The smell of toast wafted through the small apartment, a comforting scent that promised Isabelle a good start to her day—well, as good as a Monday could be. She shuffled into the kitchen, her hair still damp from her quick shower, and plopped herself into the chair by the table. Azzy chirped a sleepy good morning from the couch, her tail bouncing lazily like she, too, wished she could skip school.

  “Egg toast sandwich?” émile said without looking up. “You’ve got a big day ahead.”

  “Do I?” Isabelle replied, slumping into her chair. “Because all I’ve got is more of Mr. Kotomine’s death math and the ever-exciting homeroom shuffle.” She took a bite of the sandwich as Azzy hopped onto the counter, eyeing the food. “You can’t have this, Missy. It’s human food.”

  Azzy chirped indignantly, bouncing her tail in protest.

  émile chuckled, sitting across from her with his own plate. “Mathematicians call them tears of growth, Izzy.”

  “More like tears of existential dread,” she shot back, her voice muffled by a mouthful of sandwich. “Anyway, I survived. For now. What about you? Big plans today?”

  He gave a nonchalant shrug. “The usual. Work calls, spreadsheets, convincing people I’m indispensable. You?”

  “School,” Isabelle deadpanned, finishing the last of her sandwich and standing. “I live the dream.”

  Azzy squeaked as Isabelle grabbed her bag, doing a small bounce toward the door as if to follow. Isabelle knelt to pet her. “Sorry, Azzy. No Pokémon allowed at school unless you’re, like, super special or something. You’re holding down the fort today, okay?”

  Azzy chirped a reluctant farewell, her tail drooping slightly as Isabelle straightened and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Have a good day, Izzy,” émile said, ruffling her hair as she made a face. “And remember, math is your friend.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Isabelle replied dryly, heading out the door. “Math is my friend, Mr. Kotomine is its evil twin.”

  The halls of Lumora’s Academy for Excellence buzzed with the usual Monday morning energy. Isabelle weaved her way through the crowd, clutching her bag tightly as snippets of conversations floated past her.

  “Did you hear about the Glow Dome tournament?”

  “Isn’t Bianca so extra with her VireBand charms?”

  “Math homework was impossible! I swear Kotomine’s trying to ruin us!”

  She entered homeroom a few minutes early, scanning the room for Amélie. The blonde waved her over, her hazel eyes sparkling as usual. “Isabelle! Over here!”

  Isabelle slid into the seat next to her. Clara was leaning back in her chair, her sharp gray-blue eyes scrolling through her VireBand. Milo sat across from them, scribbling into his notebook, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose.

  “No Elliot, huh?” Isabelle asked, setting her bag down.

  Clara didn’t even look up. “He’ll show up when it suits him.”

  Amélie giggled. “He’s like a ghost—always invisible until he wants to make a dramatic entrance.”

  Before Isabelle could respond, Ms. Chambers strode in, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. “Good morning, class. I hope you all had a restful weekend because today we’re diving into project assignments.”

  The room quieted as she began pairing off students.

  “Clara Novakl and Elliot Price,” Ms. Chambers announced. Clara’s expression didn’t change, though there was the faintest twitch of irritation in her jaw.

  “Lucky me,” she muttered. “Partnered with Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

  Amélie perked up as her name was called. “Amélie Lévesque and Stefano Marino.”

  Stefano, seated a few rows back, smirked confidently. “Well, well, looks like I’m working with the star pupil.”

  “Continue de rêver, gar?on de ferme,” Clara muttered in French. “You couldn’t champion a manure contest.”

  Stefano barely flinched, clearly used to Clara’s sharp tongue. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Clara.”

  “And Isabelle Moreau with Milo Tanner,” Ms. Chambers concluded.

  Milo looked up from his notebook, adjusting his glasses. “Perfect. I’ll handle everything. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

  “Uh, excuse me?” Isabelle replied, crossing her arms. “We’re partners, genius. Which means we’re both doing the work.”

  Milo blinked, genuinely baffled. “But... I can do it better.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Isabelle said, narrowing her eyes. “But it’s my grade too.”

  Amélie leaned closer, giggling. “Team spirit! Love it.”

  The day rolled on, with Ms. Chambers transitioning into a lesson on Pokémon biology and social sciences. Isabelle jotted down notes half-heartedly, her mind drifting until the sound of the bell signaled the end of homeroom. The door opened, and in walked Mr. Kotomine, his presence commanding as always.

  “Homework,” he barked without preamble. “Pull it out. Now.”

  The tension in the room was palpable as students shuffled papers under Mr. Kotomine’s strict gaze. His voice boomed across the classroom, silencing murmurs.

  “Eyes up,” he barked, stalking toward the front of the room. “If any of you think you can pass this class by copying your friend’s work or cutting corners, think again. The answers are here.”

  With a theatrical flourish, he tapped the smartboard, and the display lit up with the graded answers for the homework. The solutions were listed in meticulous detail, each one broken down step-by-step as though he were preparing them for a lecture.

  Isabelle’s mental projection popped up beside her desk, holding a tiny whiteboard that read: Imminent Doom.

  “Follow these answers exactly,” Mr. Kotomine continued, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. “If I find any mistakes in your grading—or, Arceus forbid, signs of bias—you’ll lose points. Understood?”

  A groan rippled through the class, a mix of irritation and nervous laughter. Isabelle sighed, glancing at the display board. The answers weren’t surprising—they matched what her dad had helped her figure out the night before. But seeing them laid out like this reminded her just how intense Mr. Kotomine was about everything.

  “Swap papers,” Mr. Kotomine ordered, his voice cutting through the groans like a Scyther’s blade. Isabelle traded hers with Bianca, who didn’t even make eye contact as she shoved her paper onto Isabelle’s desk. Isabelle handed hers over hesitantly, noting the scowl on Bianca’s face.

  Bianca’s handwriting was barely legible, and the equations looked rushed. Isabelle stared at one particularly jumbled answer, her mental projection appearing next to her with a magnifying glass. What is this? Algebra or abstract art?

  Nearby, Milo was already scribbling notes on his partner’s paper with surgical precision. Stefano, on the other hand, looked supremely confident as he passed his work to Amélie, leaning back in his chair with a self-assured grin.

  As students began marking each other’s work, the smartboard became the center of attention. Every time a pen hovered over a wrong answer, you could almost hear the collective wince. Clara, sitting at the edge of the group, muttered under her breath as she marked through a series of glaring errors.

  “Honestly,” Clara said, loud enough for Stefano to hear, “did you even try, or did you just scribble down the first thing that popped into your head?”

  Stefano shot her a glare, his smirk faltering for a moment. “Don’t worry, Novak. I’m still miles ahead of you.”

  “Oh, renifle la merde de vache comme un bon gar?on de ferme,” Clara snapped back in French, rolling her eyes. (Oh, sniff cow shit like a good farm boy)

  Amélie giggled, fluffing her hair as she circled another wrong answer on Stefano’s paper. “You’re doing great, sweetie,” she said with mock encouragement.

  When the ten minutes were up, papers were swapped back. Isabelle handed Bianca’s paper back gently, her lips twitching in sympathy as Bianca flipped it over. Her score: 68%. Bianca’s grip tightened on the paper, her knuckles whitening.

  Clara glanced at Bianca, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t math your way out of a paper bag?”

  The class stilled for a moment, the tension between the two palpable. Bianca’s sharp, almond-shaped eyes flashed with irritation, her hands gripping the edges of her desk tightly. She turned her head toward Clara, her voice low and laced with an icy calm as she responded in her distinct Western dialect of French.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Au moins, je n’ai pas besoin de me cacher derrière des insultes pour compenser mes échecs," Bianca snapped, her tone like a blade slicing through the air. (At least I don’t need to hide behind insults to make up for my failures.)

  Clara’s smirk faltered for a second, her gray-blue eyes narrowing in irritation. She looked ready to fire back, but after a beat, she simply shrugged, muttering under her breath, “Pas aujourd’hui.” (Not today.)

  Isabelle sat frozen, her hazel eyes darting between the two girls. Clara’s silence was unusual—she rarely backed down from a verbal sparring match—but something about Bianca’s poised demeanor made it clear this was one of those battles not worth fighting.

  Bianca, satisfied with the exchange, sat back in her seat, her expression impassive but her shoulders tense. Isabelle swallowed hard, feeling the heat of Bianca’s glare shift to her. Great. Now I’m collateral damage, she thought. Her mental projection materialized beside her desk, dressed in a martial arts gi, fists raised in mock readiness.

  Don’t let her scare you, Isabelle! the projection declared, throwing a few shadow punches for emphasis.

  I’m not a fighter, Isabelle thought back with a groan, slumping lower in her chair. She cast a quick glance at Bianca, who was already turning her attention to her graded paper. Isabelle felt a pang of guilt but knew there wasn’t much she could do without jeopardizing herself. Mr. Kotomine’s strictness didn’t leave room for heroics.

  Papers were handed back, and the results began to ripple through the classroom like a shockwave.

  Stefano’s confident smirk crumbled into a look of sheer horror as he stared at his paper. 38%. He paled, clutching the paper like it might disintegrate if he let go.

  Clara flipped her paper over, raising an eyebrow at her 68%. She gave a small, indifferent shrug, muttering, “Eh, c’est la vie,” before tucking the paper away.

  Amélie, ever the optimist, giggled as she inspected her 73%. She fluffed her hair and said cheerfully, “Not bad! Stefano, want some tips?” Her teasing tone earned her a withering glare from the boy.

  Milo, as expected, reviewed his 85% with quiet focus, already muttering about areas where he could improve. “The derivative error in problem seven… unacceptable,” he muttered to himself, scribbling corrections in the margins.

  When Isabelle flipped over her paper and saw her score, she froze. 100%. Her eyes widened, and she almost dropped the paper.

  “Isabelle?” Amélie leaned in, her voice curious. “What’d you get?”

  Isabelle hesitated, holding the paper close to her chest. “Uh… 100.”

  The reaction was immediate. Clara, sitting nearby, nearly knocked her chair over as she turned to Isabelle. “Are you shitting me? 100?”

  “Language, Clara,” Amélie chided with a grin, though her hazel eyes were sparkling with amusement.

  Even Stefano perked up, his earlier despair momentarily replaced by shock. “Wait, you got 100? No offense, but—”

  Isabelle groaned, glaring at him. “Just stop talking before I turn this paper into a dart.”

  Before anyone else could react, a shadow loomed over the group. The hairs on Isabelle’s neck stood up, her mental projection donning a referee’s outfit and blowing a whistle. Foul play! Teacher incoming!

  “Let me see that,” Mr. Kotomine’s voice boomed from directly behind Isabelle.

  The group jumped, collectively gasping as they turned to see the teacher standing over Isabelle’s shoulder. His presence was so sudden it was as if he had teleported from his desk.

  Isabelle reluctantly handed over her paper, her hands trembling slightly as Mr. Kotomine scrutinized it. The room fell into a stunned silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a Scyther’s blade.

  He flipped through the pages, his sharp eyes scanning her work with laser focus. “Sloppy,” he said at last, his voice cutting through the silence. “Your notation is inconsistent, your coefficients are misplaced, and half your steps are missing.”

  Isabelle’s mental projection reappeared, holding up a sign that read, Life Sentence Incoming.

  “But,” Mr. Kotomine continued, snapping the group out of their collective anxiety, “your answers are correct. Every single one.”

  Murmurs rippled through the classroom. Bianca’s jaw tightened as she glared at Isabelle with quiet irritation.

  Mr. Kotomine handed Isabelle her paper back, his expression unreadable. “Despite your... unorthodox methods, you’ve demonstrated an understanding of the material that surpasses most of your peers. You deserve your 100%.”

  Isabelle blinked, stunned into silence. Around her, the Orbital Clique exchanged incredulous looks.

  Amélie leaned over and whispered, “So… what’s it like being a secret genius?”

  “Stop,” Isabelle hissed, her face flushed.

  Amélie wasn’t done. She leaned even closer, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “No, seriously, Isabelle. Secret genius? Closet mathematician? Is there a whole side of you we don’t know about? Do you have, like, a double life?”

  Isabelle groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Amélie, please. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Clara, slouched back in her chair, gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. Guess we have our resident number-crunching prodigy. Who knew?”

  “Not me!” Isabelle shot back, her voice muffled through her hands.

  Milo, ever composed, was already flipping through his own notes. “It’s not that surprising,” he said. “Math is as much intuition as it is logic. Isabelle must have a natural talent for it.”

  “Natural talent,” Isabelle muttered, lowering her hands. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

  Stefano, meanwhile, looked like he was trying to figure out how to spin this moment back in his favor. “Alright, so Isabelle has some freak math skills. Big deal. Doesn’t mean she can handle the League Circuit like me.”

  Clara snorted, her gaze sharp. “Pretty sure she can. Might even beat you there, farm boy.”

  “Would you stop calling me that?” Stefano shot back, his face flushing. “It’s called respecting your roots, Clara. Maybe try it sometime.”

  Before the argument could escalate, Isabelle sighed dramatically, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Can we not turn my test scores into another episode of Clara vs. Stefano: Battle of the Snarks? Seriously, you two, it’s Monday. Save the energy for something important—like lunch.”

  Amélie snorted, swinging her bag over her shoulder as she stepped into line beside Isabelle. “Oh, Isabelle, where would we be without your voice of reason?”

  “Probably happier,” Clara quipped, smirking as she strode ahead. Stefano muttered something about her attitude being unbearable, but he didn’t pursue it, instead trailing behind with a faintly sulking expression.

  Milo walked slightly ahead, still flipping through notes and muttering. Amélie trailed just behind Isabelle, her warm hazel eyes darting between her friends and the bustling school hallway. Clara, as usual, lagged toward the back, her sharp gray-blue eyes scanning for anything or anyone worth her attention.

  “You’d think Kotomine gets paid for each crushed soul,” Isabelle said, glancing at Amélie.

  Amélie giggled, brushing her wavy light brown hair over one shoulder. “It’s part of his charm,” she quipped. “Keeps us on our toes!”

  “Charm?” Clara snorted. “If by charm, you mean psychological warfare, then sure.”

  Behind them, Stefano, ever the center of his own universe, caught up with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “Psychological warfare builds champions, Novak. You should thank the man.”

  Clara didn’t even break stride. “Sniff cow shit, farm boy.”

  Stefano smirked, unaffected. “Come up with a new insult, Clara. That one’s getting stale.”

  Isabelle sighed, quickening her pace to walk closer to Milo. “Do they ever stop?” she muttered.

  “Not likely,” Milo replied without looking up, his voice calm but tinged with exasperation. “We should focus on our project. The library has everything we need.”

  “Lead the way, Stats Guy,” Isabelle said, offering him a crooked grin.

  As Clara peeled off toward the opposite wing of the school with a casual wave, the remaining members of the Clique exited the main building. The air outside was crisp and alive with the chatter of other students dispersing for lunch or study.

  Still at her desk, Bianca carefully adjusted the strap of her designer bag, her fingers brushing over the gold-embossed crest of her family’s martial clan. Her sharp eyes followed Isabelle’s retreating form until the group disappeared into the courtyard.

  Bianca muttered under her breath in her distinct Western French dialect, “Encore une provinciale qui pense qu'elle peut tout avoir.” (Another country girl who thinks she can have it all.)

  Her tone was as cold as the chill in her demeanor. The words weren’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, but they echoed in her mind as she adjusted her perfectly pressed uniform.

  By the time Milo and Isabelle turned toward the library, Amélie and Stefano were left standing by the school gates. Amélie adjusted her bag, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity as she looked at Stefano.

  “Well, partner,” Stefano began, puffing out his chest, “I think it’s safe to say that with my brilliance and your... charm, we’ll have this project locked down in no time.”

  Amélie raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Your brilliance, huh? And here I thought we were supposed to be a team.”

  “Of course,” Stefano replied quickly, his confidence faltering for a split second. “It’s just that, well... I mean, someone has to take charge.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Amélie said, her tone dripping with mock agreement. “And naturally, that someone should be you. Because you’re clearly the most qualified to boss me around.”

  Stefano frowned, his earlier bravado slipping further. “I’m not bossing you around, Amélie. I’m... providing leadership.”

  “Uh-huh.” Amélie tilted her head, her wavy hair catching the sunlight. “So, what’s the brilliant leader’s plan, then? Any ideas for our topic?”

  Stefano opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly scrambling for an answer. “Well, we could... uh... focus on something about Pokémon habitats?”

  “Groundbreaking,” Amélie said, her voice light but laced with sarcasm.

  Stefano huffed, crossing his arms. “Alright, Miss Sunshine, what’s your idea?”

  “Maybe,” Amélie began, her tone turning sly, “we should focus on your newfound interest in Isabelle. Seems like a topic you’re pretty passionate about.”

  Stefano’s face turned crimson. “What? That’s ridiculous!”

  Amélie raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. “Oh, I don’t know. The whole ‘call on me anytime, partner’ speech from Friday? Real subtle, Stefano.”

  Stefano stammered, his usual confidence unraveling. “That— I was just being polite!”

  “Right. Polite.” Amélie grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

  Stefano scowled, regaining some of his composure. “At least Isabelle is more modest than you or Clara. All you two do is mock me.”

  Amélie gasped in mock offense, clutching her chest dramatically. “Mock you? Stefano, we’d never! We’re just keeping you humble.”

  Stefano straightened his posture, brushing off her teasing with a scoff. “Well, it’s not going to work. You’ll see—I’m going to be the next Champion. And then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

  “Probably me,” Amélie called after him as he marched off confidently. She shook her head, chuckling softly. “Typical Stefano.”

  Her smile faded slightly as she realized he was already halfway down the street. “Hey! We haven’t even picked a topic yet!”