Half a Mark!

First Rankers' War Begins

Gray Bennett's POV

There are exactly three types of students at Seattle College of Business and Economics.

1. The ones who want to pass.
2. The ones who want to succeed.

And then... there's Sera Westbrook — who looks like she wants to win an Olympic medal in academics and personally set the syllabus on fire if she scores anything less than an A+.

And then there's me. Gray Bennett. Somewhere between bored genius and sarcastic troublemaker.

I never really intended to compete with anyone. I like being on top, sure, but it's not like my world crumbles when I get a lower grade. For Sera? That's not just a possibility — it's a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

She's the kind of girl who breathes in textbooks and probably dreams in bullet points.

Every morning, she walks into the lecture hall like she's stepping into a battlefield. Her heels click sharply against the floor, her notebook's already open to the correct page, and she sits in the front row like it's her throne.

And me?

I sit two rows behind her — just far enough to mock her from a safe distance.

Today's no different. I walk into the 8 AM Advanced Macroeconomics class with a half-eaten granola bar in one hand and a coffee in the other. I'm ten minutes early, which for me is a miracle. But not as miraculous as seeing Sera already seated, flipping through a binder so thick it could double as a weapon.

I slide into the seat behind her and lean forward, lowering my voice just enough to irritate her personal space.

"Morning, Westbrook. Tell me, did you sleep last night or just cuddle your economics textbook and whisper sweet nothings to it?"

She stiffens, but doesn't turn. I grin. Got her.

She adjusts her pen, then finally looks over her shoulder — slow, dramatic, like she's about to commit murder using only her eyes.

"You're ten minutes early, Bennett," she says. "What happened? Did you get lost on your way to your usual lazy-ass routine?"

"Oh no, I just wanted to see if today's the day your brain finally overheats and explodes. Spoiler: I brought popcorn."

She rolls her eyes and faces forward. But I see it — the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

Game on.

I wasn't always like this, by the way. I used to be just another guy cruising through classes, scoring decent marks, flirting with TA's out of boredom. And then Sera Westbrook happened — walking into freshman year orientation like a nerdy hurricane.

We were introduced by a professor who clearly thought we'd be good lab partners.

Spoiler: We weren't.

She corrected me. I mocked her. She got a higher quiz score. I got revenge by hacking into the class group chat and changing her nickname to "Queen of Boring."

Since then, it's been a silent, petty, glorious war of wits. To the rest of the world, she's this perfectionist golden girl — always on time, always sharp, always composed.

To me? She's just another player in this unspoken game we've been playing for two years now.

But here's the thing: I respect her.
Not that I'd ever say it to her face.

Not when she sits there with her perfect posture and her alphabetically color-coded notes and that stupid pencil pouch shaped like a piano. Yeah — a piano. Don't ask me how I noticed. I just did.
Professor Dean walks in right on time, holding a stack of papers. He's a strict, no-nonsense man with a voice like a dying lawn mower and the fashion sense of a 1970s detective. He clears his throat, and the class immediately straightens up.
"We'll be discussing last week's results," he announces.

I already know mine. A solid 92.
But when he starts reading out the top five, I lean forward — just to hear how close it was.
"Sera Westbrook — 94. Gray Bennett — 92. Laura Chang — 89..."

There it is. That smug little inhale she does when she wins. That satisfied flick of her pen.
I press my lips together and mutter under my breath, "Enjoy it while it lasts, Westbrook."
She doesn't respond. But I swear, I can feel the heat of her silent gloating from two feet away.
Well played.
But this is just round one.

After class, I stay behind for a second. Not for the lecture — I zoned out halfway through the graph on inflation elasticity — but because I have a plan.

See, the best part of going to war with someone like Sera is the endless opportunities for mischief. And I have one brewing.

Her locker is exactly thirteen steps from the economics wing entrance. I know this because I've walked it a dozen times just to time things right.

When the hall clears, I slip the note into her locker — a pink, glittery piece of paper I borrowed from my roommate's girlfriend. On it, I've written:
"Dear Miss Westbrook,
Congratulations on once again turning the library into your personal second home. The cleaning staff is requesting fewer highlighters and less sighing next time.
Signed,
Concerned Citizens of Seattle College."

And just for fun, I've taped a picture of her sleeping in the library last week — head down, mouth open, pen still in hand like a fallen soldier.
Yes, I took that photo.
No, I don't regret it.
As I walk away, I can already imagine her face when she finds it.
Maybe she'll laugh.
Maybe she'll fume.
Either way, she'll know:
The war is on.
And I don't plan on losing.