The decision isn't framed as punishment.
That's the part that almost makes it worse.
My parents sit us down at the kitchen table, voices calm, careful.
Words like "fresh start" and "new environment" get passed around like bandages over something infected. They don't say fights. They don't say discipline reports. They definitely don't say expulsion.
But I know.
Too many bruises explained away as accidents. Too many meetings that end with adults thanking me for my honesty while quietly asking me to "walk away next time."
I didn't start the fights.
I just ended them.
Still, I nod. Emma nods too, though she looks at me first, like she wants to check if this is safe. I give her a small smile. She mirrors it, imperfectly.
That's enough.
The new school smells different.
Cleaner. New paint layered over something older. The halls are wider, the lockers less dented. Everything feels… curated. Like the building wants to present itself as calm and orderly, even if that's a lie.
We're separated almost immediately.
"Emma Meyer ?" a woman with a clipboard calls. "You'll be with Class B."
Emma's fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack. She looks at me again.
I squeeze her hand once. "You'll be fine."
She hesitates. "You promise ?"
I don't make promises lightly.
But this one I can give.
"I'll be right here."
She nods and follows the woman, shoulders squared like she's trying to be braver than she feels.
I watch until she turns the corner.
Then I let myself breathe.
My classroom is quiet when I walk in.
Not silent—just… attentive. The kind of room where people are already measuring each other. I take a seat near the window without asking permission. No one stops me.
The lesson is easy. Too easy.
Numbers fall into place before the teacher finishes writing them. Words connect themselves without effort. I don't raise my hand. I don't show off. Being invisible is safer.
Still, I feel it—that subtle distance forming. The space intelligence creates when it doesn't bother disguising itself.
Someone is watching me.
I don't look at first.
Then I do.
Across the room, a boy sits hunched over his desk. Brown hair, wild like it never listens to instructions. He chews on his nails absently, eyes sharp, flicking up every few seconds like he's waiting for something to go wrong.
Not curious.
Alert.
The kind of alert you get when the world has already taught you it doesn't warn before it hurts.
Our eyes meet for half a second.
He looks away first.
I don't think about him again.
Lunch is louder.
Emma finds me near the edge of the courtyard, relief obvious on her face. She talks fast—about the class, the teacher, a girl who asked too many questions. I listen, nodding, grounding myself in the normalcy of it.
For a moment, it almost works.
Then shadows fall across the table.
Two boys stand there.
The one in front has brown hair neatly styled, posture relaxed, smile confident in a way that's practiced. He looks like someone used to being liked—or at least listened to.
"Hey," he says easily. "You're new, right ?"
I don't answer immediately. I glance at Emma. She's quiet now, watching.
"Yeah," I say.
The boy grins. "I see. I'm Luke."
He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.
"And this is my brother. Sam."
My stomach tightens.
Because Sam steps forward just enough for me to see him clearly.
Same boy.
Wild hair. Nail-bitten fingers. Eyes that never stop scanning, even now, even smiling faintly like he's not sure that's allowed.
Sam Riordan.
The name hits harder than the sight.
Gen V.
Luke and Sam.
My pulse spikes, but I keep my face neutral. Years of restraint hold. If they notice anything, it's nothing they can name.
Luke keeps talking. "We saw you in class. You looked… bored."
I shrug. "It wasn't hard."
Emma kicks me under the table.
Luke laughs. Sam doesn't.
Sam's eyes linger on me a second longer than necessary, like he's filing me away. Not hostile. Not friendly.
Assessing.
"Anyway," Luke says, cheerful as ever, "thought we'd say hi. New school's rough without people watching your back."
I meet his gaze.
"I've managed so far."
There's a beat of silence.
Then Luke smiles wider. "I like you already."
Sam finally speaks, voice low, careful. "You fight ?"
Emma stiffens.
I answer before she can. "Only when someone doesn't leave me a choice."
Sam nods slowly, like that answer matters.
"Yeah," he says. "I get that."
And in that moment, sitting at a lunch table in a school that looks too clean to be honest, I understand something clearly for the first time:
This place isn't just another school.
It's an intersection.
And I've just met two people whose futures are tangled with mine—whether I want them to be or not.
Friendship doesn't arrive all at once.
It settles in quietly, without asking permission.
At first, it's just logistics—assigned seats that stop feeling temporary, group projects that don't feel like chores. Teachers pair me with Luke often. They like balance. He talks easily, confidently, like the world has never given him a reason not to. I answer questions before I realize my hand is halfway up.
"You ever think about letting someone else be right?" Luke asks once, smirking as he leans back in his chair.
"I do," I say. "I just don't like the results."
He laughs, loud enough to get us a warning glance from the teacher.
Sam usually sits a row behind us. Not exactly with us, but close enough that I can feel his presence. He chews his nails when he's thinking. Always watching. Always alert, like something bad might drop from the ceiling at any second.
At lunch, it becomes routine.
Same table. Same spots.
Emma sits beside me at first, shoulders tight, lunch barely touched. Luke makes a point of talking to her—asking about her classes, exaggerating his complaints until she laughs despite herself. When she laughs, real laughter, something in my chest loosens.
Sam watches that more than anything.
One afternoon, when Emma steps away to talk to a girl from her class, Sam looks at me and speaks directly for the first time.
"You don't make fun of her." he says.
I blink. "Why would I ?"
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the table. "Most people do."
"They shouldn't," I say.
He nods once.
After that, he sits closer.
Weeks pass.
Without noticing, I relax.
I joke more. Dry, quiet comments that catch Luke off guard. Emma grows braver—raising her hand in class, snapping back when someone makes a comment about her eating. Her hands shake afterward, but she doesn't cry. She just looks at me and smiles, like she wants me to see it.
Sam still doesn't talk about home. But one day, sitting on the grass during lunch, he says quietly, "Sometimes I don't know how strong I am."
Luke scoffs. "Nobody does."
Sam shakes his head. "No. I mean… I really don't know."
" I broke the doorknob at home once. "
A chill crawls up my spine.
"Then we figure it out slowly," I say.
He exhales, like that helps.
For a while, things feel normal.
—--
The day it all breaks starts like any other.
Luke and I walk side by side down the hallway after class, bags heavy on our shoulders, talking about nothing important.
"I can't wait to become an adult.," Luke says. "That way I wouldn't have to watch Ms. Mandy's classes."
I nod, laughing a little.
"I don't think it's that good."
We turn the corner.
And freeze.
Two older boys have Sam backed against the lockers.
One of them laughs. "C'mon, freak."
The other shoves him, light but deliberate.
I open my mouth.
Luke steps forward.
Sam moves first.
His punch lands with a sound I'll never forget—too solid, too final. The boy flies down the hallway and hits the lockers hard before collapsing to the floor, completely still.
The other bully stares.
Then runs.
Sam lunges after him.
"Sam !" Luke shouts.
I run.
We grab him just before the corner—Luke on one arm, me on the other.
"Stop," I say. "It's over. Sam—stop."
He twists.
His elbow slams into the side of my head.
The lockers rush toward me.
And then—
Nothing.
I wake up staring at the sky.
Everything hurts.
There's a sharp, drilling pain in my skull that makes me groan before I can stop myself.
"Barry !"
Emma's arms wrap around me, tight and shaking. She's crying—really crying—and that scares me more than the pain.
"I thought you weren't going to wake up," she sobs.
"I'm okay," I say, even though the words feel false. "I'm here."
Our parents stand behind her, pale and terrified. My father grips the stretcher like he needs it to stay standing.
"What happened to Luke and Sam ?" I ask.
My father opens his mouth—
And shouting erupts.
I turn my head.
Sam is being dragged across the pavement by four men in black uniforms. He fights like an animal—kicking, twisting, screaming—but they don't slow down.
"Let me go !" he yells. "I didn't do anything !"
Luke breaks free from his mother's arms.
"Sam !" he screams, running.
One of the men grabs him. "Stay back."
Luke fights him.
Then something ignites.
His eyes glow.
Fire blooms across his skin, heat rolling outward in a violent wave. The man stumbles back, yelling. Luke stares at his own hands, terrified.
"What—what is happening to me ?" he whispers.
For one second, I think he might run.
Then a dart hits his neck.
The fire dies instantly.
Luke collapses, unconscious, his clothes burned away as he hits the ground.
Emma screams.
I try to sit up. Try to shout. Hands press me back down.
The van doors slam shut.
The engine roars.
As it pulls away, I understand something with perfect, awful clarity:
Vought has found us.
And nothing in my life will ever be quiet again.