The next day arrived, and I moved through the usual school schedule with the kind of autopilot that lets your brain do its real work in the background. Somewhere between first bell and last period, a conclusion crystallized—simple, obvious, and surprisingly hard to accept.

  Still talk to her.

  Maybe not in the full, over-the-top romantic way my stomach wanted. Maybe not grand gestures or ridiculous confessions in hallways. Be funny. Be present. Be friendly enough that feelings could grow on their own, the way ivy climbs a wall. That’s how it works anyway… right?

  After school, I headed home just long enough to change. I pulled on my pristine YMPA uniform—crisp lines, polished edges, the whole obedient profile—and then the floor vanished beneath my feet. I dropped clean through a portal and landed with a graceless thud on the YMPA floor.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  A dozen heads turned. A small cluster of students stared openly, hands over their mouths in half-stifled shock. Five girls in particular looked like they were holding in laughter so hard their cheeks ballooned. I scrambled upright, brushing imaginary dust off the uniform like that would erase the moment.

  Mr. Drails…

  The girls broke into giggles as they drifted toward the cafeteria. Okay, so humiliation loves an audience. But as they went, a thought snagged on Greg’s advice: Grab her attention. If I couldn’t get September’s attention directly, getting everyone’s attention might be the next-best way for word to travel.

  Not that I’d asked to arrive like a falling piano.

  No time to brood. September was the mission. I headed for the cafeteria and stepped into the usual chaos—packed tables, overlapping conversations, the hum of a hundred small dramas. My eyes searched the field. There—September, moving toward a table near Malachi.

  Already being pulled.

  I quickened my pace and caught her just before she sat. She paused, threw me a small wave that spiked my heart rate, and smiled. Calm down. Be still.

  “Hey,” she said, and we dapped up like always. “Why are you always late?”

  “Maybe because a certain someone keeps dropping me off in the worst ways possible,” I said, glancing vaguely toward wherever Mr. Drails’s office might be hiding in the geometry of this building.

  “I think he’s teasing you,” she said lightly, “since you’re, like… the newest one.”

  “Yeah, but he never actually says that,” I muttered.

  September laughed—quick, bright. Oh.

  “I remember when he did that with me,” she said. “Or at least, in his own way. There was this one mission where—oh—by the way, did you get your mission yet?”

  “Nah. Not yet,” I said. “Principal Renner hasn’t told me anything, even with those notorious eyes of hers.”

  “For real, bro,” she said, crouching a bit to peer at me like we were conspirators. “For real.”

  The sensible part of my brain suggested I quit while I was ahead. The other part ignored the advice and leapt straight off the cliff. “What gets your attention?” I asked. “Romance-wise.”

  Her eyes widened. Silence opened between us like a door I wasn’t sure I should’ve touched. “That was… wow,” she said at last. “Did not see that coming.” A beat. “But really, I should ask you that.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on—

  “Me?” I squeaked—actual octave shift.

  She held back a smile, pressed into a small line. She nodded.

  “Well,” I said, words bunching in the doorway. “I like girls who, you know… look nice, have a good personality, a great sense of humor. Good shape. All the usual stuff. Basically—” I paused and let courage push me one step further— “basically all the things you have.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  She shook her head hard. “Nah. I am nowhere close to that. I take care of myself, sure, but I’m not manna from heaven.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said, softer. I would’ve said more, but a voice called her name from the table she’d been heading toward.

  September gave me a quick wave and turned. I followed her path with my eyes and watched her sit—right beside Malachi. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a move so casual it wanted applause, tapped her shoulder, and slipped into conversation like the line had been rehearsed.

  Great. All that work undone in three seconds.

  “Dang,” a voice said behind me. “You were almost cooking.”

  I turned. Nikki stood there, brown box braids catching the light, warm light-brown skin glowing under the fluorescents. Camo tee over a black top, fitted black skirt, high-top Converse. The outfit said I know exactly who I am and dared anyone to disagree.

  Sheesh. Go ahead, girl.

  I must have looked like a kicked puppy because she rubbed my back. “It’s okay,” she said. “There are other fish in the sea.”

  “How comforting,” I hissed, but not at her. The frustration just needed somewhere to go.

  Tisiah slid into place, having clearly watched the same scene unfold. He exhaled like a deflated balloon. “How’s that mission?” he asked. “Any news yet?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Not right now.” I swallowed. “Or maybe at all.”

  Sensei Waine’s class ended, and I left with the same question I’d had going in. Technically, she had talked about the MP system—but not in the way any of us wanted. Instead of specifics—the levels, the unlocks, the mechanics—she delivered a sermon: do it hard, be your best, honor matters, use challenge as fuel, rise and sharpen, do it for yourself, for your team, for your future.

  I’m not trying to brag—I’ve always had that mindset. What I needed were features, targets, thresholds. Give me levers to pull. Give me a meter to fill. Based on the faces around me, I wasn’t alone. Impatience hung over the class like static. Nikki’s stare alone could have drilled through steel.

  But Sensei Waine turned what should have been a briefing into a lecture—the one thing guaranteed to make everybody glaze over.

  Then, as we were dispersing, the PA crackled to life right above my head. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Connor, please come to the office. Connor, please come to the office.”

  I hesitated. Partly because Connor is not exactly a rare name, and I could already imagine two other Connors tripping over themselves on their way to be disappointed. Partly because Mr. Drails prefers keeping my last name under wraps—for reasons—and this wasn’t going to change that. But mostly? Mostly because Principal Renner exists, and her presence makes even the idea of going on an operation feel like a test I studied for and still might fail.

  Still, you don’t ask for windows and then ignore them when they open. I headed for the office and knocked.

  Principal Renner glanced up as I entered, then rose with a kind of swift, purposeful urgency and crossed to the door to usher me in. “Inside,” she said, and it was not a suggestion.

  I obeyed and took the nearest chair, lowering myself slowly like the seat might bite. My chest felt like it had a tiny chain-smoker living in it.

  “So,” she said, folding back into her own chair, “you asked for a mission. Correct?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.” (Why did I say that twice?)

  She chuckled, not unkindly, and began riffling through a stack of papers I could have sworn hadn’t been there a second ago. “Well,” she said, “life has been… accommodating. One of our junior agents is in critical condition—non-fatal, but out—which frees a slot on her team. You and your teammates can fill it.”

  She drew a folder from the stack and flipped it toward me. It sailed. I was not prepared for aviation. The folder hit my hands, bounced, and exploded across the floor. I froze, then glanced up. Her expression didn’t change. She tipped her chin toward the paper field like: You know what to do.

  I gathered everything as quickly and neatly as human hands could. She resumed, brisk as a metronome. “Your new teammate is Mari. Junior agent here for one year. Three successful missions completed. And—”

  “Allergic to grass?” I blurted.

  Principal Renner paused, blinked once, then inclined her head. “Y—yes. That should not pose a problem. Keep her out of certain parks and most of Washington State and she will live a long, productive life.”

  The personnel sheet showed a girl with glossy black hair, skin tone near Greg’s, wide eyes, and red lipstick so vivid it looked freshly painted. Not much of a jawline. Average height. The kind of face you remember because it feels like it remembers you first.

  “Are there copies?” I asked.

  Without looking at me, Principal Renner stood, retrieved two more folders from a cabinet, and placed them in my hands with an efficiency that bordered on martial. The gesture carried a certain tone—not unprofessional, but not thrilled with my existence either.

  I nodded vigorously. “Before you read the mission, deliver copies to your teammates,” she said.

  “Where would I find Mari?” I asked, already regretting how new that made me sound.

  “That,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “is your job. I am confident she will recognize you.”

  I paused, sighed, and nodded. “Right.”

  Then the adrenaline hit me all at once. We had it. We actually had it. A mission. The plan had legs, and I needed to sprint on them. I hurried from the room and nearly collided with Nikki and Tisiah in the hallway. They were standing there like statues rigged to spring, anticipation bright in their eyes.

  I didn’t even have to speak. The smile gave it away.

  We erupted—quietly, because the office door was still nearby—but fully: whoops, fist bumps, that giddy bounce on your toes when the thing you needed finally exists. When we calmed, I held up the extra folders.

  “Now,” I said, grinning, “we just need to find Mari.”