Date: Still same day

  Location: Tactical Bomb Diffusion Class

  Mission: Dylan

  “I’m sorry—what?” Nikki said, incredulity crackling through the line.

  “I can try to go against Malachi,” I repeated, forcing the plan into words so it would stop rattling loose in my skull. “Climb past him on the MP system, and when we catch the mole, we broadcast that we stopped a mole who was targeting Malachi.”

  On the other end, I could hear Nikki thinking—actually hear it: the little silence, the sharp inhale, the soft click of her tongue as she weighed disaster against opportunity. Then the Nikki Parliament rendered its verdict.

  “That’s… not bad,” she said at last. “But to make that work, we need to farm MP. A lot of it. Fast.”

  “Missions,” I said.

  “Too slow,” she shot back. “And let’s remember: your first mission handed you a mallet. Not a blade, not a blaster—a carnival prop. Are you really volunteering your life again just to unlock, what, a butter knife next time?”

  “Uh… uh… hmmm.” I searched my mental shelves for anything that didn’t involve getting shot, stabbed, or punted off a loading dock. “What about that football thing?”

  “Mage Football?” Nikki said. “Pretty sure they don’t allow Perks.”

  “Where does it ever say that?” I countered.

  She made the kind of shrug-noise that said, You might technically be right and that only makes this more annoying. “You could paralyze an entire defensive line with one tap. Then you waltz across the end zone while MP spills into your bar like a broken faucet. And the YMPA administration loves to make everything as hard as possible.”

  “Mostly,” I agreed.

  “Do you have the pamphlet?” she asked. “Wait—no, of course you don’t. Tisiah has it. What do you have next?”

  “Recreation,” I said.

  “Obviously,” Nikki muttered. “Everyone has that. Meet us at the field, and we’ll see what Mage Football is actually about, rulebook or no rulebook. If we can’t play it straight, maybe we can play it smart.”

  “Got it, Nikki.”

  As I ended the call, I saw two heads tilt backward a few rows over—Jamal and Maddie. They’d already passed out the worksheets; I hadn’t even had the chance to put pencil to paper. For once, though, they didn’t stand up or start their signature slow walk in my direction. Small mercies.

  “See you later… Dylan,” I added under my breath before tucking the phone away.

  Oh, dear.

  Even whispering Nikki’s name near Jamal was like waving a steak in front of a starving tiger. I could already picture the look—half delighted, half murderous, all trouble—the second he realized who I’d just called. And yes, you might reasonably ask, Can’t you just use your Perk and end any hallway issue before it begins?

  Short answer: not on school grounds. The academy nerfs Perks to the point of parody. It’s not hard to guess why. If half the student body can summon hurricanes and the other half can walk through walls, you either install brakes or rebuild the school every week.

  Still, my brief panic with Nikki gave me an idea. I couldn’t sign up for a sport as a Perked player; Mr. Drails wouldn’t permit it (hi, yes, my father, the one who quotes the handbook like scripture). But if I participated as if I didn’t have a Perk—if I kept my Perk to myself and played it like any other mortal—I might slide through. In EMO sports, Perked players jump through enough guidelines to turn a dragon into a declawed house cat. But a player who doesn’t declare? That might be… seamless. We’d talk logistics at Rec. Hope is a flimsy raft, but it floats.

  “Yep… there he is. Number one,” Tisiah said, and all three of us stared up at the giant leaderboard suspended above the Rec field. Sure, we could see the rankings on our tablets, but the big screen had a way of making your place in the universe feel carved in stone.

  “Malachi,” Nikki muttered. “That little fox.” Her eyes didn’t leave the glowing name at the top. “Question is: who’s the mole?”

  “I don’t think they’re installed yet,” Tisiah said.

  “They definitely are,” Nikki said. “They needed us to grab Lowman so they could trace logistics and plug into the right pipelines. Now? They’re inside. Boom.” She snapped. “The only thing we don’t know is who.”

  “And it could be anybody,” I said. “We don’t even have leads.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Then a memory elbowed its way forward.

  “Wait—remember when I went to the bathroom earlier?” I asked.

  Nikki and Tisiah traded a look, then nodded for me to continue.

  “There were three guys hanging around,” I said quickly. “All orbiting Malachi. One had Goku-hair—seriously, the spiky kind. Another had that side-swept braid look—he’s Black, tan jacket, baggy pants with flames. And the third was a girl—lighter than you, Nikki—white bowl-cut, hoops. They knew Malachi’s business. Or thought they did.”

  “Joining a cult doesn’t give you MP, Connor,” Nikki said drily.

  “Real funny,” I hissed. “Point is, they’re close to him.”

  “So you’re saying we start with Malachi’s friends?” Tisiah asked.

  I nodded. “That would be a great place to—”

  But my attention snagged hard to the right. Malachi. Sitting with September and a few other guys. Or rather, everyone else was just furniture; it was mostly him and September, two planets with a lot of gravity between them.

  “Nikki,” I whispered, “do you have any… I don’t know… hearing devices? Something to boost distance? A cone you hold against a wall?”

  “No,” she said. “Are you trying to eavesdrop like it’s 1950? Get closer. Or swing that mallet and wake up your ears.”

  “Nikki,” Tisiah said. “Not the time.”

  I sighed. The leaderboard pulsed. We watched Malachi and September stand with their group and drift toward the screen—Malachi still perched at number one, and me… somewhere that didn’t even merit a pixel.

  “Didn’t see that coming,” September deadpanned.

  Malachi glanced at her and smiled like a cat that had found the cream. “Love the sarcasm,” he said. “You’re right behind me.”

  He pointed, and September followed his gesture, eyes flicking upward before she gave him a playful nod. “Thanks for the mission, I guess,” she said, a smile sneaking into her voice.

  We stared—me, Nikki, Tisiah—narrow-eyed, skeptical. It looked too easy, too polished, like a script they’d rehearsed.

  “Probably would’ve gotten there anyway,” Malachi said. He lifted his arm in that universal should I put it around your shoulder? motion, then stopped halfway and let it fall. He reset to neutral. I told myself that shoulder spot had my name on it, not his. Delusion is free.

  He pulled out his phone. A few swipes later, he flashed the screen at September. “Bro… how?”

  “How what?”

  He tilted it toward her. From where I stood, I could barely make out the interface. iMessage 8-Ball. September grinned like she’d already pocketed the eight. “Yeah, you’re cooked,” she said, unlocking her phone.

  “Wow,” Nikki murmured. “I don’t think anyone’s even come close to her at 8-Ball.”

  “Nikki,” Tisiah warned.

  She raised both hands. “My mistake.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I started—then the temperature around me dropped ten degrees.

  Remember those three? The ones I’d just described?

  They were walking right toward us.

  “Yeah, wh—Jesus,” Nikki muttered, turning fully to face them as they closed in. I swallowed.

  “Hey, what up, buddy!” Jamal boomed. He held out his hand for a dap, but my brain locked and my palm missed the appointment. His eyes popped. “You good?”

  “What’s… good,” I managed. He glanced past me at Nikki and flashed her a too-bright smile.

  “Just gonna borrow him, aight, sunshine?”

  Nikki’s brows knit. Jamal kept smiling. “Okay, good.”

  He jerked his head, and the four of us drifted toward the far side of the bleachers. They pulled in tight, and Jamal leaned close enough that I could smell mint gum over cologne.

  “Did you tell her about me?” he whispered.

  “Uh—” I said automatically, because my mouth had no idea what the rest of me was doing. I never figured out why stammering was my default in crisis, but there we were.

  Jamal slammed his palm onto my shoulder hard enough to knock thought loose. “C’mon, man. I don’t want you pulped by Malachi’s crew. Do your part.”

  “I’m… currently dealing with something,” I said.

  “Bro, your personal life shouldn’t interfere with mine,” Jamal said. “Tell her. I think she’s into me.”

  “Who?” Goku-hair asked, already smirking.

  “The shorty. Nikki,” Maddie hissed, like the name burned her tongue.

  A laugh climbed up my throat and died there. I didn’t have a death wish.

  “Just hook me up,” Jamal said. “You’re not asking her out; you wouldn’t anyway.”

  “Okay, first of all,” I said, squaring a sliver of pride, “I most definitely can. Sometimes.”

  Jamal narrowed his eyes until they were two slits of disbelief. You could bottle that disdain and sell it as a household cleaner.

  “Do it, and you’ll survive,” he said. “Also—what were you guys talking about back there?”

  My stomach dropped. What else could he mean but the thing we were talking about? We hadn’t discussed anything except September and—

  “Oh,” I said softly. “Oh dear.”

  “Hey, bro—Desmond’s calling,” Goku-hair said, tipping his chin toward the concourse. Jamal glanced at both of them, then back at me, then over my shoulder. They started to peel away, but not before all three gave me a long, measuring look. The kind of look you give a fuse while deciding whether to light it.

  As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Nikki and Tisiah converged.

  “What did he say?” Tisiah whispered.

  I took a breath, felt my ribs protest, and let it out slow. “We have to follow them,” I said. “We have to.”

  Nikki cut a glance toward Jamal’s retreating back. “Because?”

  “Because Malachi might be number one on the MP board and the mole’s target, but information always flows downhill,” I said. “You don’t tap the king; you tap his courtiers. And those three are practically wearing ‘Ask Me About Malachi’ T-shirts.”

  Tisiah nodded slowly. “And if they are connected to the mole?”

  “Then we learn more by shadowing than by shouting,” I said. “Keep our heads down. Keep our ears open. No hero moves. Not yet.”

  Nikki’s eyes narrowed, then softened—half skepticism, half respect. “For the record, Dylan,” she said in a mock whisper, “this is the most sensible thing you’ve said all week.”

  “Dylan appreciates that,” I said, trying not to smile. “Dylan also notes this plan involves exactly zero mallet swings.”

  “Tragic,” she said. “But survivable.”

  We stood there a moment longer, all three staring up at the leaderboard again. Malachi’s name glowed like a warning flare. The rest of the list reshuffled, as if the numbers themselves were restless. Somewhere down in the unranked weeds was me. Somewhere in the shadows of that giant board was a mole who’d crawled into our house and set up shop.

  Nikki tapped my arm. “If we are going to try Mage Football,” she said, “we should confirm the Perk rule first. If Perks are banned, we go stealth. If they’re not, we still go stealth—but faster. And in parallel, we follow Malachi’s trio.”

  “And if Malachi notices?” Tisiah asked.

  “Then we pivot,” Nikki said. “Plan B: find a different faucet for MP. Sparring ladder, sanctioned duels, clean-up ops on the training grounds. There’s always work no one wants to do that still pays in points.”

  “Not glamorous,” I said.

  “Neither is a mallet,” she said sweetly.

  I sighed. “Point taken.”