Kaze's words were still hanging in the air above the rooftop; You still can't beat me. Before I could even respond, he turned and headed for the stairwell. He didn't show any emotion, make any threats, or give any warnings. He just sounded sure of himself. I felt those words all the way down my back. I gulped, then wiped my sweaty hands on my uniform and hurried after him. I didn't have a choice.
Kaze opened the metal door and went into the stairwell without a word. I followed, and the heavy door slammed shut behind us with a hollow, metallic sound.
The stairwell had a faint smell of dust and old paint. Sunlight streamed down in angled lines through the narrow windows. Our footsteps echoed as we walked down the stairs. I kept looking at Kaze. He didn't even try to hide that he was watching me. He wasn't glaring or angry, just watching. It was like he was sizing me up, figuring me out, and taking notes on everything I did. I couldn't even tell if he was breathing normally. It felt like he was made of silence.
Kaze stopped on the landing between floors. For a split second, I braced myself for another hit, but he just tilted his head. You've gotten better, he said, his voice flat, almost bored. Getting better doesn't mean you're ready.
I started to say something, maybe to argue or fire back a snappy comment, but Kaze was already moving again. He went down the next set of stairs, not even letting me finish my sentence. I took a shaky breath and followed.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Kaze pushed open the door that led back to the cafeteria hallway. The sound of lunch spilled in—people talking, shoes squeaking on the floor, and the clatter of plastic trays. It was the normal world. But it didn't feel that way anymore. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the light and the sudden noise. Kaze stepped out in front of me, moving with that same calm, strange energy that felt out of place next to students carrying sandwiches and juice boxes.
A group of students walked by, laughing about some video they saw. They didn't even look at Kaze. I wondered if anyone else felt that weird shift in the air when he walked past or if I was the only one who noticed it.
Kaze didn't say anything as we walked into the crowded hallway, heading for the cafeteria. His presence created a bubble of silence around us. Students naturally stepped aside, giving us more space than usual, like they knew something bad would happen if they got too close. I tried to look normal, to pretend I wasn't walking next to someone who could punch me through a wall, but it got harder with every step.
We passed the vending machines, the bulletin board with club announcements, and the lockers lining the walls. The cafeteria doors swung open as another group of students left, and Kaze and I slipped into the flow of people moving inside.
Lunch was still happening. Students sat at tables eating, sharing food, and yelling jokes. For a moment, I felt a little dizzy. How could I have been fighting for my life ten minutes ago and now be walking past kids arguing over fries? I felt the whiplash harder than Kaze's punch.
Kaze's eyes moved, scanning the entire cafeteria with the same cold focus he used on me. He took in the entrances, exits, and the number of people. I realized he was watching everything like it was a battlefield. I tried not to be obvious as I moved away from Kaze, heading toward the table where I usually sat with Luna. But Luna wasn't there today. She'd told me she had to do paperwork for the relocation office during lunch.
So I walked in alone.
Kaze followed a few steps behind, close enough that I felt like he was breathing down my neck. I sat down at an empty spot at a long table and pretended to look at my phone. Kaze stood for a moment, looking at something behind me, then stepped away silently, just far enough that he could still see me. He leaned against a pillar, watching me.
I tried to act normal, picking at a sandwich I didn't want to eat. Every time I looked up, Kaze was there. Watching. Patient. Like a hawk waiting for a mouse to forget it's being hunted.
A group of students came in through the far doors—three girls talking, a tall guy juggling a drink, and a smaller kid walking behind them with a tray. I wasn't paying much attention, until something about the smaller kid caught my eye. It wasn't their clothes or their hair. Something was off.
When nobody was looking directly at the kid, the edges of their body seemed to flicker, like a glitch. Barely noticeable. Almost invisible. But I saw it. A small flicker in their shape, like a skipped frame in a video.
I froze, mid-bite. I blinked, thinking I was imagining things.
The kid turned their head.
For a split second—when everyone else nearby was looking at their food or talking—their left eye pixelated. Just the eye. A blocky ripple of squares replaced the pupil, spreading out like a virus on a screen. Then it went back to normal as soon as someone else glanced at it.
My stomach dropped.
I stared without meaning to. I held my breath as the kid sat down at a nearby table. It shimmered again—almost invisibly, but real. I gripped the edge of my tray. I sat still. The lunchroom noise faded into the background.
I wondered if it was the light.
Then it happened a third time. When the student looked down at their lunch tray and no one was watching them, their right hand twitched—and for a second, the fingers weren't fingers. They were a jagged mess of blocky shapes, bending in weird ways, like geometry that didn't know how to be human. The motion was small but obvious.
My heart raced. I leaned forward, unable to look away. The student looked up, and for a second—when everyone else was distracted by a laugh from another table—their face flickered like someone changed channels on their skull. Their cheeks stretched wrong. Their eyes twitched. The smile was too wide, then normal again. Then they took a bite of their sandwich, their movements stiff and out of sync, like they were copying human behavior without really understanding it.
I swallowed hard.
My arm screen buzzed under my sleeve.
I flinched, instinctively covering the sound with my hand. I lowered my head and pulled the sleeve tight so no one could see the light.
The screen pulsed again.
Then again—fast, shaky, frantic.
My heart pounded.
I slowly raised my sleeve just enough to see the screen underneath.
Glitchy red warnings flashed across the interface, symbols jumping and sliding like a panicked heartbeat. Every time the software tried to stabilize the text it failed, and each line rewrote itself before finishing. I looked from the screen to the student with the weird eyes and back again.
My fingers shook.
The cafeteria noise faded away.
One more tiny flicker from the student's face—
And the system finally forced a message through the chaos.
The system says: THAT IS NOT A HUMAN.