The College of Arts campus was quiet in the late afternoon. Golden light streamed through the trees and spread across the modern buildings, reflecting off the tall glass of the main pavilion.

In the open field behind the visual arts block, Angel stood firm before the target. Her bow was taut, her fingers steady, her breathing controlled as if she were in a ring. The wind gently moved her long, straight hair, her bangs lightly touching her focused eyes. Her body balanced strength and elegance—the discipline of a fighter, the lightness of a ballerina.

The arrow was released.

It hit the center.

Some students watched from afar, admiring. She ignored them. Always focused. Always in her own world.

On the other side of campus, a black luxury car parked discreetly. Nash stepped out with firm strides. Tall, imposing, dressed in black from head to toe, he seemed out of place and, at the same time, dominant in that artistic environment. His dark eyes coldly scrutinized everything around him with calculated precision.

He was there to pick up his sister.

But it was the sound of the second arrow cutting through the air that caught his attention.

The dry impact on the target echoed across the field.

His eyes met Angel's figure in the distance.

Impeccable posture. Surgical precision. Absolute silence.

She drew another arrow, but for a brief instant, she felt a different gaze upon her. It wasn't common curiosity. It was intense. Evaluative.

Their eyes met.

No words.

No exaggerated gestures.

Just two powerful worlds silently recognizing each other.

The wind blew stronger, gently rustling the leaves around them. The atmosphere seemed suspended, as before a decisive battle—or the beginning of something impossible to avoid.

In the middle of the campus, between art and discipline, luxury and responsibility, Nash and Angel met for the first time.

And destiny, silent like them, began to move.