Daiso Reveles learned quickly that disappearing wasn't the problem.
Being noticed afterward was.
Two days after the incident in the school courtyard, a woman he didn't recognize waited outside his classroom. She wore a gray jacket with no markings and held a tablet tucked against her side like it weighed something.
She smiled when she saw him.
It wasn't unfriendly.
It was careful.
"Daiso Reveles?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I'm Mara Vance," she said. "I just need a few minutes."
The teacher didn't argue. No one ever argued with people who spoke that way.
They sat in a small office that smelled like old paper and disinfectant. A fan rattled in the corner. Mara placed the tablet on the desk but didn't turn it on yet.
"Do you know what an ability is?" she asked.
Daiso shrugged. "Like… powers?"
"Something like that," Mara said. "Do you know what yours is called?"
He hesitated. "Moving?"
She smiled a little wider. "Teleportation."
The word sounded heavier this time.
She finally turned the tablet on. A simple diagram appeared—two points connected by a line that folded inward.
"Can you show me?" she asked. "Just a short one."
Daiso swallowed.
His chest tightened before he even tried. The memory of burning lungs and ringing ears came back too fast.
"I don't—" he started.
"It's okay," Mara said quickly. "If you can't, that's fine."
He didn't like the way she said if.
Daiso stood up.
The office blurred.
He reappeared beside the door, knees buckling as he caught himself against the wall. The fan rattled louder for a second. His vision darkened at the edges.
Mara didn't clap. Didn't raise her voice.
She just watched him breathe.
"That hurt," she said quietly.
Daiso nodded.
His mother cried that night.
Not loudly. Not the kind that scared neighbors. Just the tired kind, hands over her mouth at the kitchen table while Daiso sat across from her pretending not to notice.
"They said you'll be monitored," she said. "They said it's for your safety."
Daiso stared at the table. A crack ran through the wood between them.
"Am I in trouble?" he asked.
"No," she said immediately. "Never that."
But she didn't sound sure.
Monitoring started small.
A check-in once a week. A bracelet he wasn't allowed to take off. Questions that sounded harmless but stacked up fast.
How far could he go?
How often?
What did it feel like?
Daiso learned not to answer more than necessary.
At night, he practiced breathing slow, like he always had. In and out. Counting heartbeats until the pressure faded.
Sometimes, when sirens screamed too close outside, he felt the tug again. The instinct to be somewhere else. Somewhere useful.
He didn't move.
The first time he heard the word squad, it wasn't directed at him.
Two older kids talked about it in the hallway, voices low and excited. Training groups. Assignments. Tests that mattered.
"Abilities don't stay small forever," one of them said. "Either you learn control, or they burn you out."
Daiso kept walking.
That night, he dreamed he was late.
Not running—just standing still while something broke far away. He woke up with his heart pounding and his hands clenched in the sheets.
Mara Vance returned a month later.
"You're cleared for preliminary assessment," she said.
"For what?" Daiso asked.
She met his eyes this time.
"For learning where you're allowed to be," she said. "And where you're not."
Daiso looked down at the bracelet on his wrist.
It felt heavier than it should have.
Most kids with abilities were excited when they got noticed.
They thought it meant potential.
Daiso thought about the boy in the courtyard.
About how easy it had been to switch places.
About how hard it had been to breathe afterward.
He didn't feel powerful.
He felt early.
And somewhere far above them, systems were already adjusting—quietly marking names, measuring risks, and deciding which children would be trained…
…and which ones wouldn't live long enough to matter.