Katrin enters with a slight sway, her gait betraying clear discomfort.

  She wears a short black dress that accentuates her slender figure and high-heeled black boots. Her hair is disheveled, and the red of her lipstick is smudged in places, giving the impression of a hasty makeup fix. It looks slightly smeared, as if she has tried to cover up the consequences of a sleepless night. Everything about her appearance makes it clear that she has overslept and has tried to pull herself together—but it looks more comical than anything else. A faint hint of irritation in her eyes mixes with a self-satisfied smirk—she doesn’t seem to care. It’s as if Katrin has no awareness of how her condition and appearance might affect the perception of her knowledge. Or maybe she simply doesn’t care at all.

  "Sorry, I’m a little late," she says with a smile, glancing around at us.

  "You’re a whole hour late, and your presence here is meaningless. Besides, you’re clearly in no state to take such an important exam. Go sober up," the examiner responds, looking at her with irritation.

  Katrin is obviously drunk, but her reaction stuns me. There’s something rebellious in her every movement, and her determination seems boundless.

  "You’re wasting my time with this test when there’s nothing to solve. These stupid exams—any idiot could pass them. And as for my condition—I could pass them perfectly even drunk."

  Her words leave the entire auditorium in shock, yet she doesn’t even seem to notice how she is devaluing the efforts of the other students. Everyone, including me, is stunned by how easily she dismisses the difficulty of the exams and the capabilities of her peers.

  The examiner is furious but can’t do anything. She is ready to throw Katrin out, but Katrin won’t back down.

  "Who do you think you are? Leave the room before you’re thrown out!" the examiner snaps, refusing to let it go.

  She is clearly not used to such behavior, especially from students who are expected to take their studies seriously.

  But I haven’t started calling Katrin “Rebel Girl” in my head for nothing—rebelling is exactly what she does. She isn’t afraid to challenge authority, to bulldoze through obstacles, and she always gets her way, no matter how it looks to others. Even in her disheveled state and clear exhaustion, there’s a confidence about her that makes it hard to believe her participation in the Olympiad is over. Katrin knows how to command attention, and her entrance is nothing short of a spectacle.

  She doesn’t just ignore the examiner’s words—she looks at her with slight disdain, as if the woman is saying something utterly ridiculous. There isn’t just defiance in her eyes but a challenge. As always, Katrin refuses to acknowledge any limits. Every step she takes is filled with conviction in her own victory, despite the circumstances.

  I watch her with fascination, unable to understand what she is trying to prove. Maybe she herself doesn’t know what she is going to do next, but one thing is clear—she isn’t going to stop. Her claim that she can pass the test in any condition seems insane, but I can no longer underestimate her. This girl is different, and I have no idea how to deal with that.

  The entire auditorium is glued to their exchange, but even in this situation, Katrin remains unfazed. It isn’t just fearlessness—it’s an ability to make others doubt themselves.

  "I'm willing to make a bet with you," she says with a smirk, locking eyes with the professor. "If I fail your Olympiad, you can expel me from the university. Deal?"

  She knows there isn’t enough time to finish the exam, yet she keeps arguing. This isn’t just arrogance—it’s a strange kind of pride that won’t let her admit defeat. Does this girl ever stop making a deal? She is putting everything on the line, and I can’t understand why. Is winning this argument really worth risking her future? Does she really care that much about proving a point?

  "Deal. I’ll personally grade your test. Take a seat—you only have thirty minutes left," the examiner replies, shocking us all by giving her a chance.

  When Katrin sits down at the desk and begins filling out the answers, her speed astonishes everyone.

  She works with such concentration that it seems as though she isn’t even drunk. Her eyes never leave the paper, and her hands move quickly and confidently. I don’t know what to think. There’s an incredible determination in her actions that leaves me confused. How can she be so confident in her abilities when her entire life seems to revolve around endless parties?

  Her focus and confidence are truly impressive. Could she really be that smart? Or is it just an outward fa?ade, and beneath it all, she is unprepared?

  "Time's up! Turn in your work!" the professor says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I turn to Katrin and notice the satisfied smile on her face. She stands up, walks past the desks, and sits on the edge of the table. Her movements are unsteady, and I feel her struggling to keep her balance.

  How will this day end? I don’t know, but I will definitely remember this moment. How will this Olympiad end for her? Victory or defeat? The questions remain unanswered.

  "Does anyone have any Analgin? My head is about to split open!" she shouts, and her voice almost makes my head explode.

  My vision immediately blurs, and my ears ring as if someone has set off a firecracker next to me. The examiner instantly hands her a pill, and the professor brings her a bottle of water. The room falls quieter, but the dull echo of her scream continues to reverberate in my head.

  "Thanks."

  Katrin tries to stand up, but she sways, her movements unsure, as if she is in a half-daze. I manage to catch her, draping my right arm around her neck. She leans against me, her weak body almost hanging off me, as if I am her only support at that moment. We make our way to the exit, and she seems detached, lost in this brief journey.

  "Don’t forget, the results will be announced in the evening. Don’t be late!" the examiner calls after her, but Katrin, without looking back, raises her left hand, turns her head to the right, and shouts in my ear, "Got it!"

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Her shout nearly deafens me. The sound is so piercing and unexpected that it makes my insides tighten. I stop for a moment, still recovering from the sonic assault. A few students turn around, giving annoyed looks but quickly averting their gaze, as if they don’t want to be part of this strange scene. Only one guy hides a smirk.

  Katrin and I stand in the middle of the corridor, as if she doesn’t know what to do next. Her eyes are empty, frozen, and her face is pale, with dry lips and slightly red eyes, as if she hasn’t slept all night or has been crying. It’s clear her head hurts, and exhaustion shows in every move she makes.

  "Let’s go," I say, not waiting for her reaction, and carefully take her hand.

  Her palm is cold and trembling, but I feel her relax for a moment when my fingers wrap around hers.

  Silently complying, we exit the building. The cold air, suddenly sharp and fresh, seems to awaken her. But she doesn’t rush to walk faster, and her legs, clad in fashionable but uncomfortable boots, don’t obey her. Every step is difficult—she stumbles and tenses her body, trying to maintain her balance. A quiet groan escapes her, but she quickly suppresses it.

  When we reach the bench, she collapses onto it with a heavy sigh, as though she has just dropped an invisible burden off her shoulders or has just finished running a marathon. Her face is pale, her hair messy, and tiny beads of sweat appear on her forehead.

  I sit down beside her, watching her. Rebel Girl stares ahead, as if seeing not the bench or the trees, but something distant and invisible to the others.

  "So, are you done playing the hero?" I hide my irritation behind sarcasm, though inside, it flares up like a fire fueled by my inability to understand her actions.

  "This isn’t heroism. It’s a necessity," she mumbles without even turning her head, just staring tiredly at the ground, as if all her energy has drained away, leaving only exhaustion and pain.

  It sounds so sincere and sad that, for a second, I feel guilty for my sharp words. A heavy feeling settles in my chest, something akin to a pang of pity, making me uncomfortable about my harshness.

  "Alright, get up. We have to go," my words come out softer than I expect.

  "Where to?" she looks at me.

  "The dormitory. Do you have anywhere to sleep right now?"

  She doesn’t answer, just shrugs. I understand that means "no" and simply nod, standing up.

  "Let’s go."

  She doesn’t reply but obediently stands up. At least she can walk, though unsteadily, like someone who has lost their last bit of strength. That makes things a little easier for me—I wouldn’t be able to carry her, but leaving her here alone would be cruel.

  The way to the dorm turns out to be longer than I’d hoped. Rebel Girl moves slowly, her legs tangling beneath her, and at times, I have to steady her so she doesn’t fall. The pain in her steps is obvious.

  She keeps stumbling as if her legs won’t obey her, and the exhaustion in her body is palpable. Her face looks worn-out, void of joy. The few passersby throw curious glances at us, as if we are something unusual. I, too, steal glances at her but say nothing.

  When we finally reach my room, the first thing I do is sit her on the bed. She is barely standing, like a puppet whose strings are about to snap.

  "Lie down," I don’t even try to hide the mix of exhaustion and sympathy in my voice.

  She obeys, exhaling in gratitude, but just as I turn to leave, she quietly adds, "I’m not getting off this bed."

  "Suit yourself," I mutter but take off her boots before leaving. Her feet look worn out, reddened from the long day. She murmurs something like "thanks" and almost instantly falls asleep, as if her body simply can’t stay awake a second longer.

  "Where did you even pick up someone like her?" my roommate asks.

  He has just woken up after last night’s Friday party, his face crumpled, hair sticking out in all directions like someone who has barely returned from the realm of sleep.

  "We’re from the Olympiad," I say, sitting down at the edge of the desk.

  "Yeah, you definitely are. But where did you find her?"

  "I told you, at the Olympiad. She barges in and demands to take the exam. And when they refuse, she bets her entire university enrollment on it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I say. If she doesn’t pass the Olympiad, she gets expelled."

  "Damn, that girl’s got guts! Think she passes?" My roommate stretches and rubs his eyes, still trying to gather himself.

  "Doubt it. She shows up at the end and has only thirty minutes instead of an hour and a half."

  Plus, she has a headache. Unlikely she even finishes half the questions. Though, she writes at lightning speed.

  I smirk, fully convinced that I’ve won our bet.

  Later, as we sit at the table drinking tea, she suddenly walks out of the room—barefoot, sleepy, wearing my hoodie, her hair slightly messy. Without a word, she walks up, grabs my cup of tea, and takes a sip, not even caring that I haven’t had a chance to drink from it yet.

  At that moment, something about her casual carelessness catches my attention. I can’t help but notice how her chest nearly draws my gaze. She’s completely unbothered, as if she doesn’t even realize how noticeable these things can be.

  "What time is it now?!" the girl suddenly shouts, slamming her cup back onto the table with such force that tea splashes everywhere.

  We both shift our gaze from her chest to her face, staring at her in surprise. My roommate and I exchange a glance, barely holding back laughter.

  She’s a real mystery, waking up in the middle of the day like an enchanting and restless sleepy whirlwind. Her face is crumpled, her hair sticking out in all directions, completing the picture of someone who has just emerged from the realm of sleep. Her red locks, tousled and unruly, give her an almost chaotic, yet unexpectedly lively appearance.

  Her complaints, emotions, and reactions to little things—like being late or the tea incident—only highlight her natural charm, which immediately draws attention. Her confidence is striking, and I can’t help but admire how she turns ordinary moments into something unique.

  "Why are you staring at me like idiots? What time is it, I’m asking?! I need to know the Olympiad results! Did I lose or not? This is important!" she exclaims, and I can’t ignore the intensity in her gaze.

  "Don’t worry, you didn’t miss it. The results won’t be announced for another hour. I was actually going to wake you up."

  "Going to wake me up for the results, but not for the exam?! You think I didn’t notice how happy you were when I was late?"

  "So what? First of all, I don’t know where you live. Second, I don’t have your number. Third, in war, all methods are fair. So it was actually to my advantage if you hadn’t shown up," I answer her complaints honestly.

  "Pfft! Nice one. But you didn’t consider that I can’t be outsmarted.

  I always get what I want. Remember that. And while you’re thinking over my words, I’m going to freshen up."

  This girl drives me crazy just by being here. She’s not just a rebel—her behavior throws me off balance, drives me mad. She’s like a hurricane, tearing through my orderly life. Her gaze, manners, gestures—it all irritates and attracts me at the same time. I don’t know what to do with this. If she wins, I’ll have to grant her wish, and judging by how things are going, it’s going to be something that will drive me completely crazy.

  Katrin takes a shower, puts her dress and boots back on, and finishes the look with my hoodie. In that combination, she looks surprisingly cute. As if nothing has happened, she passes by me, giving me a light, mocking glance.

  When the time comes, we head to the university. We leave the dorm and make our way to the building where the results will be announced. She walks quickly, not looking back, so I have to catch up with her.

  Entering the auditorium, we stand by the wall, leaning against it with our backs. The room is already filled with Olympiad participants and professors. It’s noisy—everyone is discussing the possible results.

  I glance at my rival: she’s clearly nervous. Her hands fiddle with the hem of her dress, and her gaze darts between the walls and the faces around her. It’s no surprise—she’s had to take the exam in such a state, and there was little time—only a third of the allotted time.

  I discreetly take her hand and squeeze it. Her fingers are cold and surprisingly soft, but she doesn’t pull away, instead looking at me with mild surprise and a kind of internal wariness. She doesn’t try to pull away, though. I smile back, trying to convey calmness and confidence. She relaxes a little and smiles in return, though her eyes still hold a trace of uncertainty. We stand there, holding hands, waiting for the results, feeling how our silence is filled with a special closeness.

  Hey, you’re here again — and that makes me so happy ??

  you see this story — your comments inspire me and keep me going ??