Monday, 29 April

  Location: School Halls

  Operation: N/A

  Time: 20:06

  School ended with the subtlety of a fire alarm, and the portal that ferried me home treated my body like a chew toy. I stumbled out the other side—back in my neighborhood, back in my life—still vibrating from that violent spin-cycle of shimmering air and pressure. The stress stuck like static. Every step felt threaded with the same question: where do I go from here?

  She was at the bottom of the list.

  She ran.

  And somehow, that wasn’t enough.

  I kept replaying it—Maddie’s name, fourth to last; the elevator; the roof; the fall; the shockwaves—and the way it all collapsed into a tidy, dismissive “not enough evidence.” It squeezed my lungs like a band. If that didn’t count, what would? An affidavit signed in blood? Footage of a clandestine meeting stamped with a convenient “CONFESSION” watermark?

  I was certain Agent White hated me—if not personally, then professionally. Principal Renner too. In my mind, she was a rattlesnake with a desk, watching the whole chase from some hidden room up a level, eyes half-lidded, a smirk curling like smoke. I was pretty sure she still daydreamed about pouring toilet water on my face again, and if the opportunity arose, she’d do it with flair and maybe a standing ovation.

  But I needed help, and my options were thinning fast. It sounded like a Malachi-or-Greg problem now, because the truth was simple: I was losing everything—my credibility, my footing, and the fragile connection I had to September, slipping one gloved finger at a time.

  I walked the last blocks home checking over my shoulder, paranoid enough to make the air taste metallic. No one tailed me—thank God—but a small, invasive part of me still imagined Malachi teleporting directly into my room, perched on my desk like a gargoyle, ready to argue I’d done the chase all wrong.

  The front door groaned like it had opinions. I stepped in and hugged Mom—soft, brief, apologetic—then drifted toward the living room where the blue glow of a phone screen haloed Greg’s face. Relief slid through me, loose and warm. Still, my brain kept telling me it was statistically possible Malachi had phased into my closet. Or my sock drawer.

  The little jingle of the key ring on my backpack snapped Greg’s attention up—apparently more interesting than the actual sound of the door—and he lifted a fist, waiting. I bumped it, more reflex than ritual, and sank onto the couch beside him. The cushions sighed like they were in on something.

  “Relief?” he asked, not looking from the phone.

  “Frustration.”

  He pocketed the device and gave me a side-eye. “They weren’t convinced?”

  “Nah.” I let out a long, ragged breath I regretted instantly. “Apparently it wasn’t enough to even spark suspicion. But she ran.” Saying it out loud made me feel foolish. Like I was offering a paper sword in a gunfight. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Get more evidence,” Greg said plainly. “Simple as that. Because this is the lead that makes the most sense.”

  “Well, that’s subjective.” I scrubbed my hands over my face. “There are other possibilities. I just don’t know how to start on them.”

  He angled toward me. “Focus on Maddie first. Don’t try to solve the whole city when all you need is to change your street. Get the suspicion off you now. Solve the bigger picture later.”

  I stared at him—really stared—until he flashed a quick grin and then looked away, like he’d surprised himself by being accidentally wise. “Sure… I hope so.”

  “Me too,” he said. “Me too. I don’t need my brother in jail. We’re separated enough.”

  “Uh… I don’t think that was called for…”

  He glanced me up and down, shrugged. “Nonetheless… you trying to play or—”

  The sentence dangled, half-invitation, half-escape hatch. I didn’t take it. My head was still stuck in corridors and elevators, and the memory of turning, always turning, and finding no door out.

  Saturday

  The clock rang, and I obeyed. Clothes on. Bag packed. Portal commute to practice. This time, I stepped onto the field with my spine a notch tighter and my stare hunting for Andre the way you check for jellyfish at a crowded beach—alert, cautious, braced.

  Malachi was there already, of course, holding court with a knot of guys who were all shirtless and all muscular and, to the untrained eye, completely indistinguishable—like the same template exported twelve times with minor edits to eyebrow slope. Their bodies looked stuffed with geometry—boxes and spheres, hard corners and flexing arcs. I felt like a lowercase letter walking into a capitalized paragraph.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Malachi saw me and tossed a easy smile. Then he turned back, mid-story, the circle of torsos tightening around his words. Busy. Unavailable. Or maybe just normal, and I was the one who’d turned every interaction into a scoreboard.

  I needed Tisiah—the stealthy friend, the guy who preferred shadows over spotlights; if he was on the field at all, he’d be hiding in plain sight. I swept the sidelines, skimming faces and abdominals, until I found him on the bench demolishing a sandwich. The irony of a professional hider choosing a fluorescent-red tomato to drip down his sleeve was not lost on me.

  “Tisiah!” I called before my brain could remind my mouth that he hated that.

  He jerked his head toward the voice, eyes wide enough to intimidate a thunderstorm, then relaxed when he recognized me. Still, he scowled like I’d kicked a cat.

  “You could’ve just called from here, you know,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I’m not exactly trying to be seen.”

  “Sorry… but they weren’t convinced.”

  He froze, the sandwich hovering midair like it needed time to process. His expression went blank—the poker face that always precedes something sharp.

  “White, and a couple of other interrogators,” I added. “They weren’t convinced.”

  “Oh… wow?” he said after a beat. “Didn’t she run though?”

  “There wasn’t enough evidence.”

  “Should’ve known,” he muttered, taking another brutal bite. I noticed there was more ham than lettuce by a factor of five. “Spies take evidence more seriously than any other law enforcement.”

  “She ran!” The frustration cracked out of me, louder than I planned. “How can you ignore that?”

  He leaned in. “Did they tell you why they weren’t convinced?”

  “I just said it—‘not enough evidence.’”

  “Did they explain what evidence would be enough?” he asked. I shook my head. “They said she could’ve run because five lunatics with wands were sprinting at her in a library.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Well, maybe it isn’t Maddie. The most obvious suspect is usually the one someone wants you to notice.”

  “Who then?”

  “Jamal,” he said without ceremony. “If Maddie looks suspicious and she’s friends with Jamal and Elf—and we saw she and Elf ran—then maybe Jamal’s your answer. He’s been attacking us the longest.”

  “So you think there are three double agents.”

  “Where’d you get that from?”

  “Why would two YMPA spies protect an informant unless they hate YMPA themselves—or are working against it?”

  He paused. “Oh…”

  I exhaled a deep, loaded sigh that made my ribs feel older than me.

  From somewhere low and thunderous—maybe the earth’s crust or just his diaphragm—Coach Wallaby boomed, “Everyone in a line!” The field snapped to attention. Bodies moved, shuffled, clapped into formation. Somehow, I ended up shoulder to shoulder with Tisiah.

  Coach Wallaby strode the line, his face an equation no one could solve. “Figures,” he said, lingering on the words, tasting the consonants. “Didn’t realize how many of you men liked being naked in the sun.”

  He smacked and then rubbed—actually rubbed—one of our teammate’s abs. A collective wary silence fell across the row. “No one thought, ‘Maybe it’s a good idea to put on my jersey. Hmm?’”

  As if he’d fired a silent spell, every shirtless guy started to drift toward the locker room—guilty, shameless, compliant; I couldn’t tell which. Coach snapped, “No, no, no, no. I respect the daring attitude. Everyone with their shirts off.”

  What…?

  I heard a murmur ripple through the slender subsection of us. “Shirts—whoa—uh—” someone said, as if struggling to translate “dignity” into the current dialect.

  “Shirts off!” Coach grinned like a pirate. “We’re gonna play like real men. Comfort among teammates creates mutual agreement.”

  Somebody—young voice, nervous—called, “Uh, Coach! Isn’t this unfair for those who actually wore a shirt?”

  Coach tilted his head toward the sound. The guy was three men to my right. Emphasis: three men to my right.

  So of course Coach marched directly to me like I’d insulted his ancestors.

  “Hmm… what’s your name, son?”

  “I didn’t—” I began.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  The tone was surgical, the kind used to remove your alibi. It didn’t matter whether I’d spoken or not; the outcome was preselected.

  “Connor.”

  “Connor—you got courage.”

  “Uh… thank you??”

  “Sometimes your courage goes misplaced.”

  I swallowed, which felt like trying to hide a rock in a straw.

  “Take your shirt off,” he said evenly. “Don’t make me say it again. I’d rather not make you or your teammates more uncomfortable. Besides, you’re a man. Embrace it.”

  I stood there a beat too long, deciding whether humiliation or disobedience would haunt me more. Around us, jerseys lifted and vanished, skins gleaming in the mean, generous sun. The offensive linemen were… a lot. Just—more square footage of human than I was prepared for before breakfast.

  “Alright,” Coach barked, clapping his hands. “Here’s the schedule. We do a couple of exercises, then we end with a little activity. You’ll see what it is once we’re done with the others. Now… everyone in the middle!”

  We collapsed into the field’s dead center like iron filings pulled by a magnet. Coach prowled the perimeter—little steps, careful as a cat, like he was measuring the ground for secrets. “Push-up now!”

  The problem wasn’t pushups. The problem was timing my Perk to look like stamina and not sorcery. Too soon and I’d burn out visibly. Too late and I’d faceplant in front of people who could bench a small horse.

  I glanced right. Tisiah—conveniently beside me—set his palms like a man negotiating a treaty with gravity. Malachi crouched just beyond him, calm in that infuriating way only the very good can be. To my left: Andre. He stared at me like I was the most curious specimen in a museum he didn’t know he liked. The smirk on his face wasn’t mocking. It was… appreciative. Evaluative. Which somehow made it more unnerving.

  He looked like he wanted to say something, but he had to wait for his internal committee to finish drafting the remark. It was like there was an AI living rent-free in his head, scrolling everything it had learned about me from a quick glance at my pores.

  We hit the ground and started. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The field hummed with breath and effort. By forty, some guys collapsed, turned onto their backs, cursed quietly to the turf. I feathered my Perk like a secret metronome—two reps on raw muscle, one rep with a hidden assist—just enough to flatten the tremor in my elbows.

  At fifty, Andre’s AI approved the sentence. He lifted his head, turned that bright, unembarrassed curiosity on me, and finally spoke.

  “Connor, right?”