Kabanata 6: Chapter 6: The Commander
There's a certain satisfaction in being
right.
He won't lie, he enjoys it. That clean,
precise feeling of solving a problem before anyone else even sees it. The
others say he's bossy. Intense. Overbearing, sometimes. But The Commander
doesn't see it that way.
He's just efficient.
The group needed someone to keep things from
collapsing. Someone who understood deadlines and floorplans and the exact
wattage limits of the dorm's overworked circuit breaker.
He assumed command without asking.
No one else seemed interested in running a
tight ship.
His bed was made with military precision.
Laptop charger coiled like a snake beside his perfectly angled books. His socks
were sorted by occasion. His calendar had more color codes than a subway map.
Chaos stressed him out.
So he planned like it was a sport.
Media Even his downtime was calculated, twenty
minutes of chess puzzles after dinner, followed by one episode of something
obscure and historically accurate. Then journaling. Then bed. 11:07 p.m. sharp.
He didn't dislike the others. In fact, he
respected most of them.
The Observer was logical, dependable.
The Guardian was quietly competent.
Spark was... a hurricane, but at least a consistent one.
tor, though, she confused him. Kind, quiet,
unshakable. She had this disarming way of agreeing with you and disagreeing at
the same time. He once tried to explain why her conflict-resolution method was
"too passive." She just smiled and said, "But it worked, didn't it?"
He had no comeback. She'd already won.
College had been his goal for years. Not just
a college, this one. This program. This dorm. This Launchpad.
His parents were proud. His old teachers weren't surprised. And he had every
intention of being excellent.
But no one warned him that living with people
meant accounting for moods. Or that friends wouldn't always act logically.
He wasn't built for softness.
He was built for results.
Still, over time, something softened anyway.
He remembered the first time Spark hugged him
without asking. He flinched. She didn't stop. He didn't push her away.
He remembered the night Guardian told him to
go to sleep because he looked "crispy."
He argued. She stood firm. He went to bed.
He remembered playing poker with the others
and losing horribly to Observer, who barely reacted. He called it "luck."
Observer called it "pattern recognition."
He smiled at that. A real smile.
Tonight, he was reorganizing the dorm's
shared files. Again.
Someone had labeled a folder "Important-ish."
He changed it to "Critical Priorities."
Someone else uploaded memes into the group
budget spreadsheet.
He sighed. And secretly laughed.
A knock on his door.
He opened it, already halfway through a sentence: "If this is about the Wi-Fi, "
It wasn't.
It was Guardian, holding out a granola bar.
"You skipped dinner," she said.
He paused.
Accepted it.
Nodded.
"Thanks."
"Good night," she added, turning to leave.
He stood in the doorway for a moment longer
than necessary.
Then stepped back into his room, opened a fresh document, and titled it: 'Unexpected
Variables: Managing Emotional Teams.'
He would never admit it, but Room 304 had
become his favorite project.
And for once, being right wasn't the point.
It was just... being here.
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