The Selvenhardt hummed along the curve of the lower boulevard, city shadows slipping past the tinted windows like softened brushstrokes. Vermillion's campus was already shrinking behind them, swallowed by rooftops and treetops and the slow, deliberate rhythm of the after-school hour.
Inside the car, it was quiet.
Then—
"Comfortable?" Damien asked, voice smooth, almost lazy.
Isabelle turned her head, just slightly.
He was looking at her. Not in that piercing, sharp-edged way he sometimes did in class—but plainly. Casually. Like he was checking.
"…Yes," she said, after a pause.
He nodded. "Good, then."
A beat passed.
Then, with a subtle shift in tone—just enough to signal he was now actually interested—
"Then, Class Rep," he continued, "do you have any plans on what to study?"
Isabelle blinked.
The question hung there, simple but pointed.
Plans.
