Breakfast Room
Mission: Tryouts Game
7:45
By this point, fear was practically my roommate.
Sure, a reasonable person might assume I was terrified because today was the Tryouts Game — a major life event, the biggest athletic trial of my existence — with skills, reputation, possible fame, and maybe even my future career on the line. And yes, that definitely played a role. You have no idea how hard it is going to be to not accidentally use my Perk during the game. If I do — in front of council members, scouts, security, White, Renner, and possibly the EMO? Congratulations, future gone. Goodbye, dignity.
But that wasn’t even the part that scared me most.
What scared me was what could happen during the game. I didn’t know if I should be preparing for a staged accident, a sabotage, or something as serious as an assassination. I didn’t know if Jamal, Maddie, and Elf were planning something small—like a distraction or intel-grab—or something catastrophic.
The worst part?
I genuinely couldn’t tell which one we were walking into.
If they were working for the mole, they wouldn’t want an explosion or full-scale attack. They wanted intel. They wanted misdirection. They wanted control, not chaos. But then again—if they were covering for someone else, if the real mole was deeper inside, if all this had been a layered misdirection…
That’s when it gets dangerous.
I made my way down to the first floor, through the hotel that looked like an art-deco museum and smelled faintly like lemon-scented money. Passing through the lobby, I walked past a row of gambling machines, all occupied by elderly people who looked like they hadn’t blinked since yesterday.
DINING HALL, read the wide archway in polished gold lettering.
Before I even entered, Agent D7 spoke through the earbud.
“You ready for today?”
“How long have you been waiting for me to wake up?” I muttered.
“Just about three hours,” he said casually.
“It’s eight o’clock.”
“You need to be ready for everything,” Agent D7 replied calmly. “Especially in a case like this. We also needed to make sure you didn’t suddenly decide to abandon us.”
I blinked. “Why would I ever—?”
“Not that you would succeed,” he added. “We have a tracker on you.”
I didn’t even bother replying.
I walked into the dining hall. Brown carpet with scattered star patterns, tables draped in bright white cloth and lined with silverware and china. People moved between tables in jerseys, jackets, hey-bro hugs, and way-too-loud voices.
“Over here!”
I turned and spotted Tisiah, Malachi, and Jackson sitting at a table near the wall. They weren’t alone—half the team was spread among the tables nearby, but there was just enough space beside them.
“You look terrible,” Malachi said.
I looked down at my outfit. White long-sleeve shirt under a blue jersey, black jeans, brown boots. I thought I looked decent. Meanwhile, Malachi had on a hoodie and basketball shorts like he owned the place.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“What’s got you worried?” he added.
“Little bit of something,” I said vaguely. “The usual.”
“Yeah, same,” Jackson said, cracking his knuckles. “But hey—I’m not even worried. I’m a pretty good running back. I just have to slip through the cracks, bounce through the defense, dive, spin, survive, and I’m good.”
Malachi stared at him. “Slip through the cracks? What cracks? What defense are you bouncing through?”
“You know, like—if they tackle you, you bounce off and just keep going.”
“That isn’t how physics works,” Malachi muttered.
Jackson continued, undeterred. “Who’s quarterbacking first quarter?”
“You mean the whole game?” Tisiah said, nodding toward the front of the room. “That big guy, over there.”
We turned and saw Andre laughing with other players — tall, broad, confident—like he’d been born under a goalpost.
“He’s only going to pass to Malachi,” Jackson sighed.
“No,” Malachi said, shaking his head. “There are different quarterbacks each quarter. They rotate to see chemistry, strategy, coordination. It’s not just about who’s best — it’s about team balance.”
“How do you even know that?” I asked.
“You watch enough football, you start paying attention,” he said.
“So… who’s going first?” Jackson asked.
“No idea,” Malachi replied. “Probably Wallaby’s decision. I just hope he comes out looking a little more… posh.”
“I think he already looks like a coach,” I said.
Malachi shook his head. “He looks like a divorced man who works night shifts at a warehouse and fights people at bars for fun.”
We nodded in total agreement. Even Jackson.
Then—someone called out from another table.
“Malachi!”
It was Danne.
The entire atmosphere shifted.
“Is September going to the game?” he asked casually, flashing his unearned confidence.
I tensed.
“Yeah—she should be,” Malachi said, his voice softening. “But she doesn’t do well around new people.”
“I’m very approachable,” Danne said with a grin. “Everyone would agree.”
Mikey looked at him like he’d just claimed to be a toaster.
“But seriously,” a guy next to him said, turning to Malachi. “Like—are you meeting her after the game? Is there a meet and greet?”
“A meet and greet?” I asked. “Do they even have that?”
Malachi hesitated. He didn’t answer at first, just thought. Hard.
“That would be… dangerous,” he finally said.
“How?” Danne asked, genuinely curious.
“What if someone didn’t show up for entertainment?” Tisiah said quietly. “What if they showed up to eliminate a target?”
The table fell silent.
“Wait—what?” I asked. “Assassinations? At mage football games?”
“Bounties happen often,” Tisiah said. “If a known student is marked, it wouldn’t take much for an organization to send a hunter. A fan event would be like serving them on a platter. Maybe with lemonade on the side.”
Several people nodded in unsettling agreement.
Before I could ask more, Agent D7 cut in.
“Take a bathroom break.”
“Why?” I muttered.
“Just do it. I have questions.”
I stood up. Danne called, “Going somewhere?” I ignored him.
I walked past tables toward the restroom hallway.
“Don’t actually go in,” Agent D7 said. “Just stay where no one can overhear. Now—question one: are Malachi and September dating?”
I nearly choked. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t even joke.”
“Well—if they were, we could track relational patterns. Leverage opportunity. Find motive—”
“You think September might be the mole?” I snapped.
“No. But someone might be leveraging proximity to Malachi through her.”
That shut me up for a second.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s talk suspects. In my opinion, Jackson is not impossible.”
“But he’s a confirmed junior agent,” D7 countered. “Loyalty flag, high clearance, good performance record.”
“Yeah— and that makes him twice as capable of pulling something off.”
He paused.
“Okay. Fair enough.”
“And then there’s Danne.”
“Why him?”
“Why not him?” I said. “He’s reckless, unpredictable, questionable morals, zero filter, loves attention, and is extremely nosy. He’d do it just for fun.”
“…Fair.”
“And Andre,” I finished.
“What did Andre do?” D7 challenged. “Be better than you?”
“I—no—I mean, maybe—but it could literally be anyone,” I muttered. “Anyone in that locker room. Anyone on that bus. Anyone on that field.”
D7 paused.
“Just stay alert. White’s getting impatient.”
“When is he not?”
“He’s not just an interrogator, by the way.”
“Then what is he?”
Silence.
Then:
“I don’t know. I just answer to him.”
I sighed.
And so—I did exactly what he said.
We boarded the buses. We drove to the stadium. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t famous. It wasn’t even crowded.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Security was everywhere—ten guards at some points, metal detectors, surveillance drones, council agents, and what looked like EMO personnel. The level of tension here was almost physical. You could feel it in the air.
Coach Wallaby stood at the bus exit, hands on hips, whistle hanging.
“Alright,” he said calmly. “Let’s go.”
Mikey’s breathing sounded like a malfunctioning vacuum.
“It’s actually happening,” he whimpered. “It’s actually ha—”
“Get a hold of yourself, man!” Mike snapped.
We passed through the gates, walked through long wooden corridors that echoed with our footsteps, turned corner after corner—
Then, we reached the locker room door.
Wallaby opened it.
And what we saw on the other side—
Stopped us in our tracks.