Chapter Text
The capital of Marley rises slowly as you drive toward it, buildings clustering tighter the closer you get to the university. The highway gives way to narrower streets, lined with cafés, bookstores, and apartment blocks that look like they’ve held generations of students just like you—hopeful, nervous, and convinced that this is the beginning of something important. Which it is, at least for you.
Your car is packed efficiently. Too efficiently, perhaps. One big suitcase, one box of books and frames, a plant you’re not entirely sure will survive the move, and a poster your sister made you swear to bring because a piece of home was absolutely necessary.
You check the address again as the graduate housing complex comes into view—clean lines, modest height, close enough to campus that walking is viable but far enough that it feels like a life rather than an extension of school.
You park and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel.
Three hours from home.
First time living with a stranger.
First time choosing something entirely on your own.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Marley University hadn’t been a certainty, at least not with how competitive the program was, but the acceptance letter had come with something else: a scholarship. Partial, but enough to make the decision feel affirmed rather than reckless.
You’d gone to the University of Karanes back home as a double major in philosophy and political science. It was a good school and had a solid program, but most importantly, it was close to family. Your professors raved about you being the perfect candidate for the graduate program there, and for a moment, you almost gave in. But you had your heart set somewhere else. When you received your acceptance letter from Marley University, it was a done deal.
Sure, you hesitated at the thought of leaving your family to go off to a new city. It made you nervous, but it was the type of nervousness that came from anticipation more than dread.
This was different. This was progression.
*****
Your building smells faintly like detergent and old paper. Someone has taped a welcome flyer to the elevator wall alongside a few orientation times, campus maps, and warnings about parking permits.
Your unit is on the fourth floor, Room 406. You’d been given the option to live alone or be assigned a roommate. Based on the costs per semester, the roommate situation felt like the likelier choice. Besides, you’d grown up with two siblings so it wasn’t like it would bother you to have a roommate, one that would hopefully be chill enough for you to befriend.
As you arrive at the fourth floor, you see the arrows pointing left for Rooms 400 through 410. You turn, step in front of Room 406, and unlock the door. When you step inside, you are met with sunlight filtering through the open windows and quiet. The apartment is already half-lived-in: shoes by the door, a throw blanket on the couch, and a mug abandoned on the counter like someone meant to come back for it. There’s also the faint scent of coffee and something sharper underneath it, like paint or ink, lingering in the air.
“So you must be her.”
You turn to see your roommate emerging from one of the bedrooms in an oversized grey Champion sweater and leggings, hair loosely tied back, expression calm and curious rather than surprised.
“Hi,” you say. “Yeah, sorry, I should’ve texted. I’m—”
“Y/N,” she says easily. “Pieck.”
She offers a hand, grip light but confident.
“No worries,” Pieck continues. “I figured you’d arrive today. Long drive?”
“Three hours.”
“That explains the optimism,” she says.
You laugh. It’s immediate, easy, and you hadn’t realized how much you needed that until now.
*****
By the end of the evening, you’ve unpacked enough to function and ordered takeout, which you eat cross-legged on the couch. Pieck sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, lazily peeling the label off her drink.
“So,” she says, glancing at you sideways, “what made you pick Marley?”
You pause, considering. Not because you don’t know, but because you’ve never had to say it out loud.
“It felt like momentum,” you say finally. “Like…if I didn’t take the jump now, I never would.”
Pieck hums. “That’s a very grad-school answer.”
You smile. “Yours?”
She shrugs. “Access. Resources. People who wouldn’t look at my work and ask where the ‘pretty’ part is.”
You glance at her. “Art program?”
“MFA,” she confirms. “Conceptual track. I do installations mostly. Archival stuff. Sometimes mixed media.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It is,” Pieck says easily. “But it lets me ask questions without pretending I have answers.”
That lands. “What do you want to do with it?”
“Eventually?” She thinks for a moment. “Museums. Grants. Teaching, maybe. I don’t want to explain things away, I want people to sit with them.”
You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”
She looks at you now, more focused. “And you?”
“Political theory and ethics,” you say. “Interdisciplinary track.”
Pieck’s mouth quirks. “Ah. You’re one of those.”
You laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to spend your life explaining why systems hurt people while trying not to become numb to it.”
You blink. “…okay, rude. Also accurate.”
She smiles faintly. “So what do you want to do?”
You lean back, staring at the ceiling.
“I don’t know if I want power,” you admit. “I just want to be somewhere decisions get made, and make them harder to justify when they’re lazy.”
Pieck considers that. “Ethics consultant?”
“Maybe. Think tank. NGO. Something international.”
“You don’t sound desperate to climb.”
“I’m not,” you say. “I don’t want my work to eat my life.”
That makes her soften. “That’s…healthy,” she says. “Rare, but healthy.”
Pieck reaches for another dumpling, then pauses like she’s reconsidering something more important.
“My boyfriend’s probably going to complain I didn’t wait,” she says casually. “But that’s his problem.”
You glance over. “Boyfriend?”
“Porco,” she replies. “We’re supposed to meet for dinner later. Actually, he’s in international relations. Security studies.”
The way she says it, fond but unromantic, tells you this isn’t a performance.
“He’s very loud about wanting to make an impact,” Pieck continues. “Very invested in things moving.”
You smile. “And you’re okay with that?”
“It clashes,” she says easily. “But it also keeps us honest. He reminds me that action matters. I remind him that reflection does too.”
“That sounds…fun.”
She shrugs. “We argue, then we eat. It works.”
There’s a brief, companionable quiet as you both settle back onto the couch.
“What about you?” Pieck asks after a moment. “Anyone you left behind?”
You shake your head. “No. Never really cared much about the dating scene. Just family.”
She watches your face, gauging.
“They were supportive,” you add. “Excited, even.”
“Good,” Pieck says. “That matters more than people like to admit.”
She glances around the apartment, at your still-unpacked boxes, the borrowed feeling of the space, and then back at you.
“Grad school does strange things to people,” she says. “Everyone starts attaching their worth to arguments. To being right. To who notices them.”
You nod slowly. “I don’t want that.”
Pieck studies you, not skeptically, but thoughtfully.
“I believe you,” she says. “Just remember, you don’t owe anyone your center. Not professors. Not programs. Not the work.”
The weight of that lands harder than you expect, coming from someone you met only hours ago.
“Thanks,” you say quietly.
She smiles, easy again, reaching for the container. “Anytime. Now, are you taking the last dumpling, or should I fight you for it?”
You grin. “Fight me.”
*****
When you finally retreat to your room, the apartment has gone quiet, lights dimmed, dishes stacked neatly in the sink, and the sense that someone else is breathing on the other side of a thin wall.
You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, phone in hand, scrolling through messages you haven’t answered yet. A photo from home—your younger brother grinning in his too-big freshman hoodie, backpack slung low like he’s already testing how far he can push the rules. A message from your dad about traffic on the highway. Your mom reminding you to eat something that isn’t just coffee.
Then your sister.
Did you survive the drive and meeting with your new roomie, or should I prepare a dramatic rescue?
You smile despite yourself and type back.
Survived. Drive was decent. She seems nice. Also, tell Mom I ate lunch.
A reply comes almost immediately.
Liar.
How was it really?
You lean back against the pillows, considering. Not how to make it impressive, just how to make it true.
It was good, you type. Not too much traffic. The capital is very different from Karanes. I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
There’s a pause this time—long enough that you picture her reading it twice, sitting cross-legged on her bed, calculus homework abandoned nearby.
Yeah, she finally responds. That tracks. I’m proud of you.
The words hit softer than the congratulations earlier, and heavier than the jokes. You let yourself sit with it for a second before replying.
You’re next, you write. Don’t forget that.
I won’t, she sends back. Now go to sleep, grad student.
You tuck the phone beside you and change into something comfortable, the city’s glow slipping through the window in muted bands of light.
Outside, the capital hums—traffic in the distance, voices drifting up from the street below, a rhythm that feels unfamiliar but not unkind. Not intrusive, just present.
You crawl under the covers, staring up at a ceiling you haven’t memorized yet. This place doesn’t feel like home yet, but it doesn’t feel temporary either.
Your mind drifts, not racing or rehearsing, just moving gently from one thought to the next. The apartment. Pieck’s easy steadiness. The shape of the campus you’ll walk tomorrow. The idea of classes you haven’t yet stepped into.
Your phone buzzes once more, but you don’t check it this time. You leave it face down, letting the quiet return. When sleep finally comes, it does so without resistance. And the last thing you think, before the city fades into something distant and rhythmic, is simple and steady:
This was the right choice.
*****
You wake up before your alarm even goes off. Not because you’re anxious or anything, on the contrary, you’re excited for what’s to come.
Light filters through the unfamiliar curtains, thinner than back home and angled sharply against the wall. The city hums faintly outside, steady and indifferent. For a moment, you lie still, orienting yourself to the room—the borrowed bed, the half-unpacked luggage, and the faint smell of last night’s takeout lingering in the air.
Your new home for the foreseeable future.
You shower, blow-dry your hair, and dress with more intention than usual. You don’t want to look like you tried too hard, but you also don’t want to look like you didn’t care. It’s the first day of school, grad school at that. The weather was already shifting in Liberio, so you reach for a simple cream turtleneck to keep you warm. You glance over to the closet and spot a soft, ribbed knit sweater in a muted neutral, the kind that looks better worn than styled. You reach for it and hesitate for a second before pulling it on as well. It’s slightly oversized, relaxed at the shoulders, sleeves long enough that you push them back without thinking.
Your mom had gotten you this sweater for Christmas a few years back, and you wore it endlessly. You called it your lucky sweater, not because you believed in luck exactly, but because good things always seemed to happen when you wore it.
You pull out a pair of high-waisted jeans from your luggage and slip them on. The denim, soft rather than rigid and cuffed neatly at the ankle. They fit you comfortably.
Hmm, something's missing.
You push more articles of clothing aside and find a brown leather belt. You pause, glancing over at your crossbody bag hanging from the closet door.
Perfect! I think this will work!
You feed it through the belt loops and look in the mirror, nodding in approval. It anchors the look, matching the worn leather of your crossbody bag now slung over one shoulder.
You look over at the box with your shoes and find your favorite low-heeled, broken-in ankle boots. They’re sensible enough for walking across campus, but polished enough that you won’t feel underdressed.
You look at your reflection again, taking a bit longer this time. Nothing about the outfit asks for attention, but it holds it anyway. You look like someone who belongs in lecture halls and coffee shops.
Alright, I think this will do.
Your mother always said there was a warmth in how you dressed. An ease, a confidence, a quiet assurance that you didn’t need to perform intelligence for it to be recognized. Your father, on the other hand, would tease you for inheriting your mother’s fashion sense instead of his. She was all nineties academia, and he was eighties grunge and punk rock. But you always reminded him that your music taste came entirely from him, and he’d smirk proudly every time.
You smile fondly at the thought of them and take a deep breath before reaching for the door handle and stepping outside.
Pieck is already up. You spot her perched against the counter with a mug of coffee and her tablet propped open beside her.
“Morning. Made us some coffee,” she says, gesturing towards the steaming pot by the refrigerator.
“Thanks, I’ll grab some,” you reply, now fully taking her in. It’s a complete shift from what she was wearing last night. You had assumed she might be a sorority girl or maybe even preppy, but now you’re not so sure.
You find yourself staring, trying to piece her together. Taking note of the fitted knit top she’s wearing in a warm, earthy tone, mustard maybe, soft and slightly worn, sleeves pushed up without care. Her skirt sitting high on her waist, patterned and midi-length, the kind that moves when she does. It isn’t delicate, but it isn’t rigid either. Structured just enough to feel intentional and yet loose enough to feel expressive. Underneath, dark tights disappearing into sturdy lace-up boots, scuffed at the toe, clearly broken in. They looked like the type of shoes meant for standing for hours, for pacing studio floors, and maybe sitting cross-legged on concrete steps outside buildings no one else lingers near.
There’s an absent-mindedness to how she wears everything, like she got dressed mid-thought and never circled back to refine it. Hair pulled back loosely by a brown clip, strands already escaping, and a silver ring on her index finger she twists without realizing.
“So, you ready for your first day?” she asks, now glancing up to look at you.
You nod as you finish your sip of coffee. “Yeah, I think so. You?”
She hums in response. “I still have some time, my class isn’t until later. Studio orientation around two. Something about safety procedures and shared space politics.”
You smile. “Sounds intense.”
“It’s always intense,” she says mildly. “When does your first class start?”
“Ten,” you reply, checking your phone. “So…about an hour from now.”
Pieck raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”
You hesitate, then say it anyway. “Political Philosophy. Power, Authority, and Legitimacy.”
Her expression shifts, not surprise exactly, but recognition.
“Oh,” she says. “Porco’s in that one.”
“Really?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Yeah. He complained about the reading list all summer,” she adds. “Which usually means he’s excited.”
You laugh. “Good to know.”
Pieck takes another sip of her coffee. “I was going to meet him for lunch before my class. If you’re both in the same seminar, I can just grab you both.”
“That sounds perfect,” you say. “Assuming I survive.”
“You will,” she replies easily. “Just don’t let theory people convince you the world only exists in arguments.”
You laugh and file that away.
“Alright, well, I’ll get going,” you say. “Try to get myself acquainted with the campus.”
“Okay,” she replies. “See you later.”
*****
Marley University is bigger than you had anticipated it to be. Not sprawling but layered. Old stone buildings leaning into glass and steel, history folded into ambition. Students moving with purpose, not rushing, but certain, like they already belong.
You look down at your phone, checking the PDF campus map to make sure you’re headed in the right direction. As you spot Magath Hall, you swipe up to switch to your notes app, glancing at your schedule to confirm the room.
Political Philosophy: Power, Authority, and Legitimacy
Magath Hall, Room M103.
You scroll through your other classes for the semester, the times and days they will occupy in your life. The next couple of months will be full, but not completely overtaken. Butterflies stir in your stomach, and you recognize the feeling immediately. The excitement that comes from accepting a new challenge. The good kind of pressure.
You’re so focused on the screen that you don’t notice the person approaching from the opposite direction until you bump into each other at the doorway.
A soft collision. Not enough to hurt, just enough to surprise.
“Oh, sorry,” you say at the same time he does.
You both step back, instinctively, and that’s when you really look at him.
He’s about your age, maybe a year or two older at most. Dark hair, slightly unruly, like it never quite settles where it’s told. He’s dressed simply, a flannel worn open over a plain tee, light-washed jeans, boots scuffed at the sides, and a vintage-looking key strung on a gold necklace. His backpack sits properly on both shoulders, not slung carelessly, like he actually plans to use it. There’s an ease to him that’s hard to miss, even in the brief second you’re standing there.
He looks alert. Present.
“Sorry,” he repeats, a little breathless, smiling like it genuinely matters to him. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“That makes two of us,” you reply, lifting your phone slightly in explanation.
He laughs softly at that, quick and unforced. When he looks at you again, his eyes catch the light, and you notice the green immediately. Not because you’re searching for it, but because it stands out against the muted stone hallway, sharp and almost startling in its clarity.
“I’m Eren,” he says, offering his name easily, and you tell him yours.
He repeats it once, like he’s committing it to memory, then glances between the doorway and the flow of students moving past.
“Well,” he says, shifting his weight, aware he’s in the way, “nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” you agree, already stepping aside to let him pass. “You too.”
You turn to go, assuming that’s the end of it. But when you move left, he moves left too. You slow, and so does he.
There’s a half-second of awkward synchronization before his voice cuts in again, warm and slightly amused.
“Oh, uh,” he says, then adds, a little sheepish but hopeful, “are you headed to M103 by chance?”
You pause and turn back toward him. “Yeah,” you say. “Political philosophy.”
His face lights up, genuine and immediate. “Same,” he says. “First seminar.”
You glance down the hall again, then back at him, weighing the moment.
He gestures lightly down the hall. “Want to find it together?”
Something about the way he asks, open and uncomplicated, makes it easy to say yes.
“Sure,” you say, smiling back.
He falls into step beside you without crowding your space, matching your pace easily. For a few seconds, the only sound between you is the low murmur of voices ahead and the scuff of shoes against the floor. You almost forget he’s next to you until he breaks the silence.
“So,” he says, casual, like he’s filling space rather than demanding it. “Are you from around here?”
You glance over at him briefly. “No. I’m from a city a few hours out. Karanes.”
“Oh,” he says, genuinely interested. “That’s not too bad.”
“And you?” you ask, mostly out of politeness, already turning your attention back down the hall.
“I’m actually from Paradis Island.”
You hum softly at that, surprised despite yourself. That’s farther than you expected. You’re halfway through considering what that move must’ve looked like, what it takes to leave somewhere that isolated, when he continues, unprompted but not intrusive.
“I’ve had my eye on this program for a while,” he says. “Figured if I was going to do it, I should actually commit.”
You nod once. “Makes sense.”
He glances at you again, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re both newbies then.”
“Yeah,” you say, lips curving despite yourself. “It would appear so.”
The seminar room comes into view at the end of the hall, already filling with people. Voices spill out, measured, confident, and expectant.
Eren slows just enough to let you pass first, gesturing lightly toward the door.
“After you.”
You smile at the courtesy and push the door open, stepping inside without hesitation.
Your eyes scan the room quickly—long table, chairs arranged at either side, and no podium. You spot an open seat near the middle and head for it on instinct, not stopping to wonder whether he’ll follow. You set your bag down and pull out the chair, but only then do you realize there’s movement beside you.
Eren’s already there, sliding into the seat next to yours like it was always the plan. You glance over, surprised for half a second, and he catches the look and smiles again, smaller this time. Almost like he knows exactly what he’s done and doesn’t feel the need to explain it.
Before you can say anything, footsteps sound at the front of the room. Conversation tapers off on its own, the other students settling without being prompted.
The man who steps inside doesn’t rush to claim attention. He closes the door gently behind him, sets his worn leather satchel on the table, and looks around the room with quiet interest, as if he’s more curious about all of you than the reverse.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice calm and practiced, but not rehearsed. “I’m Professor Ksaver.”
A few people straighten, some pull out notebooks, and someone closes a laptop they hadn’t meant to open yet.
“This seminar,” he continues, “assumes you’ve read the syllabus and the first set of texts. If you haven’t, you’ll be uncomfortable very quickly.”
A ripple of subdued laughter moves through the room.
“That’s intentional.”
He glances down at the paper in his hand, then back up again. “Before we begin, let’s put names to faces. Name, program, and briefly why you’re here. Briefly,” he repeats, mild but pointed. And a few smiles flicker around the table.
He gestures to the student closest to him. “Go ahead.”
Introductions move around the room in measured turns. Some are confident, some cautious, and a few feel almost rehearsed.
Then—
“I’m Porco Galliard.”
You look up immediately.
He leans back in his chair like the room already belongs to him, one arm draped casually over the backrest. Hair sleeked back, leather jacket still on, and boots crossed at the ankle. Exactly the kind of person you’d expect to complain about a reading list and still show up prepared. He doesn’t bother softening his tone when he continues.
“International relations. Security studies,” he adds. “I’m here because power matters whether people like it or not.”
A couple of students bristle, someone scoffs quietly, and Porco grins like that was the point.
Your mouth twitches despite yourself. So that’s him.
A few seats down—
“Hey everyone, I’m Marcus Witt.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, wearing an easy, unbothered smile.
“Public policy,” he says. “I’m interested in how institutions actually function, especially when ideals stop being useful.”
His confidence fills the space easily. Next to him—
“Jonah Witt.”
The guy looks almost like a carbon copy of Marcus, except in a different font. He speaks more quietly, hands folded, posture straighter.
“Philosophy,” he says. “I’m here because I want to understand the moral limits of authority. Where obedience becomes harm.”
The contrast is immediate, and you clock it without trying. Twins, you think, but very different answers.
Then—
“Hey, Jules Bing here.”
She doesn’t lean forward or adjust her posture.
“Public policy,” she says. “I took this seminar because I wanted to understand why systems stay broken.”
Then she pauses for a moment before continuing. “And because I hear it’s good at humbling people.”
That earns her a few quiet laughs from around the room. You glance at her and she catches your look, giving you a faint, unapologetic smirk.
Noted.
“Good morning, I’m Lena Shaw.”
Her voice is composed and precise. She sits perfectly still, legs crossed neatly, hands folded like she’s practiced restraint as a skill.
“Political theory,” she says. “I’m interested in legitimacy. How it’s constructed, and who gets to define it.”
She doesn’t smile, and for some reason, you wonder if she ever did, like at all. When it reaches the seat beside you, Eren clears his throat.
“I’m Eren Yeager,” he says easily while lifting a hand in a lazy wave. “Political science—policy and civic engagement.”
He pauses, thinking for a second before speaking again. “I’m here because I’m interested in participation,” he continues. “Not just who holds power, but how people live under it, and what makes them push back.”
It’s simple and sincere. You notice a few heads tilt, listening more closely than they had a moment ago. Then Ksaver looks at you.
“And you?”
You straighten slightly. “I’m Y/N L/N. Political theory and ethics.”
You keep it concise and honest. “I’m here because I’m interested in agency. How people make choices inside systems they didn’t choose.”
Ksaver nods once, approving, and moves on. By the time introductions circle back to the front of the room, the air feels different, less anonymous.
“Good,” Ksaver says. “Different programs. Different stakes. That’s exactly what I want.”
He glances down at his notes, shifts to reveal the syllabus now displayed on the wall, then back up at the room. “Before we begin,” he says, “I want to introduce the person who will be leading our discussions this semester.”
A subtle shift moves through the room, and you realize that there had been another person sitting far off to the side.
“This seminar will be facilitated by Mr. Fritz,” Ksaver continues. “He’s a doctoral candidate in political theory, with a focus on authority, legitimacy, and compliance. His work examines why political systems endure even when moral justification weakens.”
He pauses for a moment, looking at Mr. Fritz, almost as if giving him the cue to stand.
“He has my full confidence,” Ksaver adds. “And more importantly, he doesn’t believe in wasting anyone’s time.”
A few quiet smiles appear around the table, and he steps forward as Ksaver moves aside.
“Yes—thank you, Professor Ksaver,” he says calmly. “As he mentioned, I’m Mr. Zeke Fritz. But you can all just call me Zeke.”
He sets his notebook down, not opening it yet.
“I’m in the third year of my PhD,” he continues. “My research focuses on how authority functions in practice rather than theory. How people come to accept systems that may not align with their values, and why resistance is often less common than we like to believe.”
His gaze moves across the room, steady and unhurried. It doesn’t linger, but it doesn’t miss anything either.
“My role here isn’t to lecture,” he says. “You’ve all read the texts. You’re all capable of summarizing them.”
He pauses and offers a faint, polite smile.
“What I’m interested in,” he continues, “is how you argue. Where you hesitate. What assumptions you don’t realize you’re making.”
He folds his hands loosely in front of him.
“This seminar will not be about consensus,” Zeke says. “If you leave each session agreeing with one another, we’ve failed.”
The room is quiet now. Attentive.
“I don’t grade on performance,” he adds. “I grade on clarity. If you believe something, you should be able to defend it. If you don’t, you should be able to explain why.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the reading list projected behind him.
“We begin with Hobbes,” he says. “Not because he’s right, but because he’s efficient.”
A few people shift in their seats.
“Hobbes doesn’t ask whether authority is good,” Zeke continues. “He asks whether it prevents collapse. That framing matters.”
He looks up. “So let’s start there.”
He rests one hand lightly on the table. “Does political authority require moral legitimacy,” he asks evenly, “or is stability enough?”
Silence stretches, not awkward, but charged. Zeke doesn’t rush it. He waits.
You feel it before he says anything, the subtle shift beside you, the way Eren straightens just slightly in his chair. He leans in a fraction, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“Intense,” he murmurs.
You glance at him, then back toward the front of the room where Zeke stands, composed and watchful.
“That’s one word for it,” you reply.
Eren huffs a soft laugh through his nose, nodding once like he agrees but isn’t ready to unpack why. He looks thoughtful now, gaze flicking between Zeke and the scattered copies of the reading list on the table.
“Guess we didn’t come here to coast,” he says.
You shake your head lightly. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
Something about that earns a small smile from him, quick and restrained. Then Zeke clears his throat, and the moment folds neatly away, tucked back into place.
“Who wants to start?” Zeke asks, calm, unhurried.
The silence is broken by the sound of a chair scraping softly, and then Porco leans forward.
“I’ll bite.”
Zeke’s eyes flick to him. “Go ahead.”
Porco doesn’t bother sitting up straight. “Hobbes is right about one thing,” he says. “People don’t need moral justification to obey authority. They need safety. Stability. The promise that things won’t fall apart.”
Jonah’s head tilts slightly, like he’s already listening for the flaw, but Porco continues, undeterred.
“Legitimacy is a luxury concept. People talk about it when they’re comfortable. When they’re not, when things get bad, they accept whatever works.”
A few nods ripple through the room and then Jonah exhales quietly and speaks.
“That assumes fear is sustainable,” he says. His voice is calm, but firm. “Authority built on fear doesn’t endure. It corrodes trust, and eventually, people stop seeing compliance as protection and start seeing it as harm.”
Porco scoffs. “People endure harm all the time.”
“Yes,” Jonah agrees. “But they don’t internalize it forever.”
Zeke’s gaze sharpens, not at Porco, not at Jonah, but at the space between them.
“Define ‘endure,’” Zeke says.
Jonah looks up at him. “Compliance without belief.”
Porco smirks. “Belief isn’t required.”
Jonah meets his eyes. “Then neither is loyalty.”
The room stills. You feel it, something tightening, sharpening even. This isn’t posturing anymore. It’s fracture.
Zeke lets the silence sit, just long enough to make it uncomfortable.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Porco leans back again, crossing his arms. “Loyalty is overrated,” he says. “People don’t need to believe in authority to function under it. They just need predictability.”
“Predictability for whom?” Lena cuts in.
Heads turn at her question.
“Stability isn’t neutral,” she continues. “It privileges whoever already benefits from the system. Hobbes assumes collapse is the worst possible outcome, but for some people, collapse is just honesty.”
A murmur moves through the room and Porco lifts a brow. “You’re assuming people want honesty.”
“I’m assuming they recognize injustice,” Lena replies coolly.
Jules shifts in her seat, fingers tapping once against the table. “Or they recognize exhaustion,” she says. “There’s a difference.”
Zeke’s attention sharpens slightly at that, though he doesn’t interrupt.
Jules continues, unfazed. “People don’t comply simply because they’re convinced. They comply because resistance costs time, money, and safety. That doesn’t make the authority legitimate, but it does make it durable.”
Marcus nods along. “Exactly. Legitimacy might be morally desirable, but from a policy standpoint? Stability wins every time.”
Jonah frowns. “That’s circular,” he says. “You’re defining success as endurance. That ignores long-term moral erosion.”
“And you’re defining legitimacy as moral purity,” Marcus shoots back. “Which no system survives.”
Zeke raises a hand, not to stop them, but to shape the collision.
“You’re circling an assumption,” he says. “Name it.”
Silence. Then Eren speaks.
“People don’t just adapt,” he says slowly. “They remember.”
The room stills, not because he’s loud, but because he isn’t.
“Even if they comply,” Eren continues, “even if they survive under the system, memory builds. Grievance builds. At some point, legitimacy stops being theoretical.”
Porco scoffs lightly. “And yet, most revolutions fail.”
“Yes,” Eren agrees. “But the ones that don’t are never spontaneous.”
Zeke studies him now. Really studies him. “And what triggers the shift?” Zeke asks.
Eren hesitates, thinking. “When people stop believing the system can change.”
You feel it then, that familiar tightening behind your sternum. The conversation has climbed high enough that someone needs to ground it. Before you can second-guess yourself, you speak.
“I think we’re treating legitimacy like it’s binary,” you say evenly. “As if authority either has it or doesn’t.”
A few heads turn and Zeke’s gaze settles on you, steady and unreadable.
“Go on,” he says.
“I think legitimacy fluctuates,” you continue. “People can accept authority pragmatically while still questioning it morally. Compliance doesn’t mean belief, but it also doesn’t mean resignation.”
Jonah nods faintly.
“Adaptation,” you say, “isn’t always submission. Sometimes it’s strategic patience.”
Porco tilts his head. “Sounds like hope.”
“Sounds like survival,” you correct gently.
Zeke doesn’t smile, but something in his posture shifts almost imperceptibly.
“So,” he says, addressing the room, “authority doesn’t require moral legitimacy to function, but it cannot function indefinitely without it.” He looks back at you. “You’re arguing legitimacy is deferred.”
“Yes,” you say. “And negotiated. Constantly.”
The silence that follows is different now. Not tense but attentive.
Zeke nods once. “Good.”
He glances at the clock. “We’ll stop there.”
A few surprised exhales ripple around the table.
“For next week,” he continues, “I want you to read Locke not as a rebuttal to Hobbes but as a concession.”
Chairs begin to shift and notebooks and laptops close. Conversations spark quietly at the edges as people gather their things.
Eren leans slightly toward you again. “That was…good,” he says, sincere but not effusive.
You shrug lightly. “It felt necessary.”
He smiles at that.
You begin to reach for your bag when you catch yourself glancing back toward the front of the room. It’s instinctive, unnecessary, and a little annoying.
Zeke is standing where he’s been the entire class, leaning lightly against the edge of the table, posture relaxed but deliberate. He’s dressed simply, but with intent: a dark wool coat shrugged off and draped over the back of a chair, a button-down pressed and clean, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease rather than carelessness. Dark trousers. Polished shoes. Nothing too excessive. He looks…composed. Controlled in a way that feels practiced.
For a brief second, you could swear his gaze lifts and meets yours. The moment is short, barely there. Still, you feel heat rise to your face before you can stop it, irritation following close behind. You look away immediately, annoyed at yourself for the reaction.
He isn’t unattractive, in fact, quite the opposite. But it isn’t just that. It’s the way he’s been watching the room all class—not dominating it, not retreating from it. Measuring. Guiding. Letting arguments unfold just far enough before intervening. He doesn’t demand attention.
He expects it.
Zeke clears his throat softly, and the last of the side conversations fade.
“Before you go,” he says, tone even, as if he hasn’t noticed anything at all, “a reminder about the weekly response memos,” he continues. “Two pages. No summaries.”
A few people shift in their seats.
“I don’t care if you agree with the text,” Zeke says evenly. “I care if you can identify its assumptions, its blind spots, and where you stand in relation to it.”
He looks around the table, letting the expectation settle.
“Use the memo to argue,” he adds. “Not to impress me, but to clarify yourselves.”
He gathers his notes glancing at the syllabus. “They’re due every Monday by midnight. Late submissions won’t be read.”
That earns a few dry smiles.
“Next week,” he finishes calmly, “we’ll see who actually wrote them.”
Chairs scrape back. Conversations spark quietly, sharper now. People already reframing their thoughts, their arguments, and their positions.
You slip your notebook into your bag, already feeling the shape of the argument forming in the back of your mind, already aware that this class won’t let you stay on the surface. And that neither, apparently, will the man at the front of the room.
“So,” Eren says, cutting into your thought but not pressing, “do you have anything going on after this?”
You glance up at him, surprised, but not put off. He’s not crowding your space, just asking.
“Nothing urgent,” you admit. “Why?”
He nods, like he expected that answer. “I was thinking about grabbing something to eat. Maybe…talk through the reading? Bounce ideas off each other before the memo.”
It’s framed casually, but there’s intention behind it. You can tell he actually wants to talk, not just fill time.
“That could be nice,” you say. “I was planning on finding coffee anyway.”
“Perfect,” he says, smiling. “I think my brain needs fuel if it’s going to survive Hobbes.”
You laugh softly, and the two of you fall into step together as you head toward the exit, conversation light—what parts of the reading stood out, where it felt thin, what questions still lingered. You’re mid-thought when a familiar presence cuts in from your left.
“Well, damn,” Porco says. “Didn’t expect that take to come from the middle of the table.”
You stop, turning toward him. He looks exactly like he did during class—leather jacket, smug expression, eyes sharp with interest.
“You actually made Hobbes sound tolerable,” he continues. “That’s not easy.”
“High praise,” you say dryly.
He smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”
Eren glances between the two of you, amused but attentive. Porco opens his mouth again, clearly about to say something else, when a familiar voice cuts across the hallway.
“There you are.”
You turn just in time to see Pieck approaching, tote bag slung over her shoulder, skirt swaying slightly as she walks. She takes in the scene in a second: you, Porco, and the unfamiliar guy standing just close enough to count.
Her smile widens.
“I see you two have met,” she says, clearly pleased. “How was the class?”
Porco scoffs. “Exactly as pretentious as advertised.”
“And yet,” Pieck replies lightly, “you look like you enjoyed yourself.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
Her gaze shifts then, curious and assessing, landing on Eren. She looks back at you, lifts her chin subtly in his direction. “And who’s this?”
“Oh—uh,” you say, stepping half a pace closer to Eren without thinking. “This is Eren. He’s in the seminar too.”
Eren offers a polite smile. “Hi.”
Pieck beams immediately. “Nice to meet you, Eren. I’m Pieck.”
She gestures between you and Porco. “We were just about to grab lunch at The Commons. Porco’s been waiting very patiently since he skipped breakfast.”
“You don’t have to tell them that,” Porco mutters.
Pieck ignores him and looks back at Eren. “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”
Eren hesitates, not from disinterest, but courtesy. His eyes flick to you as a silent check-in.
You smile. “Yeah, you should come.”
“Then yeah,” he says, grin returning. “If it’s alright with you guys.”
Pieck nods enthusiastically. “Of course.”
Porco snorts. “Great. More political philosophers. Just what my appetite needed.”
You laugh, Pieck rolls her eyes, and Eren shakes his head, clearly amused. And just like that, the group shifts—flowing out of Magath Hall together, conversation already overlapping, the weight of the seminar loosening into something lighter.
The walk to The Commons is easy. Close enough that no one checks their phone for directions, and far enough that conversation fills the space between buildings. Pieck leads without meaning to, already mid-thought, talking about studio critiques and how nothing prepares you for having your work dismantled by people who think they’re being kind.
“At least in theory classes,” she says, “no one can point at your thesis and tell you it feels unfinished.”
Porco snorts. “They just tell you that you are.”
“Same thing,” Pieck replies calmly.
You fall into step beside her, Porco just ahead, Eren drifting easily on your other side. He listens more than he talks, nodding along, occasionally glancing at the campus around him like he’s still orienting himself.
“So,” Porco says, half-turning as you cross the quad, “first impressions?”
“Of the campus or the seminar?” you ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
You smile. “Both feel…intentional.”
“That’s one word for it,” Pieck says. “I call it ‘designed to intimidate.’”
Eren laughs softly. “It worked. I almost turned around twice.”
Porco looks at him for the first time with real interest. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Guilty. I’m actually from Paradis Island. Arrived last week.”
“That explains the optimism,” Porco says. “You haven’t been here long enough to be jaded.”
“Give me time,” Eren replies easily and Porco smirks.
They reach their destination and slide into line, the smell of coffee and warm bread cutting through the afternoon air. It’s busy but not chaotic—clusters of students bent over laptops, half-eaten lunches, and arguments mid-sentence.
They claim a corner table once they’ve ordered. Pieck with tea, Porco with something fried, and you and Eren both opting for coffee without discussion.
Porco drops into his chair and looks at Eren again. “So what’d you think of Hobbes?”
Eren considers it. “Efficient. Depressing.”
Porco grins. “That’s the correct answer.”
“He makes people sound incapable of cooperation,” Eren continues. “Like fear is the only thing keeping us from tearing each other apart.”
“And you disagree?” Porco asks.
“I think fear explains compliance,” Eren says. “Not community.”
Pieck hums thoughtfully. “That’s generous.”
“It’s realistic,” you add. “People don’t build lives around fear if they can help it.”
Porco points at you with his fork. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You make things sound hopeful.”
“Practical,” you correct.
He rolls his eyes. “Same thing, different branding.”
Eren smiles at that, not wide, not dazzled, just appreciative.
“So, what’s your memo angle going to be?” he asks.
You shrug. “Legitimacy as something negotiated, not fixed.”
Porco groans. “Great. Another week of everyone redefining the same word.”
“You’ll survive,” Pieck says dryly.
He looks at Eren. “And you?”
Eren thinks for a moment. “Memory,” he says. “What people remember about authority, even when they comply with it.”
Porco pauses. “Huh.”
It’s the closest thing to praise he offers.
Conversation drifts after that, light, and overlapping. Complaints about reading loads. Pieck teasing Porco about pretending he hates theory. Eren asking questions that aren’t intrusive but feel sincere. You catch yourself watching the dynamic from the outside for half a second, surprised by how easily it’s all falling into place.
New city. New people.
It doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels…possible. And somewhere across campus, back in Magath Hall, the seminar room sits empty, quiet now, waiting for next week.
You have a feeling it won’t stay quiet for long.
Zeke POV:
Zeke remains where he is.
He doesn’t rush to gather his things. It’s never really been a thing for him. Instead, he sits there reading through the notes he took in class. Assessing each student, trying to find their baselines so that he can figure out their patterns early on. The tells that will let him guide the discussions in the weeks to come.
Porco first—predictable in his provocation, sharp but lazy with it.
Marcus—comfortable in the room. Socially fluent but measured. Someone who knows how to speak without overcommitting.
Jonah—quieter than his brother, but more dangerous in his precision.
Lena—composed, ambitious, careful not to reveal more than necessary.
Jules—observant, ironic, already aware of how easily people mistake intensity for insight.
And then, you.
You hadn’t spoken first. That matters.
Zeke turns that over slowly as he reaches for his notebook. People who wait tend to understand rooms before trying to shape them. People who wait often think they’re invisible.
They rarely are.
Your argument hadn’t been loud or ornamental. It had redirected the conversation without announcing itself as an interruption. That takes either confidence or patience, sometimes even both.
Legitimacy as deferred. Negotiated. Not absent or absolute.
Zeke exhales quietly through his nose.
It’s not a new idea. But it’s one that most students reach only after weeks of circling the same binaries. You’d arrived there early, naturally, without performing the journey.
He files that away.
His gaze drifts to the empty chair beside where you’d been sitting. The other one—Eren. Open posture, earnest delivery, and no defensive irony. He knows who he is. The name had landed the moment it was spoken, quietly disruptive in a way Zeke hadn’t expected. He’d recognized it immediately, the familiarity unwelcome but not surprising. The universe had a clever way of partaking in dark humor it seemed.
It throws him, briefly, but not enough to fracture his focus, and definitely not enough to matter here. He files it where he’s learned to keep things that don’t serve the immediate structure and moves on.
He circles back to what Eren said and writes under the notes of his argument. Idealism has a short half-life here. Still, Zeke doesn’t dismiss it outright.
He gathers his papers now, stacking them neatly, movements economical. This is his third seminar. By now, Zeke knows the rhythm—how long it takes for students to settle into their postures, how quickly confidence turns performative, and how rarely someone surprises him without meaning to, if at all.
His thoughts drift back to you, seated in the middle of the room. Whether intentional or not, it’s the seat you chose. He wonders if that’s why his gaze kept returning to you. He’d read once that the mind is drawn to the center, not out of preference, but orientation. The middle stabilizes a space and it becomes a reference point.
Aristotle would’ve called it balance. Foucault might’ve called it spatial power, authority that emerges without elevation. But Zeke knows better than to romanticize either explanation. Still, the effect remains. The middle organizes attention, it anchors the room.
Perhaps it was that.
Granted, he wasn’t immune to noticing a pretty face. He’s learned not to mistake it for relevance, though. But what lingers isn’t your appearance, it's the way you entered the argument—late, precise, and unannounced. The way you redirected the room without claiming it. That kind of mind is rarer than enthusiasm. And far more disruptive.
He pauses, fingers resting briefly on the edge of the table.
The truth, uncomfortable and inconvenient, is that the room today didn’t settle the way it usually does. It didn’t exhaust itself.
It stayed awake.
Zeke straightens, slipping his glasses back into place, already recalibrating. Next week’s reading. The memos. Who will overreach. Who will retreat. Who will surprise him.
He locks the door behind him as he leaves, the sound echoing down the hallway. This semester will require attention, not because the students are exceptional, but because the equilibrium already feels unstable.
And Zeke Fritz has spent his life maintaining systems precisely like that.