The blare of the alarm jolted Alex awake, slicing through the stillness of his cramped apartment. His hand darted out, silencing it with a single, precise tap. No grogginess clouded his mind; years of training had honed his instincts to snap alert at the slightest disturbance. Last night's sleep had been fitful, haunted by the memory of the dodgeball game, the bullies, and that shadowy figure—the follower. He couldn't shake the gnawing suspicion that his new life was already cracking at the seams.
He rose, feet hitting the cold floor, and moved through his morning routine with mechanical efficiency: shower, plain T-shirt and jeans, toast with eggs. Simple, unremarkable—just like the persona he'd crafted. As he chewed, his gaze flicked to the window. The street below was empty, no sign of movement in the gray dawn light. Maybe yesterday's tail had been a fluke. Maybe he was overreacting.
But Alex didn't believe in flukes.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, he locked the door and stepped into the crisp morning air. The walk to Westfield High was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves skittering across the sidewalk. He kept his pace steady, resisting the urge to check behind him. Normal kids don't act like they're being hunted, he told himself, though the itch between his shoulder blades disagreed.
The school was alive when he arrived—lockers clanging, voices bouncing off the walls, the faint whiff of bleach hanging in the air. Near the water fountain, Tim caught his eye and waved, a hesitant grin on his face. Alex nodded back, keeping it brief. The kid he'd saved from the bullies yesterday seemed eager to latch on, but Alex wasn't sure he could risk it. Friends meant questions, and questions meant danger.
"Morning, Alex," Tim said, jogging to catch up. "Thanks again for yesterday. Those guys are the worst."
"Don't mention it," Alex replied, voice even. "Just keep your head down, alright?"
Tim nodded, eyes bright with something like hero worship. "You're really cool under pressure. Where'd you learn that?"
Alex's gut tightened. "Self-defense classes," he said smoothly, the lie rolling off his tongue. "My parents signed me up a while back."
It worked—Tim bought it, and they split as the bell rang. Alex slid into history class, claiming his usual seat in the middle, blending in. Mr. Harris launched into a lecture on World War II, a subject Alex could've taught blindfolded. His training had drilled military history into him, but he scribbled aimless doodles in his notebook, feigning mild boredom.
Then came the curveball: a group project on wartime strategies. Alex's stomach dropped. Group work meant exposure, something he'd spent years avoiding. He was paired with Ethan, a lanky kid with a nervous laugh, and Mia—the girl from gym class. She smiled at him, small but genuine, as they gathered at a table.
"Hi, Alex," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "You're the new kid, right?"
"Yeah," he answered, keeping it casual. "Just got here."
"Welcome to Westfield," she said, brushing dark hair from her face. "It's not as dull as it looks."
Alex wasn't sure if that was a promise or a warning.
They started brainstorming, Ethan chattering about the Battle of the Bulge while Mia jotted notes. Alex fed them just enough to seem helpful—basic facts, nothing flashy. But when Ethan flubbed a detail about Allied deception, Alex slipped.
"No, they used a double bluff," he said, tone sharper than intended. "The Germans bought it because of misdirection, not the weather."
Ethan blinked. "Wait, what? I didn't read that."
Mia's pen paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "How'd you know that?"
Alex cursed inwardly. Too much, too fast. "Saw it in a book once," he said, forcing a shrug. "No big deal."
She studied him a beat longer, then went back to her notes. But the curiosity in her gaze lingered, and Alex knew he'd have to watch himself around her. She saw too much.
The bell rang, and he bolted, eager to escape her scrutiny. In the hallway, that prickling sensation hit again—someone watching. He kept his head down, scanning with peripheral vision. There: a man by the lockers, dark coat, baseball cap shadowing his face. The same figure from yesterday.
Every nerve screamed to confront him, to end the threat. But that wasn't Alex Carter, ordinary freshman. He turned down a side corridor, weaving through the crowd, senses sharp. He needed to shake the tail without breaking cover.
He ducked into the library, the musty scent of books enveloping him as he slipped behind a shelf. Peering through the gaps, he saw the man enter, scanning the room. Alex moved like a ghost, exiting through a side door and blending into a group crossing the courtyard. A glance back confirmed it: the man was gone.
His pulse raced, but he forced it steady. This wasn't random. The follower was good—too good for a civilian. Someone knew something.
Lunch found him at a corner table, alone with his thoughts. The cafeteria roared around him—trays clashing, voices overlapping—but he tuned it out. Who was after him? The organization, checking his loyalty? Or a ghost from his past, hunting him down? He needed answers, and he needed them fast.
A hushed conversation at the next table broke his focus. "I'm telling you, I saw something in the music room last night," a girl whispered. "A shadow, moving. Then the piano played—by itself."
Her friend laughed. "You're full of it. That room's been locked forever."
"I'm not kidding! It's haunted."
Alex's ears perked up. The music room again. Yesterday, he'd brushed it off as gossip, but twice in two days? It could be nothing—or it could be a piece of the puzzle. He tucked it away, unsure what it meant.
Across the room, Mia sat alone, reading. She looked out of place, like him, and for a moment, he considered approaching her. She might know something about the school's oddities. But he stayed put. Distance was safer.
The day dragged on, Alex keeping his head down. In science, he fumbled a lab on purpose, spilling a beaker of water and earning a few laughs. He grinned sheepishly, hating the act but needing it. By the final bell, he was drained, his nerves frayed from constant vigilance.
He took a winding route home, doubling back through alleys to lose any tail. No sign of the man in the coat, but Alex wasn't fooled. Back in his apartment, he locked the door and collapsed onto the bed, tension coiling in his chest.
Today had been a balancing act, and he'd nearly slipped. He pulled a small, encrypted phone from under the mattress—his lifeline to the organization. He hadn't touched it since arriving, but now, the urge to call gnawed at him. If they were behind this, he deserved to know. If not, he was in deeper trouble than he'd thought.
His thumb hovered over the button, then pulled back. Calling meant weakness, and he wasn't weak. He hid the phone again, resolve hardening. He'd handle this alone.
Lying back, he stared at the ceiling. The music room nagged at him. If something was off there, it might be unrelated—or a trap. Either way, it was a lead. Tomorrow, he'd investigate.
For now, he closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging him under. Outside, the man in the dark coat lingered across the street, watching. He raised a phone to his ear.
"He's careful," he murmured. "Hasn't seen me yet. I'll keep eyes on him."
"Good," came the reply. "We need to know if he's still ours."
The call ended, and the man faded into the shadows, leaving Alex teetering on the edge of a life he couldn't escape.