"You’re like a machine trying to figure out how to fold laundry," Camille repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely reached Leo, who was currently busy untangling a mass of charging cables three rows over. "You think you’ve mapped out the human soul, Jovan. You think if you just calculate the right variables, you can turn a dance into a balance sheet. But people don't dance because of supply and demand. They dance because they want to feel something."Jovan paused. His pen hovered over a grid of numbers representing the projected ticket sales for the upcoming spring prom. He looked up, his eyes meeting Camille’s with a clarity that usually unnerved her. "Feeling is a secondary effect, Camille. It’s the by-product of a successful social environment. If the tickets are scarce, the value increases. If the venue is exclusive, the desirability spikes. If I control the distribution of the essential peripherals—the corsages, the limos, the after-party logistics—I’m not the enemy

"He’s been staring at that spreadsheet for three hours, Camille. Just let it go," Leo said, his voice carrying that familiar, dry fatigue that came from being the only person in the room who understood the actual logistics of their operation. He stood up, dropping a tangled mess of aux cords onto the library table with a definitive thud. "Look, if he wants to play the role of the invisible hand of the market, let him. But if we don't get these flyers printed and distributed by tomorrow afternoon, the ‘supply’ of our potential customers is going to be nonexistent. The freshman class is already looking elsewhere for their corsages."Jovan didn’t even blink. His gaze remained locked on his laptop screen, where a series of color-coded cells glowed in the dim library light. "Let them look elsewhere, Leo. Their interest is a variable, not a constant. By tomorrow morning, the news about the 'VIP package' at the Golden Grove florist—the one I’ve already put a deposit down on—will have trickle

 "If the juniors figure out you’re the one artificiality driving up the cost of their prom night, they’re going to do more than just put a target on your back, Jovan," Leo said, his voice dropping to a low, warning hiss. "They’re going to tear the entire operation down. You’re playing with local social dynamics, not digital currency. People don't react to 'market corrections' the way a computer algorithm does. They react with social ostracization and, if I’m reading the sentiment in the hallway correctly, physical confrontation." Jovan finally shifted his gaze away from the flickering screen. He closed his laptop with a slow, deliberate motion, the click echoing in the hushed library like a gavel hitting a block. He looked at Leo, then at Camille, who remained standing, her arms crossed tight against her chest as if protecting herself from the cold, clinical aura Jovan was radiating. "Conflict is ju

 "When did people stop being your friends and start becoming data points, Jovan?" Camille asked, her voice tight, echoing slightly in the claustrophobic silence of the library corner. She wasn't just asking; she was issuing an indictment. Jovan didn’t flinch. He adjusted the edge of his laptop, his movements precise and sterile. "Friendship is just a localized social network, Camille. I haven't stopped being their friend; I’ve simply optimized the way we interact. If I provide a service that makes their prom night go off without a hitch—provided they pay the premium for that service—I’m doing them a favor. I’m alleviating the logistical nightmare of 'last-minute panic.' That’s not betrayal. That’s value creation." Leo let out a harsh, dry laugh, sliding his own chair back. "Value creation? You’ve got the local florist’s inventory locked up in a verbal contract that&rsqu

 "An insurance policy against mediocrity," Jovan murmured, the rhythm of his pen tapping against the laminate surface accelerating. "That is all it is, Leo. Don't look so offended. You’re the one who helped me draft the logistics spreadsheet." Leo slammed his palm onto the table, the sound cracking through the library’s suffocating stillness like a gunshot. The librarian, a woman whose glare could wither fresh-cut roses, shot them a warning look from across the rows. Leo ignored her. His face was flushed, a deep crimson creeping up his neck. "I helped you track the inventory," Leo hissed, keeping his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the air between them. "I didn't agree to turn our classmates into livestock for you to shear. There’s a line, Jovan. You’re standing so far past it you can’t even see the baseline anymore. You think you’re playing a game, but look at Camille. She hasn't sa