escapes me, the sheer absurdity of the morning finally snapping my last thread of composure. "Sorry. Apparently, today is just a gauntlet of Valerio brothers."
Luka snorts, a familiar, easy grin tugging at his mouth. "Rough morning? You look like you’re trying to set a lap record on foot."
"You have no idea," I say, already ducking under his arm and sidestepping him. My eyes are fixed on the doors of the lecture hall. "I'm literally down to the second. I’ve got to go."
Luka isn’t moving. The teasing light in his eyes has vanished, replaced by a sharp, jarring stillness. His gaze isn’t on my face anymore; it’s dropped to the material over my upper body.
His expression locks tight before his brows draw together, his eyes narrowing as they flick from the jacket back to my face, filled with a sudden, uneasy suspicion.
I look down at the time on my phone and curse, taking off. I don't wait for a "good luck." I’m already five feet past him. I have a presentation to get to, and I’ve already spent enough of my morning caught in the Valerio orbit.
I disappear inside the building, the heavy doors swinging shut on the silence he left behind.
I navigate the familiar corridors on autopilot. I slip through as quietly as the hinges allow, keeping my head low as the rhythmic, academic hum of Adler’s voice fills the space. The room is a sea of bent heads and glowing screens, and I blend into the back row, sliding into an empty seat. My laptop is out and humming to life before I’ve even fully settled it onto the desk.
"Carter Hayes," my professor’s voice says, cutting through the internal static of my hectic morning. "Why don’t you get us started."
I walk to the front, my feet silent on the carpet. The second I stand behind the podium, the morning's wreckage recedes. This is my turf. The data is clean. The logic is mine. I just think about the margins.
"Good morning," I say, my voice finding its professional floor. "Today I’m walking you through a comparative analysis of risk exposure across short-term derivative positions."
For thirty minutes, I am the analyst. I dismantle the numbers. I predict the shifts. I am in total control, the logic of the market flowing as naturally as the air in the room.
"And the takeaway," I finish, clicking to the final slide, "is that volatility doesn’t just affect returns. It reshapes behavior. If you don’t account for the human element of the risk, you’re already behind."
Adler nods, but before he can open the floor, Sienna’s hand is up. She doesn’t wait to be called on. She’s leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed on me with a sharp, glass-like intensity.
"You’re assuming a stable margin requirement," she says, her tone that specific brand of academic sweet that tastes like battery acid. "What happens when liquidity dries up and your hedge collapses?"
I don't hesitate. "Slide seven." I click back. "Liquidity risk is exactly why the model adjusts exposure thresholds dynamically. It doesn't assume stability; it assumes chaos."
A soft murmur ripples through the back row. Sienna’s smile tightens, her fingers tapping a sharp rhythm on her desk.
"Theory’s cute, but the real world is messier than a spreadsheet."
"I agree," I say, meeting her gaze with a steady, bored calmness. "Which is why the data is pulled from live-market behavior. Messy inputs are the point."
Adler checks the watch on his wrist, a heap of papers already in his hand. "Well, that’s time. Good work today. See you all next class."
The tension breaks as chairs scrape and bags zip. I pack my laptop, the adrenaline still thrumming in my fingertips. I feel good. I feel like myself again—until I reach for my bag and the reality comes rushing back.
"Nice jacket," Sienna says from behind me.
I don't turn. I keep zipping my bag.
