Eight members of the academic committee sat around the long table, either whispering among themselves or organizing their notes.
Rohan sat by the window, his fingers unconsciously stroking the notebook—a gift from Dr. Carter, with a leather cover as smooth to the touch as the texture of her stockings.
Outside the window, the whistle signaling the end of the track team's practice sounded.
Eliza was five minutes late.
Yet, a few seconds before she pushed the door open, another figure had already entered the room with ease, naturally holding the door open.
All eyes were drawn to him first—Lee Yoon-jae, the vice president of the student council, a British-Korean, another widely recognized star at South Bay High School.
Standing nearly 185 centimeters tall, he wore a well-tailored dark gray collegiate-style sweater and black casual trousers. Simple attire, yet he carried it with the clean, sharp charisma of a celebrity.
His long legs came to a stop beside the table, almost matching the height of Eliza, who entered right after him.
He had the sharp, handsome facial features of a K-pop star, with a healthy wheatish complexion. His hair was stylishly cut, slightly covering his forehead, and his smile was gentle and infectious—the kind of effortless charm possessed by top students who consistently ranked in the top three of their grade and excelled in debates and charity events.
He stepped aside to let Eliza enter first, a gesture that revealed a familiar, unspoken understanding.
Eliza Matsumoto walked in, bringing with her a faint scent of sweat mixed with the aura of an athlete.
She wasn't wearing her school uniform today.
A dark gray long-sleeved athletic T-shirt clung tightly to her upper body, outlining her slender yet firm waist and modest but upright chest.
The contours of her rectus abdominis were clearly visible beneath the T-shirt, the well-defined lines of her toned core a testament to long-term training.
Below, she wore black form-fitting athletic leggings. The stretchy fabric hugged her from her hips all the way down to her ankles, accentuating every curve of her legs.
Rohan's gaze was involuntarily drawn to her.
It was no wonder Eliza had won countless track awards—her natural advantage, her legs, were astonishingly long, accounting for almost two-thirds of her height.
Beneath the leggings, the quadriceps on the front of her thighs were slightly pronounced, while the muscles of her calves tapered into slender Achilles tendons at her ankles.
She wasn't wearing socks. Her bare ankles revealed distinct bone structure, with skin a healthy pinkish-white—the kind of genetics that tanned to a blush rather than darkened.
Eliza's bare feet were nestled in a pair of simple white training shoes, the laces loosely tied.
Most striking were her feet. Faint blue-green veins were visible on the tops, winding like leaf veins.
As she reached the head of the long table, she casually kicked off her shoes—a movement as natural as breathing—and stood barefoot on the floor.
The stark contrast between this Asian senior's typically cool demeanor and her unexpectedly casual behavior caught Rohan off guard, his eyes widening in surprise.
Naturally, the feet of such a tall woman were not small.
Her feet were narrow and elongated, with arches as high and elegant as delicate bridges. Her five toes were long and neatly aligned, the nails trimmed short and clean, glowing with a natural pale pink hue.
A thin layer of calluses adorned the balls of her feet—medals earned from years of running.
Yet, her bones were not prominent, the lines refined and graceful.
A polite cough from someone nearby snapped Rohan back to reality. He suddenly realized he had been staring at her feet for over three seconds and quickly averted his gaze.
He awkwardly observed the others, noticing that everyone had already grown accustomed to Alisa's mannerisms. Li Yunzai merely wore a faint, knowing smile at the corner of his lips—a look that seemed both understanding and unsurprised—as he naturally took the seat beside her in the passenger side.
There was no unpleasant odor of feet in the air. Alisa might have been somewhat impolite, but from another perspective, as the student council president with a distinguished status and a diplomat for a father, this was a privilege she neither avoided nor felt guilty about enjoying.
And Li Yunzai, who could stand by her side and even tacitly allow her casual behavior, clearly belonged to the same privileged circle.
"Sorry, meeting with the principal," Alisa explained briefly, her voice steady, carrying a slight breathlessness from physical exertion. Her gaze swept past Li Yunzai, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod as a greeting.
She placed a stack of documents on the table. As she leaned forward, her tight pants stretched, perfectly outlining the firm, lifted curve of her hips—not the plumpness of accumulated fat, but a powerful arc shaped by muscle and bone.
The rounded fullness of her hips formed a striking contrast with her slender waist, and the fabric of her pants dipped into a deep crease along the seam.
Li Yunzai's gaze naturally fell on the documents, not lingering on the enticing curves, appearing both respectful and accustomed to the sight.
She straightened up, a few strands of her short black hair slipping down and clinging to her sweat-dampened, faintly flushed cheeks.
She casually tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing the clean line of her jaw and the silvery-white scar at the end of her left eyebrow.
"Let's begin. Preparations for the Summer Academic Competition." She opened the file, her eyes sweeping across the room.
Li Yunzai seamlessly picked up the conversation, adding several key deadlines and data points. His voice was clear and pleasant, his ability to steer the discussion impeccable.
Halfway through the meeting, during a discussion about budget allocation, several senior members were arguing fiercely over resource distribution between the science and humanities competitions.
Alisa braced her hands on the table, her fingertips turning slightly white from the pressure, the faint blue veins on the back of her hands faintly visible beneath her thin skin.
Li Yunzai, meanwhile, calmly analyzed the pros and cons of both sides, attempting to mediate, though his gentle persuasion seemed somewhat overshadowed by the heated debate.
Rohan raised his hand.
The gesture felt somewhat abrupt in the quiet conference room.
All eyes turned to him—the accelerated student, the new member, the lanky kid whose bruises had just faded.
Li Yunzai also paused, looking curiously at this unfamiliar underclassman. There was no condescension in his gaze, only curiosity.
"Mr. Sharma?" Alisa looked at him, her obsidian-like eyes reflecting a cold light under the conference room's ceiling lights.
Rohan took a deep breath.
He thought of Dr. Carter—the sight of her calves wrapped in champagne-colored stockings, the sound of her slender gold high heels clicking against the floor, the alluring sway of her chest beneath her silk blouse as she leaned forward.
He forced himself to remain confident, steadying his voice.
"In the science competition equipment budget, there's an item for a spare electron microscope lens," Rohan said, flipping through the materials he had prepared. His fingers were surprisingly steady. "Priced at two thousand four hundred pounds."
A low murmur rippled through the conference room.
"But according to last year's records," he continued, his voice clear, "it was only used once, and that was due to operational error—when Max Taylor shoved Derek Chen in the lab, knocking into the instrument table."
When Max's name was mentioned, Rohan felt his stomach tighten, but he didn't pause:
"I suggest reallocating this budget to updating safety equipment in the chemistry lab. Ms. Larsen has been applying for two years—the seals on her fume hoods are deteriorating. Last week, a student was slightly burned during an esterification experiment."
The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds. The faint sound of a ball hitting something outside the window grew clearer.
Li Yunzai raised an eyebrow, his gaze toward Rohan now carrying a hint of genuine interest. He clearly understood the weight behind this suggestion and the unspoken name it implied.
Elisa set down her pen and leaned back into her chair—a movement that tightened her leggings around her thighs, accentuating the firm, athletic lines of her outer thigh muscles.
Her bare right foot unconsciously lifted, the instep taut, the arch rising to a startling curve, her toes curling slightly before relaxing, as if in thought.
"How do you know these details?" she asked, her voice free of skepticism, filled only with pure curiosity.
Rohan felt his cheeks grow warm, but this time it wasn't from shame.
"I often help out in the science labs."
Over the past two years, he had spent almost every afternoon after school in the lab—initially to avoid the stares in the hallways, later out of habit.
He washed equipment, organized chemicals, even helped Ms. Larsen calibrate instruments.
In return, he had a safe corner where he could read, think, and exist unnoticed.
He had even wisely adopted a strategy of self-preservation: making himself useful to the teachers.
If he could help prepare experiments, record data, or repair equipment, Ms. Larsen would tacitly allow him to stay in the lab, even occasionally remarking, "Rohan is helping me with important preparations," when Max and his gang came looking for trouble.
But eventually, he had suppressed too much for too long.
His mother's suffocating control, the pervasive exclusion at school, the incomprehensible, dirty secret within his own body…
The unyielding seed inside him, carefully nurtured by Dr. Carter—with the sheen of her stockings, the touch of her fingers, her whispered encouragement—was now growing wildly.
Psychologically, he was transforming from the boy curled up in the shadows into something… harder. That was why he had rebelled.
He also understood Ms. Larsen's aversion to trouble—the bullying by Max that day had crossed the line of what she was willing to intervene in. She would only see him as irrational, so her lack of support or defense was to be expected.
"Often help out."
Elisa repeated the words, flipping open the budget sheet in her hands, her slender fingers tracing the rows of numbers.
After a moment, she looked up. "That makes sense. Note this change."
She glanced at the girl responsible for taking minutes, who quickly nodded.
Li Yunzai also gave a slight nod of agreement.
After the meeting ended, members gradually dispersed.
Li Yunzai gathered his things and naturally walked over to Elisa, murmuring something quietly. Elisa shook her head and replied, "I have something to do today. You go ahead."
Li Yunzai gave her shoulder a light pat, said, "See you tomorrow," then picked up his branded backpack and left with his striking long strides.
Rohan packed his belongings slowly, still savoring the moment from earlier: Alisa Matsumoto, the student council president, had taken his suggestion. Not out of pity, but because of logic.
And that dazzling vice president, Lee Yoon-jae, seemed to have noticed him too.
"Sharma, wait a moment." Alisa's cool voice came from the head of the long table.
Rohan's heart raced.
He turned and looked up at Alisa—she was truly tall, even taller than his mother, Shivani.
At that moment, she was packing documents into her backpack with efficient movements.
Her tight athletic pants stretched as she bent over, the fabric taut over her hips, the deep curve of her gluteal cleft faintly visible with her movements.
"Your mother is Shivani Sharma, right?"
Alisa asked casually.
"Yes, senior," Rohan replied, a familiar sense of annoyance and indifference rising within him. Again, it was about his mother's appearance.
Sure enough—"She came to the school twice for parent-teacher meetings and once for a charity donation event." Alisa placed the documents into a deep brown leather briefcase, zipping it up unhurriedly.
"Every time she appeared, it almost caused a small commotion. Teachers would discuss her privately, and some senior boys would even find excuses to linger in the hallway just to catch another glimpse of her."
She looked up, meeting Rohan's gaze directly. "She's just too beautiful—that kind of classical, exotic, mysterious beauty, like a goddess stepping out of a Renaissance painting, yet with such a serene and dignified presence. It's hard not to be impressed."
Alisa was never one for small talk; she preferred being direct and despised meaningless pleasantries.
So when she said these things, her tone was matter-of-fact, even carrying a hint of the detached objectivity one might use to evaluate a work of art. Yet this made her praise sound even more genuine and weighty.
Rohan remained silent. He had heard these words since childhood—"Your mother is so beautiful," "Like a movie star," "Is she a model?" He was long numb to it.
"That's what everyone says," he finally replied, his voice flat.
But deep down, he had to admit: lately, his mother had indeed found it harder to control him as she used to.
Dr. Carter had given him strength—not just physical release, but a psychological anchor.
When Shivani commanded him in that icy, unyielding tone, Rohan would now recall Dr. Carter's whispered words, "You control the pace." Then he would take a deep breath and reply in a calm but firm voice, "I need a moment, Mom."
A small thing, but significant.
Alisa watched him, as if trying to read more from his expression.
"Is there nothing else you want to say to me?"
Alisa fastened her briefcase, holding it in one hand while the other rested casually on her hip.
This posture accentuated the curves of her body, especially the line from her waist to her hips, which was nothing short of perfect under the tight fabric.
Her waist was slimmer than Shivani's or Dr. Carter's, yet her hips were no smaller than Dr. Carter's—which made sense, given that Alisa was about ten centimeters taller. Even without the large frame of some Western women, her intense track and field training had built strong, dense muscles in her glutes, making them firmer than Dr. Carter's fuller curves.
Of course, none could compare to Shivani's decade-long disciplined training—those broad, robust, and magnificent hips, reminiscent of a goddess of abundance.
Elisa paused, then added, "Like my mother, I have a strong... aversion to injustice. Or rather, a sense of justice." She used the word "aversion," which felt more direct and carried a stronger personal emotion than "sense of justice."
Rohan opened his mouth, but his throat seemed clogged by something.
Say it? Admit that he had come here, desperate and humiliated, seeking the protection of this academic committee he had once refused—all because he had been stripped, photographed, and shoved into a locker?
This unspeakable shame burned through his reason.
"I... I want..." he began, but his voice caught.
Elisa waited a few seconds, then let out a soft sigh. It was faint, tinged with a hint of resignation.
"Alright," Elisa seemed to see through his struggle, or perhaps she had never intended to push him.
Sympathetic toward the vulnerable and deeply compassionate, she lowered her voice slightly:
"It seems you're really not good at this. Then I'll be direct: as a member of the academic committee, you automatically gain a confidential channel to report directly to the core leadership of the student council. No need to go through any grade-level teachers, advisors, or even the general departments of the student council. If anyone or anything makes you feel 'troubled' at school, you can contact me directly."
She paused, then added, "In whatever way you deem safe."
After saying this, she didn't wait for Rohan's response but turned away decisively. The light from the corridor streamed in behind her, outlining her tall, athletic figure into a silhouette.
Her white training shoes dangled from her hand, and the sound of her bare feet on the corridor tiles gradually faded away.
At that moment, Rohan truly envied such strong-willed people—those who didn't care about others' opinions and lived entirely as themselves.
Rohan stood still, savoring Elisa's kindness and sense of justice. It was hard not to feel admiration for this cool, free-spirited, and utterly captivating senior.
Clearly, Teacher Matsumoto must have given her specific information—about his bruises, about Max, about everything.
And now, Elisa Matsumoto, one of the most influential students at South Bay High, had given him a direct line.
A complex mix of emotions surged in his chest: gratitude, shame, and a flicker of hope.
At the same time, the figure of the radiant vice president, Li Yunzai, who had just left, lingered in his mind—stirring an unclear feeling, whether it was envy of his closeness with Elisa or something else entirely.
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