Nico jolted awake, threw on his uniform, and snatched his timetable and books in one chaotic sweep. He barely made it to English class before the bell rang—lucky, for once. Halfway through, his head hit the desk. "Too boring," he muttered. He already knew most of this stuff, and boredom gnawed at him like a curse. Maybe that's why he'd been such a menace at his last school.
He shivered. The incident. He hated even brushing against the memory.
Math was next. He glanced at the clock, then at the door.
Nope. Not happening.
He slipped out during the class change, weaving through the crowd like smoke. He knew the blind spots—where the cameras didn't reach, where the teachers rarely looked. He was almost free, almost out—
"Nico."
The voice cut through him like a blade. Vice Principal Harrow stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, gaze sharp as judgment.
Nico froze. No use running now.
"Detention. Room 3C. You know the drill."
The door to 3C creaked open like a tomb. Nico stepped inside, greeted by flickering lights and the scent of stale rebellion. He dropped into the chair, the one etched with curses and legends from students past.
He sighed. Day one, and already branded.
Detention was supposed to be a punishment. For Nico, it was reconnaissance.
When he first arrived at the school, they'd taken his phone at the front desk—standard protocol for "repeat offenders." But Nico had planned for that. The one they confiscated was a burner, loaded with fake texts and a cracked screen for authenticity.
The real one buzzed quietly in his sleeve, screen dimmed, camera rolling.
He slouched in the back corner of Room 3C, hoodie up, eyes half-lidded—but his fingers moved with purpose. He was mapping the halls. Every blind spot, every shortcut, every door that didn't quite lock. His troublemaking side had begun to stir again, not loud, not reckless—strategic, a ruse in motion.
The school thought they'd clipped his wings.
They hadn't seen anything yet.
At least twenty minutes into his silent mapping mission, the door to Room 3C slammed open like a warning shot.
Two kids were dragged in—one kicking, the other smirking like he'd earned it. The hall monitor looked exhausted, like he'd wrestled shadows.
Nico didn't lift his head right away. He was mid-markup, tracing a new route past the science wing. But the energy shifted. He felt it.
The smirker dropped into the seat beside him. "You're the one they flagged, right? Transfer kid. The one with the incident."
Nico's jaw tightened.
The other kid—still fuming—threw his bag down and muttered something about "unfair" and "they started it."