CHAPTER 284: TOPICS (3)

The booth they settled into was quiet—softly lit, sound-insulated, with just enough room for two people to work without bumping into each other. The tabletop was a dark matte surface with a built-in projection grid, idle and waiting.

Isabelle sat down across from him with her usual precision—back straight, motion smooth—and without a word, reached into her bag.

First came her tablet. Slim, black, and already open to a modular note app lined with tabs and color-coded bookmarks.

Then came the rest.

One after another, she pulled out a neat stack of handwritten notes—bound in thin folders, sorted by subject, and annotated in her meticulous script. Math. Social sciences. Diagrams, cue sheets, even two small, laminated flowcharts clipped to the inside of one folder. She laid them out across the table like components of a field operation.

Damien watched the whole performance unfold in silence, one eyebrow slowly climbing.

Then—

"Wow," he said finally, almost admiringly.

She didn’t look up. "What?"

"Just..." He gestured vaguely at the array of notes now covering nearly three-quarters of the table. "Didn’t know I signed up for a whole headquarters."

Isabelle cast a sharp glare across the table, one brow arched high, the unspoken "Do you plan on contributing or just commenting?" blazing in her eyes.

Damien raised both hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Alright, alright," he said lightly. "No need to burn holes through the glass."

He reached into his own bag—not nearly as neatly packed—and pulled out his tablet. It was newer than hers, sleeker too, though she had no doubt his filing system was chaos incarnate. He powered it on with a flick of his wrist, and the device blinked to life in a smooth, quiet arc of light.

Just as he was about to say something else, a soft knock came at the glass door of their booth.

They both looked up.

A moment later, the door hissed open, and a woman in a tailored vest and minimalist uniform stepped in. She looked young—early twenties, maybe—but carried herself with professional ease.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice light but precise. "Welcome to Delva Commons. I’m here to give you a brief orientation."

Damien blinked. "Oh?"

Isabelle straightened slightly in her seat, already instinctively alert.

The staffer continued with practiced rhythm. "This study booth is configured for two users. Each station is equipped with an integrated smart surface," she gestured to the tabletop, "which can sync with any personal device via NFC or projection. There’s also a shared screen here—" she motioned to the wall panel behind Damien, which lit up in response "—as well as an embedded PC system should you need a shared operating environment."

She stepped aside and tapped the side of the table. A soft ripple passed through the matte surface, revealing icons and interface tools arranged cleanly in the center between them. "This panel allows you to annotate, import, export, or layer content. Everything is fully encrypted and can be saved to your private cloud with a tap."

"Oh..." Damien leaned forward slightly, fingers grazing the active interface. His brow lifted. "Fancy."

"There’s also a call option here," the staffer added, pointing toward a small, illuminated button near the panel edge. "You can use it to summon a staff member, order refreshments, or request technical help."

"Can I order a coffee with that?"

The staffer smiled faintly. "Of course. You can also set noise levels, adjust ambient lighting, and—if necessary—activate the booth’s privacy filter. It will fog the glass for complete visual isolation."

Isabelle’s eyes moved slowly over the table, absorbing the tools. Her fingers hovered briefly above the edge of the screen, not quite touching.

The tech was clean. Seamless. Optimized for productivity.

Efficient, she thought. Dangerously so.

"Would you like me to walk you through the connection process?" the woman asked.

Isabelle shook her head. "No need."

Damien just gave a thumbs up. "We’ll figure it out."

"Very well. If you need anything, tap the call panel and someone will respond within sixty seconds."

With that, the staffer bowed slightly and exited the booth, the door closing behind her with a whisper-soft seal.

Silence settled again.

Isabelle sat still for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the smart surface.

Her eyes drifted around the booth again—reassessing. Taking in the soft lighting, the acoustic insulation, the subtle glow of the interface grid stretching between them. The silence wasn’t empty. It was designed.

And all at once, she realized something simple but... jarring.

’I didn’t know places like this existed.’

Not in the abstract way. She’d seen photos, of course—ads online, digital flyers, social chatter—but those were just noise. Places people tagged for aesthetic points or overpriced drinks.

But this?

This was functional. Practical. Even the air felt clean, balanced—subtly temperature-regulated, the way high-efficiency workspaces did in architectural magazines.

’All this time... I’ve been holed up in my room,’ she thought, eyes narrowing just slightly. ’Thinking there was nowhere else quiet enough. Controlled enough.’

And here was this place.

Orderly. Seamless. Built for focus.

It irritated her.

Not because it existed—but because she hadn’t factored it in.

Because Damien—Damien—of all people, had brought her here before she’d even considered looking.

Her brow furrowed faintly.

’How long has this place been here?’

The question wasn’t about the lounge. Not really.

It was about the perimeter she’d drawn around her world. How tight it had been. How narrow. Efficient, yes—but maybe... too narrow.

She exhaled through her nose and looked down at the interface again. Her files synced with a quiet blink. Her notes reappeared on the grid between them.

Just as Isabelle adjusted her seating, fingers hovering to drag one of the math diagrams into the central shared display, she heard it.

A soft chime.

Not the interface. Not the system console.

Her eyes flicked up.

Across the table, Damien was leaning back with the slightest smirk, one arm still lazily draped on the seat’s edge. His finger had just tapped the illuminated order panel near his side.

She blinked. "What was that?"

He looked at her, slow and deliberate. "Hm?"

"That sound."

"Oh. That." He smiled, not sheepish—pleased. "Just placed an order."

She stared at him.

"...What did you order?"

Damien tilted his head, gaze easy. "You’ll see."

"Don’t be cryptic."

"I’m not," he said, settling back further. "Just... considerate."

She gave a long exhale. Sharp, but resigned.

’Considerate, he says,’ she thought. ’That never ends well.’

With a practiced motion, she re-focused on the interface between them. No point in pressing the issue. Not yet. The order would arrive soon enough, and whatever it was, she’d deal with it.

She tapped open the folder labeled "Unit 3 – Governance and Social Structures," dragging it to the center screen, then selected a sub-tab titled "Comparative Models."

"Let’s begin," she said. "We’ll start with the social science topics you missed the most points on."

Damien straightened, his smirk dimming into something closer to attention.

"Ready when you are, Class Rep."