Chapter 76 Before The Pop

Chapter 76 Before The Pop
Jeremy stands near the entrance to the lounge, his posture perfectly relaxed, though his eyes remain as cold and detached as glass. Georgia is standing directly in front of him, her ivory sweater looking impeccably soft and expensive. She is talking about the weekend fundraiser, her voice a melodic, practised hum, her hand resting on his forearm with a proprietorial lightness.

Jeremy’s gaze shifts, drifting over her shoulder toward the library wing. He doesn't look hurried, but there is a clinical precision in his movements that says he is finished with this performance.

“I’ll be in the library for the next minute,” he says, his voice low and devoid of any warmth. “Capstone project. We’re behind.”

Georgia’s eyes flicker, a tiny spark of genuine frustration crossing her face, but she buries it instantly, replacing it with a playful pout. “Always the perfectionist, Jer.”

He doesn't respond. He simply nods, a short, clipped motion that serves as a dismissal. He turns his head to where Scott and Chase are waiting, their presence acting like a gravitational pull near the lockers.

“I’ll see you guys at practice,” Jeremy says, his voice carrying just enough authority to stop their chatter.

Scott raises an eyebrow, his smirk twitching. “The library? Really? Since when do you care about the legacy assignment, man?”

Jeremy doesn't blink. He just stares at them, his face a fortress of unreadable resolve. “Since it became a requirement to graduate. I’ll see you at the gym.”

He turns and walks away, his stride long and rhythmic. He moves through the crowd as if he is parting water, no one daring to step in his path, no one daring to call his name. His presence ripples through the hallway. A group of freshmen girls freeze, their textbooks clutched to their chests like shields, whispering frantically as he passes. He is a local celebrity, a figurehead of the school’s rigid hierarchy, and his mere existence in the hallway is an event.

Some students look at him with undisguised adoration, tracing his sharp jawline and the broad sweep of his shoulders with longing eyes. Others look at him with a bitter, hidden resentment, the kind born of seeing someone who has everything yet acts as if it’s a burden. He doesn't acknowledge any of them. He doesn't even blink. He treats the hallway like an obstacle course, navigating the swarm of bodies with a detached, singular focus.

Behind him, Scott and Chase watch him vanish around the heavy corner of the corridor. Chase adjusts the strap of his gym bag, letting out a low whistling sound. "Man, he's wound tight today. I’m not trying to be around whatever fuse is burning inside his head."

Scott nods, chuckling as he looks over at Georgia, Victoria, and Brittany. "Yeah, let's leave the genius to his books. Hey, girls, we're going to join the other guys down at the basketball court. Coach wants us running drills before the formal practice even starts."

Georgia offers a small, tight nod that is more a dismissal than an acknowledgement. Her posture remains impeccably rigid, the fine threads of her ivory sweater shifting slightly as she lets her hand fall back to her side. "Go ahead. We have things to organise for the fundraiser anyway."

"Catch you later," Chase says, and with a lazy wave, the two athletes turn on their heels, their heavy sneakers thudding against the polished linoleum as they head toward the athletic wing.

Victoria watches them leave before turning to Georgia, her expression instantly shifting into an eager, predatory look. "Can you believe him? Walking off for that nobody? Let's get out of the hall before the underclassmen start staring."

Georgia doesn't answer immediately. Her gaze remains fixed on the space where Jeremy stood just moments before. Then, with a practised, elegant flick of her hair, she recovers her serene mask. "Let's go inside.”

The trio turns and enters the student lounge. The heavy door swings shut, instantly dampening the chaotic rumble of the main hallway.

Inside, the lounge is quiet and smells of upholstery and old coffee. A few other students are already scattered across the leather chairs. Two juniors are huddled over a laptop in the corner, their low murmurs blending into the background, while a senior from the track team sits near the window, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Victoria and Brittany immediately claim the central sofa, dropping their designer bags onto the glass coffee table with a coordinated, deliberate clatter, while Georgia stands for a moment, her eyes dark with a brewing calculation.

Meanwhile, Jeremy enters the library, the heavy oak doors closing behind him to swallow the last echoes of the chaotic hallway. The atmosphere here is different, damp with the smell of old paper, floor wax, and the low, collective hum of student exhaustion. He doesn't hesitate. His boots make no sound on the thick green carpet as he navigates past the front desk and heads straight toward the back.

He stops at the base of the spiral staircase, his dark eyes scanning the upper level before he ascends. The metal steps creak softly under his weight. When he reaches the top, the light is dimmer, filtered through high, arched windows that look out onto the afternoon. He walks down the narrow aisle of the history section, his leather jacket brushing against the protruding spines of ancient biographies, until he reaches the back carrels.

Melissa is already there.

She sits tucked into the corner of a wooden desk, her charcoal hoodie making her blend into the shadows of the alcove. Her dark beanie is pulled low, almost touching the frames of her black glasses. She is writing in her notebook, her pen scratching against the paper with a frantic, desperate rhythm. To anyone else, she looks like a student entirely consumed by her studies. But Jeremy notices the slight tremor in her wrist. He notices the way her left hand is clamped tight around the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.

He steps into the alcove, throwing his bag onto the opposite chair. The sudden movement breaks her focus. Melissa flinches, her pen slipping and leaving a jagged ink scar across the blue lines of her page. She looks up, her eyes wide and guarded behind her thick lenses.

Jeremy sits down, his large frame instantly making the small wooden carrel feel claustrophobic. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, bringing with him the scent of cold air and leather.

"Montenegro," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that feels too loud for the quiet library.

Melissa clears her throat, her fingers instinctively reaching up to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then she pauses the music and removes the AirPods. When she speaks, the familiar, clumsy stutter is firmly back in place. "Y-you're late."

"Seven minutes," Jeremy replies, his face an unreadable mask as he pulls a matching syllabus from his bag. He doesn't apologise. He merely taps the table. "Let's get this over with. Miller wants an outline of the interview structures by tomorrow morning. We start with the basic background data, then we move into the personal turning points."