The next day began the same way — but felt slightly wrong. Not dangerous. Just… misaligned.
The hallways buzzed with the usual chaos: laughter, the thud of lockers, the metallic echo of sneakers on tile. But there was an undercurrent beneath it all, a low hum that didn't belong. My instincts picked it up before my thoughts did.
"Morning, Pierce." Claire's voice pulled me out of the static. She leaned against my locker, chewing on a lollipop like she owned the hallway. "Still alive? No emotional meltdowns overnight?"
"Disappointing, isn't it?" I said, spinning my combination lock.
Ryan appeared seconds later, his hoodie half-zipped and his grin fully loaded. "Don't encourage him, Claire. He'll start thinking sarcasm counts as affection."
"Everything counts as affection if you're creative enough," she said, tossing the lollipop stick into the trash. "Anyway, today feels weird, doesn't it? Or am I the only one getting apocalypse vibes?"
She wasn't wrong. There was something electric in the air — not visible, but tangible. My muscles felt it before my brain processed it.
"Maybe you're just hungover on caffeine," Ryan said.
"Maybe you're allergic to awareness," she shot back.
Their banter filled the space, a familiar noise that grounded me. I needed that — the illusion of normality.
Then Aria walked by.
Same calm confidence, same effortless grace, but her gaze was sharper this morning. Calculated. She didn't smile this time; she studied. A fraction of a second longer than most would notice.
Claire followed my eyes instantly. "Ohhh. Look who's staring again."
Ryan groaned. "Here we go."
"She looked at him first," Claire whispered theatrically. "I swear, there's tension. The good kind."
I shut my locker. "You two have wild imaginations."
"Correction," Claire said, walking backward toward class. "I have instincts. You have denial."
Ryan slapped my shoulder as he followed her. "Just ask her out, man. Worst case, she turns out to be a robot or something."
If only he knew how close he was to the truth — just not about her.
History class was a slow crawl. My mind drifted — not from boredom, but because the patterns were off. Aria wasn't just attentive; she was tracking things. She noted movements, timing, the rhythm of footsteps. Subtle, but unmistakable.
When the teacher's back turned, she adjusted her seat slightly to get a better line of sight on the window. Reflexive surveillance behavior.
I'd seen it before. In training.
It wasn't paranoia. It was recognition.
"Ethan?"
Her voice snapped me out of the thought.
Aria had turned, notebook in hand, eyes steady. "You're spacing out."
"Just thinking," I said.
"About what?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"History," I lied.
Her lips curved into a knowing smile — not mocking, not sweet, but… assessing. "Right. Because you look like someone deeply fascinated by the economic reforms of the late empire."
I almost smiled. Almost. "Maybe I'm full of surprises."
Her gaze lingered on me longer than it should have. "Maybe you are."
She turned back to her notes, but I could feel her awareness — the way she tracked the room even as she pretended to write. It wasn't conscious effort. It was habit. That made it worse.
By lunch, the unease hadn't faded. Claire and Ryan were arguing about some stupid meme while I replayed the morning's details in my mind.
Claire caught me zoning out and smirked. "You thinking about her again?"
"No."
"Yes," Ryan said. "It's all over your face. You're like a cat pretending not to stare at the laser pointer."
Claire rested her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming. "You know, she was totally looking at you in class. Not the 'oh he's cute' kind. More like 'what are you hiding?' Which is weirdly hot."
I froze mid-bite. "What did you just say?"
She blinked. "What? That she was staring at you like you're a puzzle? Or that it's hot?"
"The first one," I said slowly.
"Yeah, she looked… focused," Claire said, thoughtful now. "I've never seen her that serious. Usually she's Miss Perfect Smile."
My instincts hummed again. Claire wasn't trained, but she was observant — sharp in her own way.
Ryan leaned back. "Oh come on, she's just into him. Let the man live."
Claire grinned. "Or she's planning his downfall. Honestly, both options are entertaining."
"Comforting," I muttered.
"Anytime," she said sweetly.
Aria entered the cafeteria moments later. She didn't look around immediately — she walked straight to the food line, calm, purposeful. But halfway through, her gaze flicked in our direction. Just once. Just enough.
Claire whispered, "Oh, she's definitely interested. That was a scan."
Ryan groaned. "Not this again—"
But I wasn't listening anymore. I was cataloguing. Cross-referencing. Her scanning habits, her gait, her spatial awareness. They didn't fit a civilian profile.
Something was off.
After school, the streets glowed orange with the dying sun. I walked the long way home — routine camouflage. My phone buzzed once: an encrypted message.
Unknown Sender:Handler ID: 47A. Assignment pending. You will be contacted within 24 hours.
New handler. Again. As always.
The previous one — Handler 32 — had disappeared after last week's mission. Either reassigned or silenced. I didn't ask. I never asked.
When I reached my apartment, I slid into the silence easily. The city outside hummed faintly through the walls. I unzipped my backpack, revealing a false bottom. Inside: my gear — gloves, suppressor, blade, silenced pistol. Tools of the trade.
A ping. Another message.
47A:Objective: Eliminate target "Marcel Dane." Location: Downtown sector, 23:40. Civilians minimal. Payment: Standard. No trail.
Attached: dossier, blue-lit and minimal.
Marcel Dane — corporate fraudster, suspected arms dealer, with enough dirt on his employers to burn half the underworld. The kind of man who paid for secrets and died because of them.
Routine. Simple. Predictable.
I cleaned the weapon, checked the suppressor, and dressed in black. Movement was meditation — measured, efficient, silent.
By the time I reached the downtown sector, the streets were empty. A few neon signs flickered overhead, painting the alleys in fractured color. The target's office building stood tall, half-abandoned, windows glowing with one remaining light on the twelfth floor.
Dane. Alone.
Perfect.
I scaled the fire escape with the ease of habit, boots silent on the metal. The night air was cold, sharp against my skin. I moved through the open window like a shadow slipping through glass.
Inside, Dane was muttering into a phone. "I told you I don't have it yet! You think I want to cross them?"
His voice shook. Desperation.
He turned, startled by the faint sound of my footstep. "Who—"
The silencer whispered once.
He fell. Clean, instant.
I knelt, checked his pulse — gone. No mess, no hesitation. Efficiency incarnate.
Then, movement.
A shadow outside the window — a flicker too deliberate to be wind. My pulse slowed. Not panic — calculation.
Someone was there. Watching.
I moved fast, gun up, eyes narrowing to slits. The alley below was empty. The rooftops, too. But something had been there — I'd felt it.
Then I saw it. On the opposite rooftop, for half a heartbeat: a silhouette. Female. Slender. Hair catching the moonlight.
And then gone.
No sound. No trace.
I stared at the space she had occupied for a long time. The shape, the movement — too graceful to be coincidence. Too precise to be a civilian.
I left no evidence behind and vanished into the night.
The next morning, Westfield High looked normal again. Too normal.
Ryan waved from across the hall, and Claire was already ranting about something involving bad cafeteria food. I walked toward them, each step deliberate.
Then Aria appeared at the other end of the hallway — smiling again, perfectly composed. No trace of what I'd seen last night. But when her eyes met mine, there was the faintest glimmer — not surprise. Recognition.
"Morning," she said as she passed by, voice soft but deliberate. "Rough night?"
My mind froze for half a second.
Her tone was casual. But the words — they were not random.
She didn't wait for an answer. She just walked away, hair brushing her shoulder, smile lingering like a challenge.
Claire appeared beside me, following my gaze. "Okay, that was… definitely not just small talk."
Ryan smirked. "You two have some weird tension thing going on."
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure if I'd been the one doing the observing — or if I'd become someone else's target.