Chapter 2

The air in the auditorium seemed to freeze. Every eye in the room was on me—this unfamiliar face in an ill-fitting suit.

I could hear girls in designer blazers whispering in the front row, words like "substitute," "nerd," and "cannon fodder" slipping through.

Normally, I would've passed out from hyperventilation by now. But right now, vodka was burning in my stomach.

The high-proof alcohol hadn't knocked me out—instead, it had ripped away all my social anxiety. My brain was clearer than it had ever been.

I walked to the fourth speaker's seat on the opposition side, pulled out the chair, and sat down. Smooth, steady, not a tremor.

Max sat beside me, so nervous his leg wouldn't stop bouncing. The whole table shook with him.

"Distinguished judges, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the semifinals of the National Collegiate Debate Championship." The moderator stood center stage, voice booming.

"Today's resolution: 'Should individuals have the freedom to express prejudice?' The affirmative team, representing Yale University, argues yes. The opposition team, representing our home institution, argues no. Now, will the first affirmative speaker please present their opening statement. You have three minutes."

The first affirmative speaker stood. A guy with slicked-back hair, radiating the kind of confidence that said he wasn't here to debate—he was here to run for president.

"Thank you, Moderator. Ladies and gentlemen, what we're discussing today is the baseline of freedom."

Slick-Back dove in with theatrical flair. "The First Amendment grants us the sacred right to freedom of speech. What is freedom? Freedom isn't just the right to speak the truth—it's the right to speak falsehoods, even the right to express prejudice. If society only permits 'correct' voices, then who defines 'correct'?"

"Suppressing prejudice is, at its core, an arrogance of power. We believe that while prejudice is detestable, stripping people of the freedom to express it is far more dangerous than prejudice itself. Because that path leads to totalitarianism—to George Orwell's 1984!"

Applause erupted. Several judges nodded slightly, scribbling notes.

I leaned back in my chair, watching him coldly.

Equivocation. He'd conflated "expressing prejudice" with "freedom of speech."

The old me wouldn't have known how to counter that. But here's the thing—I'd spent the entire past year in a basement being these golden children's workhorse.

Every fancy term they threw around, every legal concept—I was the one who'd spent months collecting, categorizing, and entering it all into spreadsheets.

The vodka had killed my panic, and in doing so, it had brought my massive mental database roaring online.

Freedom of speech is bounded by the Harm Principle, and expressions of prejudice often cross into hate speech, which is legally restricted. His argument dodged the hard questions, relying entirely on grand narratives to manipulate emotion.

Too bad our first speaker couldn't catch even this obvious gap.

Our first speaker stood up, the printed paper in his hand shaking violently.

"We… we believe that prejudice… hurts people." His voice trembled, zero conviction. "Like racism, sexism… these words cause pain to victims. So we shouldn't have the freedom to express prejudice."

Too weak.

I closed my eyes in agony. This elementary-school rebuttal against Ivy League elites was like charging a tank with a wooden stick.

Sure enough, the second affirmative speaker—Jessica—stood. She strode to the front in heels, contempt radiating from every step.

"The opposition mentioned 'pain.'" She let out a cold laugh. "Please tell me—what's the standard for measuring 'pain'? If I wear an outfit you think is ugly today, and you express your prejudice about it, and I feel hurt—should I call the cops on you?"

"The law cannot be built on subjective emotional experiences. If we ban expression just because someone might feel 'pain,' then societal progress will grind to a halt—because every new idea, when first born, causes 'pain' to traditionalists!"

Boom.

Jessica's logic hit like a sledgehammer, flattening our first speaker into his seat.

The next twenty minutes were a one-sided massacre.

Our second speaker tried to counter with "social harmony," only to be shredded by their third speaker using Mill's On Liberty and the marketplace of ideas.

Watching the whole line collapse, Max completely lost his nerve. As third speaker, he'd prepared tight logical arguments, but under their absolute pressure, he desperately played his last card—moral appeal.

"Are we really going to let malice run rampant in society? Tolerating prejudice is tolerating violence!"

Their third speaker didn't even stand. He just leaned into the mic, tone flat: "Opposing speaker, morality is meant to constrain oneself, not hijack the law. Please return to legal reasoning and stop the cheap emotional posturing."

Max's face turned scarlet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He slumped into his seat, burying his face in his hands, letting out a desperate groan.

"We're done," Max's voice leaked through his fingers. "They ground us into the dirt. The score's gotta be zero to ten. My funding… my future…"

I didn't respond. My gaze traveled across the long table to the fourth affirmative speaker's seat.

Arthur.

He hadn't said a single word the entire debate. Hadn't even opened the materials in front of him. He just sat there, arms crossed, coldly observing this one-sided slaughter, eyes full of pure disdain.

Because he didn't need to lift a finger. His teammates had already torn us to shreds.

"Now, will the fourth opposition speaker please deliver the closing argument." The moderator's voice rang out, tinged with barely concealed sympathy.

Every eye in the room snapped to me. Pity. Contempt. And the eager anticipation of watching a train wreck.

Max grabbed my wrist under the table, hissing through gritted teeth: "Scarlett, get up! Just read David's script! Even if you stutter, fill the three minutes!"

I glanced down at David's script.

The closing argument was built entirely on the assumption that our first three speakers had successfully suppressed the opposition.

Now our entire defense line had been destroyed. Reading this high-minded script would only turn me into a complete joke.

I pushed Max's trembling hand away and stood up.

The auditorium fell silent. Everyone was waiting for this substitute in an oversized suit to stammer through her surrender speech.

At the affirmative table, Jessica rolled her eyes openly. And Arthur—he finally lifted his eyelids slightly, granting me a glance like someone tossing a coin to a beggar.

His eyes didn't even hold impatience. Only a lofty indifference—like watching a corpse being wheeled toward a crematorium.

But I didn't look down at the script.

The vodka in my stomach burned through my stage fright like acid through paper.

At the same time, every case precedent and legal argument I'd archived in that basement snapped into focus, my mind processing like a supercomputer.

I reached out, pinched that script full of garbage, and in front of the entire audience, pushed it to the edge of the table.

Then I lifted my head, my gaze cutting across the table and locking precisely onto Arthur's eyes.

And then I did something that nearly gave Max a heart attack.

I stood at the microphone.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. The timer ticked.

Dead silence. Only my steady breathing transmitted through the speakers, filling the auditorium.