CHAPTER 2: THE FIRST DAY PARADOX
POV: Ivyn Mikaelson
West Valley High School looks exactly like it did on screen, except bigger and more solid and full of sounds that no TV show could fully capture. Lockers slamming like gunshots. Conversations bleeding into white noise. Laughter that's too loud, too forced, teenagers performing their identities for invisible audiences.
I stand in the parking lot with my secondhand backpack and remind myself that they're not characters. They're people. People who can surprise me.
The System is blessedly quiet in my peripheral vision, just a faint shimmer reminding me it's there. I dismissed all the floating text before leaving the apartment. Last thing I need is to walk around staring at invisible menus while everyone thinks I'm hallucinating.
Registration is a blur. The guidance counselor—Ms. Harper, her nameplate says—has kind eyes that linger too long on my file. The word orphan is probably highlighted somewhere. She doesn't ask questions, just hands me my schedule with a sympathetic smile I've seen too many times in both lives.
AP Literature. Calculus. Physics. History. Lunch. Spanish. Gym.
Standard senior courseload for someone whose transcripts say "intelligent but disadvantaged." I fold the paper and shove it in my pocket, ignoring the System ping that tries to tell me something about academic stats. Not now.
The halls are a maze of faces I recognize and don't. There's Demetri and Eli by their lockers—Eli with his hair hanging forward, hiding, not yet Hawk. They're laughing about something, easy friendship that won't survive the year. I keep walking.
Yasmine holds court near the trophy case, three girls orbiting her like planets. She's pretty in that calculated way, every piece of clothing chosen to send a message. Moon is there too, softer somehow, smiling at something on her phone. I recognize them from the show, but here they're just seniors gossiping about nothing that matters.
Near the admin office, I catch a glimpse of someone who makes me stop. Miguel. Has to be. Smaller than I expected, darker eyes, this look of determined confusion like he's trying to map the building in his head. First day for him too. We lock eyes for half a second before someone bumps into me and the moment breaks.
"Watch it," a voice says. I turn and it's no one important. Just another student annoyed I'm blocking traffic.
They're not NPCs, I remind myself. They're all the heroes of their own stories.
The thought is less comforting than it should be.
[SOCIAL QUEST AVAILABLE: MAKE FIRST CONNECTION]
[Reward: +5 Charisma]
I dismiss it without reading the rest. Some things need to happen naturally, or they don't mean anything.
Room 204 is tucked in the English wing, and I'm early enough that most seats are still empty. Mrs. Caldwell stands at the board writing "EXISTENTIALISM: THE BURDEN OF KNOWING" in careful script. She's younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, wearing a cardigan that's seen better days.
I scan the room. Most of the seats are empty, except—
My breath catches.
Sam LaRusso sits in the second row, bent over a copy of The Stranger by Camus, making notes in the margins with a green pen. Her hair falls forward, dark and straight, and there's this intensity to the way she reads that makes everything else fade for a second.
I've seen her face a hundred times on screen. But this is different. She's real. More present. More human. The tiny furrow between her eyebrows as she concentrates. The way she tucks hair behind her ear without looking up. The worn spine of the book that says she's read it before and came back for more.
She's not a character, I think, and it hits harder than it should. She's Sam. And I'm about to walk into her story like I belong there.
The only empty seat is next to her.
Of course it is.
I slide into the chair and she glances up, polite acknowledgment, nothing more. Back to her book. I pull out my own copy of The Stranger—bought used three days ago when I saw it on the syllabus—and try to look like I belong here.
Mrs. Caldwell starts class by asking who's read Camus. Three hands go up. Mine. Sam's. Some kid in the back who's definitely lying.
"Mr. Mikaelson." Mrs. Caldwell smiles at me. "You're new. Why don't you share your thoughts on Meursault's famous indifference?"
Every eye in the room turns to me. Sam looks up fully now, curious. This is a test. First day, new student, teacher wants to know if I can swim or if I'll drown.
I could give the standard answer. Call Meursault a sociopath and move on.
Instead, I think about dying in a crosswalk. About waking up in someone else's body. About knowing how this story ends and being powerless to stop it.
"Meursault isn't indifferent," I say. My voice is steady even though my hands want to shake. "He's honest about the absurdity of pretending life has inherent meaning. Everyone else performs emotion because society demands it. He refuses to lie about feeling what he doesn't feel. That's not indifference. That's brutal honesty about the human condition."
Silence. Then Mrs. Caldwell's smile widens.
"Excellent. That's the kind of analysis we'll be exploring this semester."
Next to me, Sam has turned fully in her seat. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, like she's trying to figure out if I'm real or just performing intelligence for the teacher.
Both, I think. Neither. Hell if I know anymore.
The rest of class is a blur. Mrs. Caldwell talks about existentialism and authenticity and the weight of consciousness. I take notes automatically, but I'm hyperaware of Sam beside me. The way she writes in neat, small letters. The sound of her breathing. The fact that in three months, we'll be dating, and she'll discover I've been hiding things from her, and it'll hurt us both.
Stop, I tell myself. Live in the present. That's all you have.
When class ends, I'm halfway to the door when she catches up.
"That was actually insightful." Sam's voice is clear, confident, with an edge of surprise. "Most people just call Meursault a sociopath and call it analysis."
I turn to face her and try not to think about everything I know. That she'll kiss me for the first time at an overlook. That her father will hate me. That she'll cry when she finds out about Cobra Kai.
Stop.
"I'm Ivyn," I say. "And thanks. I actually care about the material."
"Sam." She shifts her books, hugging them against her chest. "Same. Which makes us weird here."
"Weird's better than boring."
She laughs, and it's real, not the polite sound people make when they're trying to exit a conversation. "You're new this year?"
"Yeah. Just moved to the area."
Not technically a lie. This body moved here three months ago. I just showed up three days ago.
"Well, welcome to West Valley." She tilts her head, studying me. "You live near here?"
"Reseda. Off Sherman Way."
Something flickers in her eyes. Reseda is not Encino. She probably knows what that means—apartments, not houses, buses, not cars. But she doesn't flinch, doesn't adjust her opinion of me. Just nods.
"Cool. I'm in Encino, but I like Reseda. Less... pretentious."
The bell rings. We both check our schedules at the same time.
"Calculus?" I ask.
"History. But hey, maybe I'll see you at lunch?"
"Library. I've got to catch up on some reading."
"Of course you do." She grins. "Existentialist and a reader. You're committed to the weird thing."
"It's a brand."
She waves and disappears into the hallway traffic, and I stand there for five seconds too long like an idiot.
[CONNECTION ESTABLISHED: SAM LARUSSO]
[Relationship Status: Acquaintance (Positive)]
[Note: Subject shows high Empathy (75/100) and Intelligence (68/100) stats. Proceed with authenticity. False performance will be detected.]
Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think at the System. It doesn't respond.
The rest of the day is observation and survival. Calculus is brutal—my adult knowledge helps, but this body's hands cramp after twenty minutes of writing. Physics is better; I actually understand the concepts. History is memorization I can fake.
Lunch in the library is strategic. Less social pressure. More time to review the precalculus I apparently forgot over summer. The librarian doesn't care that I'm there, just nods and goes back to her computer.
But I can't stop replaying the conversation with Sam. The way she smiled. The books clutched protectively against her chest. The fact that she treated my Reseda address like information, not judgment.
She's real, I keep thinking. They're all real. And I'm about to lie to every single one of them for the next year.
Gym class sixth period destroys me. The System logs every failure with clinical precision. Can't climb the rope. Can barely do a pullup. Running laps leaves me gasping while other students barely break a sweat.
Coach Barker doesn't comment, just writes something on his clipboard that probably says "unfit."
[Physical Performance: Below Average]
[Endurance (Cardio): Tested at 16/100]
[Strength (Upper): Tested at 13/100]
[Recommendation: Continue Daily Quests. Current capabilities insufficient for combat scenarios.]
No shit, I think.
Spanish seventh period is easy. My adult brain still remembers high school Spanish, and Señora Gonzalez seems pleased when I can conjugate verbs without hesitation. Small victory after gym class humiliation.
Walking home, my legs ache and my mind won't stop moving. I replay every interaction. Sam's smile. Demetri's laugh with Eli. Miguel looking lost. The weight of knowing where they'll all be in six months.
The apartment looks even more depressing in the afternoon light. I drop my backpack and pull out my phone—a prepaid piece of crap with a cracked screen. No messages. No missed calls. No one knows I exist.
The System displays my updated stats without being asked.
[DAILY SUMMARY: Charisma: 40 → 43 (+3 from successful social interaction) Focus: 38 → 47 (+9 from maintaining concentration all day) Intelligence: 65 (no change) Empathy: 52 → 54 (+2 from considering others' perspectives)]
[QUEST UPDATE: BUILD GENUINE CONNECTIONS]
[Progress: 1/10 meaningful relationships established]
I stare at the numbers. Progress, the System calls it. But what does any of this mean if I'm lying to everyone about who I really am?
She likes Camus, I think, remembering Sam's annotated copy. She feels lonely despite being popular. She meets serious with serious instead of mockery.
Things the show never told me. Things I learned by actually talking to her, not by watching her through a screen.
Maybe that's the difference. Between knowing what happens and understanding what it means. Between watching a story and living it.
I complete my Daily Quest before bed—fifty pushups in sets of twenty, fifty squats until my thighs burn, stretching that makes me want to cry. The System logs it all. Numbers tick upward slowly.
[DAILY QUEST COMPLETE]
[Rewards: +50 XP, Physical stats +1]
Tomorrow I do it again. And the day after. And every day until I'm strong enough to matter.
Because in three months, Johnny Lawrence opens Cobra Kai. In six months, the school fight happens. In one year, everything I know becomes unreliable.
I fall asleep thinking about Sam's smile and the weight of secrets I'll have to keep. By morning, neither feels lighter.
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