Monday, April 29

  Location: Cafeteria

  Operation: N/A

  15:00

  The stares cut deeper than any shove. I felt like a cracked window, each look a hairline fracture running through whatever composure I’d managed to keep. This is not how I wanted to be remembered — the kid everyone whispered about, the one they suspected of being a mole. By the time I pushed through the crowd and headed for class, someone elbowed me between the ribs. Before I could steady myself, a group of students barreled past and one of them turned back to kick me to the floor.

  My street cred was vaporized. If negative points were a thing, I’d have them. That would only make September drift farther away, and the thought of that was worse than the pain in my ankle.

  September walked by like the sun passing a shuttered window: present but indifferent. Her expression didn’t even flicker. “Uh — September,” I blurted, scrambling up.

  She slowed as if out of courtesy, then folded her arms with a patience that felt like judgment. “You need something?”

  “Just wanted to talk,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

  She looked at me with a stubborn edge I couldn’t read. “Yes. It very much is. You’re not the best person to associate with right now.”

  “You think I’m the mole?” My voice shredded a little at the edges. The rumor had teeth.

  “I said you’re not the best person to associate with.” She enunciated each word so carefully it was almost cruel. “For a mole, you assume a lot.”

  “So you think I am. All these months—gone for nothing.” My sentence drifted as a herd of Mage Football players cut through our corner of the cafeteria, their shoulders a moving wall.

  “You’re a spy. You should know suspicion doesn’t equal proof.” Her reply was quiet but precise. The boys started to converge, blocking exits with a casual choreography that made them look like her personal guard. Their laughter was soft and mean. I felt eyes, knuckles, the thin blade of disdain. The cafeteria shrank until the tables felt like islands and I was floating, naked.

  What could I even say? Jamal had undone everything I’d built up—maybe not with malice, maybe with clumsy spite, but the damage was done. I wanted to be anonymous again, a shadow, anything but a headline in their gossip.

  “Malachi believes me!” I shouted, because desperate appeals are better than nothing.

  She didn’t look back. Silence answered me and settled like dust in my throat. The quiet made my chest hollow. Tears threatened; my vision blurred until the lights smeared.

  “Come. Before they start looking at me.” The voice was small but steady. Tisiah. He led me to a corner table that hugged the wall and offered a kind of privacy — a pocket of shade in a world that felt exposed.

  “Wow. Talk about rep,” Nikki said, sliding into the bench opposite us.

  Tisiah’s jaw clenched. “Not helping.”

  “We need to find who’s at the bottom of the list,” I said, forcing the words out before the sadness could reassemble into something heavier.

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  Nikki squinted. “Bottom of the list? Who wants to kill a buffoon?” Her voice tried for humor and missed.

  “No, no,” Tisiah corrected. “Malachi thinks they weren’t trying to kill him. They were trying to learn how the MP system works. The worst person on the list is likely the mole — someone placed low to observe, or someone inexperienced who was told to stay hidden.”

  “Which makes sense,” Greg added as he leaned on the table, hands flat against the laminate. He slid into the conversation with his usual calm. “If they can copy Malachi’s techniques, they can replicate or even improve the system. That’s what scares me.”

  “How’d you get in here?” Nikki asked, surprised to see him.

  “Any fellow EMO organization agent can enter other EMO facilities,” Greg said nonchalantly. “It’s complicated. Lots of ‘any’s.” Nikki rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

  “So, plan: we find whoever’s at the bottom of the MP list and follow them when YMPS opens at four,” I said. The word 'YMPS' made Nikki and Greg snap to attention.

  “YMPS?” Nikki echoed.

  “You buy weapons there that match your level,” I said. “It opens today.”

  “We need to do this after lunch,” Greg said, tone clipped. “Quick and quiet.”

  15:45 — after lunch. My head buzzed with the adrenaline of anger and the cold mathematics of revenge. If I found Jamal and he was the mole—or even part of the rumor—I’d make sure he regretted every petty decision that led him here. I chewed the inside of my cheek until it tasted metallic.

  On the field, Malachi approached like he owned the place — calm, certain, and then he froze when he saw Greg. “Why is he here?” Malachi asked.

  “Do you not know the rules?” Greg barked, rolling his eyes. “Come on.”

  “Let’s just check,” Nikki urged, thumbs already tapping through the roster. YMPA had thousands of students; scrolling to the bottom felt like an expedition. We sifted through names and levels with clinical patience, the feed refreshing like a heartbeat.

  Almost a throwaway entry stopped me cold: fourth to last, level one, only four MP points. A name — Maddie — connected to two data points I recognized. My chest kicked. This was something. Not decisive proof, but enough to make a plan worth doing.

  “Well, well, well,” I said, and allowed myself a small, sharp laugh. The group responded with smirks, the kind that tasted like hope.

  “Okay, what time is it?” Nikki asked.

  “Four fifty-five,” Malachi said.

  Tisiah shot up. “We need to get to the library now.” We moved like a single organism: scattering, regrouping, sprinting. The library was the nucleus of the day — five red machines blinking like beacons, the YMPS kiosks where students queued to upgrade and buy gear.

  The building line snaked like a living thing. People packed the hallways; the main field looked deserted in comparison. We sent scouts to the lines, eyes slicing through the crowd to spot anyone with Maddie’s name, her associates, or any suspicious behavior.

  “Find which line Maddie’s in,” Nikki ordered. “Then tell us.”

  “Where’s Mari?” I asked, scanning the crowd.

  “Why do you care?” Nikki snapped.

  “Because she’d want to know,” I said. The answer felt weaker than the thought.

  Nikki conceded with a sigh. “Alright. Move.”

  I pushed through the crowd, wobbling between bodies, searching for the black, hairy hoodie that meant someone familiar. Mari’s uniform collar peeked out beneath the sweater. Relief hit me so hard I had to steady myself with both hands on the back of a chair.

  “Mari!” I called, barreling into her line.

  She swiveled, unamused. “You trying to cut or something?”

  “No. This is urgent.” I was out of breath in a way that was more than exertion — it was anxiety and hope bundled together.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We found someone low on the MP list. Maddie. She’s fourth from the bottom. We think she’s the mole or connected to it. We need to know where she is.” My words tumbled fast.

  Mari’s eyes sharpened. “I was supposed to be watching Maddie. Where?”

  I pointed, breath shallow. “Over there. Five people behind Malachi.”

  Mari drew a small wand from inside her sleeve, and with a barely audible click she attuned a tiny crystal to the crowd. “This is a name-tracker,” she said. “First mechanic I got. It shouldn’t fail.”

  “You can still look too?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah. Go find the rest.” Her tone was harsh but steady, like someone who’d been forced to grow up too fast.

  I scanned the lines again until I saw them: Maddie and someone beside her, moving like they belonged. The signal from Mari’s wand pulsed against my palm — small, urgent. I waved to the others.

  We had a lead. It wasn’t everything. But it was more than rumor. It was a thread — thin, but real.