Right on cue, there was a knock. Vinh crossed the room in three efficient steps and opened the door. An administrator in a Northbridge polo handed him a pizza box with the school crest printed on top in green.

  “Thanks,” Vinh said, taking it.

  He carried the box to the low table in the reading nook and flipped the lid. The smell hit me first—cheese and oregano and actual, real garlic, not the sad cafeteria powder I was used to.

  The pizza was divided into four neat quadrants, two slices each: plain cheese, pepperoni, sausage and mushroom, and a vegetable one loaded with peppers, onions, and something green that might have been spinach. Vinh handed me a china plate, I was too distracted to see where it came from.

  “We have several restaurants on campus,” he said, matter-of-fact. “This is from the student center. It’s decent.”

  “Looks better than decent,” I said, drifting toward the smell like a cartoon character.

  “Coke? Juice? Milk?” he asked, already at the mini-fridge.

  “Coke, please,” I said. Might as well go full cliché.

  He handed me a can without comment, took a water for himself, and sat in the other armchair. For a second I hovered, unsure if this was some kind of test in disguise.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Food’s for you.”

  I grabbed a slice of pepperoni, the cheese stretching in satisfying strings. The first bite was scandalously good—thin crust, crisp at the edges, not swimming in grease. I tried not to make indecent noises.

  “Wow,” I said around a mouthful. “Okay. You weren’t kidding.”

  “We don’t starve the scholarship kids,” he said dryly, taking a bite of a veggie slice.

  I choked on a laugh and had to grab a napkin.

  We didn’t talk much. Vinh didn’t seem like a talk-to-fill-space person. He ate neatly, methodically, finishing his first slice before starting his second. I managed two and a half before my stomach waved a white flag. He closed the box, left the last slices sitting there. I wanted to take the leftovers home but was too self-conscious to ask.

  “Ready for the last one?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said, wiping my hands and heading back to the desk.

  He followed, picked up the final booklet, and slid it toward me. “Logic puzzles,” he said. “Patterns, sequences, riddles. It’s not graded the way your other tests are. Some even enjoy it. The administration wants to see your approach rather than how many you get right.”

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  That was both reassuring and not. I settled back into the chair, rolled my shoulders, and opened the booklet.

  The first section was sequences—shapes and numbers, find-what-comes-next. I could do those in my sleep, once I got past the initial panic. Then came logic grids: four kids, four pets, four favorite colors; here are the clues, figure out who has what. It was like a less annoying version of group projects.

  Then it got…interesting.

  “You and three teammates enter a maze with only two exits,” one problem began. “Each exit has a guardian who may or may not tell the truth. You may ask each guardian one question…” It laid out constraints that could have been a riddle in a fantasy novel. I found myself smiling despite myself, sketching little diagrams in the margin as I worked out the fewest questions, the safest path.

  Another page framed things like a board game: a grid of rooms, each with different hazards; you had to route a character through with limited moves and tools. It felt eerily on-brand for a place that secretly trained kids to deal with things in alleys.

  I was halfway through one of those scenarios when I realized I was enjoying myself.

  I glanced up once. Vinh was in the armchair again now, not looming, a book open in his hands. Not a textbook—some thick paperback with a cracked spine. He wasn’t watching me, but I got the sense he was aware of every time my pencil paused, every time I shifted in my seat.

  Two pages later, the booklet ended with a neat STOP. I put my pencil down and flexed my fingers.

  “Done,” I said.

  He stood, took the packet, flipped through to make sure I hadn’t skipped anything. “How was it?”

  “Honestly?” I said. “Weirdly fun. In a ‘my brain is a hamster on a wheel’ kind of way.”

  “Strange turn of phrase,” Vinh said, a faint frown line between his brows.

  I shrugged, aligning the pencils. “You’ll get used to me.”

  Or not, I thought.

  Vinh stacked the finished booklets in a neat pile and clipped them together. “That’s it for testing,” he said. “Ms. Cho will go over placements with you tomorrow. For now, you get the grand tour.”

  “Grand,” I echoed, trying not to sound like I meant “terrifying.”

  He opened the office door and stepped into the hall. I grabbed my backpack and followed.

  We’d barely taken three steps when two girls charged up, then stopped short so fast it was like someone had hit pause.

  They were identical enough that my brain short-circuited for a second. Same rich brown hair pulled into low braids, same warm brown skin, same dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Their blazers fit perfectly, plaid skirts swinging just above their knees, ID lanyards bouncing at their chests.

  “Vinh,” one of them said. Her voice was musical, edges softened by a lilt I couldn’t place. She flicked a quick look at me, then back at him.

  “Sinclair,” he said, by way of introduction. “Diana. This is Sera.” He nodded at the one on the left. “And Shara.” The one on the right dipped her chin in a tiny nod. “They’re your guides for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “We’ll take it from here,” Sera said. Her posture was straight, voice…careful. Polite volume. Eyes steady.

  Shara added, “Ms. Cho said we could show her around the—” She cut herself off, glancing at Vinh. “Around campus.”

  Vinh’s gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat, evaluating something I couldn’t see, then turned to them. “Don’t let her get lost,” he said.

  “We won’t,” they said together, perfectly in sync.

  He gave a short nod and headed down the hall, footsteps even, knife at his hip bouncing lightly. The twins watched him until he turned the corner.