The apartment was quiet on Monday night when Sullivan knocked.Ethan had just sunk deeper into the couch when the sharp rap hit the door. Will was already moving, padding over and pulling it open.
"Sullivan," Will said, voice neutral.
"Is Ethan in?" she asked, even though her gaze had already found him over Will's shoulder.
Will shot a glance back over his shoulder. Ethan pushed himself up with a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Give me a sec."
Owen, sprawled at the end of the couch with his laptop, flicked his eyes between Sullivan and Ethan, feeling the shift in the room. He didn't say anything. Neither did Will. They didn't need to.
"Can you guys give us the room?" Ethan asked.
He clapped a hand on Owen's shoulder as he passed. Owen took the hint, snapped his laptop shut, and followed Will down the hall. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, leaving the living area echoing with a sudden, tense silence.
The second they were gone, Sullivan stepped inside with the confidence of someone who owned the deed to the building. She pulled out a chair at the small dining table and sat without waiting for an invitation. Ethan remained standing, his posture rigid.
Her eyes never wavered from his. She didn't bother with the friction of small talk. "I heard you told Rory to wait until he's eighteen to sign on."
Ethan folded his arms loosely, keeping his expression a blank wall. "That's right."
Sullivan tilted her head, her face cool and analytical. "What part of 'ensure he signs with us' was unclear?"
"It's not a no," Ethan said, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It's a 'not yet.' The kid needs a minute to breathe."
"In this business, 'not yet' is practically a no," she countered. "We need him secured. Did you even bother to ask about his parents?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "His step-parents aren't going to sign off on this. And he doesn't want them anywhere near it. He was very clear on that point."
"What if we approached them ourselves?" Sullivan suggested.
Ethan's fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves. "He doesn't want them involved," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "That's his line. I'm not crossing it for him."
She studied him, looking entirely unimpressed by his moral stance. "What if we offered a payout? Everyone has a price."
The suggestion landed like a physical blow. Ethan leaned forward, his eyes flashing. "No. You don't buy people, Karen. And you definitely don't buy Rory. If he doesn't want them in the room, that's his choice."
A brittle silence settled between them. Sullivan watched him, her eyes unblinking.
"Fine," she said at last. "Then we pivot. We make an exception and sign him early. On paper, we treat him as a legal adult, no guardian required, no consent line to worry about."
Ethan felt a knot of cold dread tighten in his chest. "That's a disaster waiting to happen."
"He wouldn't be put on active cases until he's actually eighteen," she argued. "It's a paper trail technicality."
He let out a short, hollow scoff and shook his head.
Sullivan leaned back, her expression unreadable. "We can't risk another organisation catching wind of him and snapping him up before we do."
"Then let him keep coming in," Ethan insisted. "Training, sparring, check-ins. Whatever keeps him in our orbit. He can sign when he's legally able. He doesn't need a contract right now; he needs breathing room."
Her tone sharpened into a blade. "We need him locked down. Now."
Ethan's frustration simmered, hot and steady under his skin. He could feel the weight of Rory's trust like a physical burden, this kid who had finally started to lower his guard, who thought he was being offered a lifeline, not a cage with more expensive walls.
"I don't like it," Ethan said quietly. The words tasted like copper. He met Sullivan's gaze, refusing to look away. "I don't like what you're suggesting."
"It's not about your preferences," Sullivan replied. "It's about securing an asset before someone else realises what he is."
Ethan started to pace, a short, agitated path between the couch and the table. "He's fifteen. He's barely keeping his head above water at home. You slap a contract on him now, you aren't saving him... you're claiming him."
"You have influence over him," she said, cutting through his protest. "He listens to you. Use that."
Ethan stopped mid-stride and stared at her. "You aren't hearing me. He isn't ready. I'm not going to force him into a corner just because it's convenient for the firm."
Her expression hardened. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her gaze pinning him in place. "This is your job, Ethan. You don't just train these kids. You secure them."
She straightened up, steepling her fingers, her eyes bright and cold. "This isn't just some teenager with decent stats. This is a kid who could change the trajectory of this entire program. You know exactly what's at stake."
He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He did know. Atwood's son. A piece of tech in his head that shouldn't be functional. A boy who walked into their facility already balanced on the edge of something both magnificent and lethal.
Rory wasn't just another recruit. He was a high-stakes investment.
Sullivan stood, smoothing the front of her jacket with a brisk, final movement. "We're done here. Let me know when you've made the right decision."
She turned toward the door.
"You need to run this past the board," Ethan called out.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing her features.
"You're talking about bending recruitment policy and age restrictions for a single fifteen-year-old," Ethan continued, his arms folded. "That's a heavy play. It isn't just your call to make."
Sullivan exhaled sharply. After a beat, she gave a curt, professional nod. "Fine. I'll call a leadership meeting for Wednesday."
Ethan gave a single nod of acknowledgment.
She left without another word, the door clicking shut with a soft finality. Ethan stayed exactly where he was, staring at the grain of the wood for a long moment before letting out a slow, ragged breath.
He'd bought Rory a little time.It wasn't nearly enough.
***
Owen sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers drumming absently against his knee as he listened in through Ethan's chip. The conversation streamed through his mind in perfect clarity, every word, every pause, every shift in tone.
Across the room, Will sat perched on Owen's desk, flicking through one of his textbooks like he was only pretending to read. After a few moments, he glanced up.
"So?"
Owen disconnected with a blink, the silence settling back into the room. He leaned against the wall, arms folding across his chest. "Sullivan's pushing Ethan to make sure Rory signs with Karmal. Hard. She's even talking about changing the age restriction just for him."
That made Will actually stop turning pages. "Wait. Seriously?"
"Yep." Owen clicked his tongue. "Ethan's trying to stall, saying wait till he's eighteen, but Sullivan wants it locked in now. She's calling a board meeting Wednesday to ram it through."
Will shut the book properly this time. "Shit."
"Yeah." Owen exhaled slowly, a spark of irritation flickering beneath his ribs. "I don't get it. What's the big deal with this kid? Why is everyone acting like he's some kind of chosen one?"
Will watched him, a slow eyebrow creeping upward. "You jealous?"
Owen scoffed. "No. I just think it's weird."
Will leaned back, watching him. "He's talented. And if he really is Atwood's son, that's... not nothing."
Owen's jaw tightened. "That doesn't automatically make him special. We don't even know if his implant is anything impressive."
Will shrugged. "Except his results kind of suggest otherwise."
"Still," Owen muttered. "We've all had to work our asses off to be here. Then some kid shows up from nowhere and suddenly the rules don't apply anymore?"
Will studied him for a beat. "It's not like he's getting a free ride. Sullivan just doesn't want anyone else signing him first."
Owen stared at the wall, tongue pressing against his teeth. "You're also ignoring the fact he's... Bultena-Liredt."
Will paused, then gave a small, knowing smile. "Didn't realise you knew that."
Owen shot him a look. "Please."
"Fair enough." Will tilted his head. "But what difference does it make whether people know or not?"
"Because people will care," Owen said quietly. "If that gets out? No one's going to want him in Hector."
Will raised a brow. "Just like Ethan?"
Owen froze.
The silence in the room stretched, thin and brittle. His mouth opened to retort, to find some logical gap in the comparison, but the words died in his throat.
Will didn't twist the knife. He just gave a small, singular nod and let the subject drop. "Anyway. If Sullivan's made up her mind? It's happening. With or without Ethan."
Owen hummed a vague sound of agreement, but the knot of resentment in his chest didn't loosen.Not even a little.
***
Owen spotted Beau on the benches flanking the basketball court, idly spinning a ball between his palms as he tracked the game with predatory focus. Owen didn't hesitate. He marched over, hands buried deep in his pockets, and came to a halt directly in his line of sight.
"You still serious about making sure Rory doesn't last here?"
Beau glanced up, his expression a smooth, unreadable mask. The ball rolled off his fingertips, hit the concrete with a single, hollow thud, and was caught lazily on the rebound. "Why do you care?"
Owen exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his voice as he scanned the perimeter to ensure they weren't being overheard. He sat down beside him, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees.
"Because I'm in."
Beau's mouth twitched, not with surprise, but with a dark kind of amusement. "What changed your mind?"
Owen chewed the inside of his cheek, the bitterness of the Monday night revelation still fresh. "Sullivan is trying to force his recruitment through. She wants to scrap the age restriction, specifically for him. The board meeting is set for Wednesday."
That finally commanded Beau's undivided attention. He stopped playing with the ball, his grip tightening on the rubber.
"No shit?"
"Ethan is fighting it," Owen continued. "But his word won't carry much weight if Sullivan decides to pull rank."
Beau leaned back, his expression shifting into something more calculated. "So, you're suddenly joining the cause because you don't want the golden boy getting fast-tracked?"
Owen's jaw worked once, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "It's not about him. It's about Ethan. If this kid blows up, it lands on Ethan's head. His reputation, his team... everything he's built here."
Beau let the excuse hang in the air for a beat before huffing out a dry, cynical laugh. "Right. This is about Ethan."
Owen stiffened, his gaze fixed resolutely on the court.
"It has nothing to do with the way Sullivan looks at that kid like he's the second coming," Beau pushed, his voice light but sharp enough to draw blood. "Nothing to do with the fact that Karmal is bending rules they never would have bent for you."
"I didn't say that," Owen replied tightly.
"You didn't have to."
Silence stretched between them, punctuated by the thud of the ball against the concrete and a stray cheer from the game. Then Beau leaned in, mirroring Owen's posture.
"Look," he said. "Whether you admit the motive or not, the goal is the same. You don't want him here, and neither do I. If Sullivan locks him into a contract now, he becomes a permanent fixture. He'll never leave."
Owen swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.
"So yeah," Beau finished. "We make sure he doesn't get that signature."
Owen finally met his gaze. There was something raw and brittle in his eyes, a flicker of honesty he wasn't quite ready to put into words.
"I don't want Ethan dragged into the fallout," he insisted. "If we do this, we do it cleanly. No blood, no trauma. Nobody gets hurt. He just—"
"Trips," Beau finished smoothly. "He shows his true colours, the board sees the liability, and the door closes for good."
"Exactly."
Beau studied him for one last moment, weighing the excuses against the reality beneath them. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Alright," he said. "You're in."
Owen exhaled a long, slow breath. "So, what's the move?"
Beau's smirk widened, radiating an easy, dangerous confidence.
"Relax," he said. "We won't have to force a thing. If that darkness is already in him?" He tapped a finger meaningfully against his temple. "All I'm going to do... is invite it out."
***
Owen sat in class, only half-listening as the teacher droned on about something he'd already forgotten. His mind was elsewhere, tuned to the invisible architecture of local signals. Usually, he kept the digital noise suppressed, but today, something sharper pierced the static.
A signature that was familiar, deliberate, and entirely out of place.
Beau.
Owen's brow creased. He shifted in his hard plastic chair and angled a look through the window toward the perimeter of the school grounds. Beau was lounging against the fence like he owned it, arms folded, posture dangerously loose, expression a mask of bored superiority. He didn't belong here, and he wasn't making the slightest effort to blend in.
Owen let out a quiet, tired sigh and turned back to his desk. The remainder of the period crawled by in agonising slow-motion.
When the bell finally signalled the end of the day, Owen slung his bag over one shoulder and headed for the gates. Beau pushed off the fence the moment he spotted him, a faint, mocking glint in his eyes.
"Took you long enough," he said lightly.
"You skipped school," Owen replied.
"The curriculum didn't speak to me today," Beau said dryly, falling into step beside him. He jerked his chin toward the end of the block. "Bus stop. Move it."
Owen hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, his pulse thrumming in his ears. "Do you really think this is necessary?"
Beau's gaze flicked sideways, sharp as a razor. "Getting cold feet, Owen?"
He shook his head, even as a cold weight settled behind his ribs. "No."
It wasn't cold feet. It was the sudden, inconvenient prickling of a conscience he thought he'd tucked away. Regardless, he followed.
They switched buses twice, the city blurring into a smear of muted greys and browns until the world narrowed into the grit of the outer suburbs. When they finally stepped off onto the cracked pavement, Beau let out a low, disparaging whistle.
"This place is depressing."
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Owen didn't bother responding; he just took it in. The rusted fences, the tired brick of the school buildings, the groups of kids trying to look far more dangerous than they actually were. It felt heavy.
Beau nudged his shoulder. "Find him."
Owen exhaled through his nose and reached out mentally, searching for the specific frequency. It didn't take long, Rory's implant had a distinct, unrefined texture that stood out against the local noise.
"Back of the grounds," Owen murmured. "Tucked behind the gym."
They traced the perimeter until they found a gap in the foliage. Rory was sitting on the scorched grass, legs stretched out, half-finished sandwich in hand. Dan was sprawled beside him, the two of them looking like they'd spent a lifetime in that exact spot.
Owen started to say something, but his voice died in his throat as a third boy approached.
Dan straightened up instantly, his shoulders tensing. "Fuck," he muttered. "It's Michael. Here we go."
Rory braced for an impact, expecting the start of a brawl. But Michael didn't swing; he just crossed his arms and spoke with a flat, desperate urgency.
"I want to buy more."
Dan blinked, surprised, before his entire demeanour shifted into something practiced and predatory. "Yeah? How much we talking?"
Rory didn't even look up. He just kept eating, his face a perfect, indifferent mask.
Beau scoffed under his breath, a sound of pure vindication.
"You see?" he whispered, his eyes never leaving the exchange. "This is the 'special case' Ethan's so obsessed with. Not some misunderstood hero. Just another junkie-in-the-making pushing gear to losers for lunch money."
Owen didn't answer. He couldn't.
He just watched. He watched how effortlessly they slid into the role, how natural the transaction looked in the shadow of the school. The knot in his stomach tightened, turning into something cold and leaden.
Beau let the silence settle, allowing the image to sink in.
"Still think he's Karmal material?"
Owen closed his eyes for a second, trying to reconcile the kid Ethan saw with the one standing in front of him. When he opened them, the doubt was gone, replaced by a grim, brittle resolve.
"Let's just get this done," he said quietly.
Rory kept his expression carefully blank as he watched Michael and Dan huddle nearby. He let out a slow, measured breath and looked down, his thumb absently tracing a faint scratch across his knuckle.
Then the sensation hit, a sudden, cold prickle at the nape of his neck. The unmistakable weight of being watched.
He looked up, expecting to catch Michael or one of his mates staring him down. Instead, the world tilted on its axis.
Pete was standing there.Right where Dan had been only a second before.
Rory's stomach twisted with a sharp, physical ache. Air trapped itself in his throat as he pushed himself to his feet, his body moving on an instinct he hadn't even authorised. Pete wasn't supposed to be here; there was no logic, no reason for his presence. Yet there he stood... stationary, silent, and looming.
Rory's fingers dug into the fabric of his hoodie sleeves, his pulse a frantic thud in his ears. He wanted to blink, to shake his head, to look anywhere else, but his muscles refused to obey. He was pinned by that look. He knew that expression; he knew the violence that usually trailed it like a shadow.
Heat crawled up his spine, even as his chest constricted. His breathing shallowed into useless, jagged pulls. Something was wrong... not just the situation, but the texture of the air itself. Pete wasn't moving. He wasn't shifting his weight or reacting to the noise of the schoolyard. He was a statue of a nightmare.
Rory's jaw ached from clenching. A flicker of static brushed the periphery of his mind—a hollow, artificial hum that didn't belong to him.
What is happening?
He blinked.
Pete vanished. Ethan stood in his place now, arms folded, regarding Rory with that cool, clinical assessment that always made him feel like a specimen under a microscope.
The ground felt like water beneath Rory's feet. Ethan gave a small, almost casual nod. "Why do you let him treat you like that?"
Rory stared, his tongue heavy and useless.
"You know you could take him now, don't you?" Ethan's voice was level, terrifyingly calm. "You're stronger. Faster. If he laid a hand on you, you could end it before he even realised what was happening."
Rory couldn't move. He knew, deep down, that none of this was real. It couldn't be. But the tension in his calves was real. The metallic taste of fear was real. The world narrowed until only Ethan's eyes remained in focus.
A low, mocking chuckle came from his peripheral vision. Will was leaning against a nearby brick wall, hands tucked into his pockets, an amused smirk playing on his lips. "Ethan's right," he said lightly. "Why do you just take it? Why are you so weak?"
Reality slipped further out of alignment. The colours of the yard bled and blurred at the edges.
Then—
"Rory?"
Dan's voice sliced through the static with startling clarity. Rory's head snapped toward the sound. Dan was there, solid, real, and looking increasingly concerned. "You good, dude? You've gone totally grey."
Rory didn't answer.
Pete was back.
He stood exactly where Dan had been, his face softening into an expression that made the air turn to ice in Rory's lungs.
"She's gone because of you, you know," Pete spoke softly, leaning closer until the air felt heavy. "She couldn't handle it. But I'm still here. I'm the only one who didn't bail. You're all I have left of her, Rory, and you're going to stay right where I can see you."
The words were a physical blow. Every muscle in Rory's body locked. He was a prisoner in his own skin, frozen by the sound of that voice.
The softness on Pete's face curdled. His brow darkened. "You ignoring me now?"
Rory couldn't breathe. He watched Pete's eyes go dark, the transition that always signalled the breaking point.
"You little shit," Pete growled. It was the exact pitch of a Saturday night. The exact vibration of a coming storm. "Think you're better than me? Think you can just sit there looking at me like that?"
Ethan's voice cut back in from the side, sharper, demanding. "You just going to let him talk to you like that?"
Will stepped forward, his tone uncharacteristically steely. "Stand your ground, Rory. Hit back."
Dan reached out, his hand moving toward Rory's shoulder in a gesture of simple, worried comfort. "Rory—?"
But Rory didn't see Dan. He saw the shift in Pete's weight, the sudden, violent darkening of his eyes.
Pete lunged.
Instinct detonated inside Rory's chest. He didn't think; he reacted to the ghost in front of him. His fist flew before the thought could even form.
The punch connected with a dull, sickening thud. A grunt of pain, a stumble, a body hitting the dirt. Rory followed the momentum, adrenaline screaming through his veins. He dropped, swinging again. And again. And again. He wasn't in a schoolyard; he was in a fight for his life.
Hands suddenly clamped onto him, firm, rough, and real, dragging him backward. He thrashed, his body twisting as he was ripped away from his target. He hit the ground hard, sliding through the dust.
His lungs seized. He gasped, sucking in air through a haze of grit. When his vision finally cleared, the world had reassembled itself into a nightmare of a different kind.
Michael was standing over Dan.Dan was on the ground, bleeding.
Rory froze. The adrenaline turned to acid in his stomach. Dan didn't look angry, or even shocked. He looked terrified. He was looking at Rory as if he were a monster.
Rory scrambled to his feet, panic surging like high-voltage electricity, but Michael stepped between them, shoving Rory back with a hard palm to the chest. "Get the hell away from him, you psycho!"
Rory staggered, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Dan didn't say a word. He didn't defend him. He didn't even meet his gaze. Michael wrapped an arm around him, guiding him away as if he were made of glass. Dan let him. He walked away without looking back.
Rory stood alone in the dirt, the world shrinking down to the violent, frantic pounding of his own heart. He dragged both hands through his hair, gripping the roots until it hurt, trying to claw his way back to sanity.
Pete hadn't been there. Neither had Ethan or Will.
But he had seen them. He had heard them.
The horror settled in, cold and slow. Was he losing his mind?
A voice drifted across the yard from the fence line, sharp and dripping with mock concern.
"Hey, Rory!"
Rory's head snapped up, his vision still swimming. Across the perimeter, near the shadows of the fence, two figures stood watching.
Beau. And Owen.
Beau had his hands in his pockets, a casual, victor's tilt to his head. He didn't look like a student; he looked like a spectator at a show he'd paid to see. Beside him, Owen was unnervingly still.
The truth hit Rory with the force of a physical strike, more painful than the dirt in his lungs. They had done this. They had crawled inside his head, unearthed his ghosts, and fed them to him until he snapped. They hadn't just humiliated him; they had dismantled him on purpose.
Beau raised a hand in a slow, mocking wave before turning to walk away.
Owen, however, lingered for a heartbeat longer. He looked back over his shoulder, and their eyes locked across the distance. For a long, suspended moment, the world went silent. Owen's expression was a guarded wall, but something flickered in the depths of his gaze, a flash of guilt, or perhaps just the cold, clinical curiosity of a scientist watching a subject break.
Rory couldn't tell. He didn't care.
The silence stretched until it was unbearable. Then Beau said something, too low to carry, and Owen finally turned away. They walked off together, leaving Rory standing in the dust, shaking and realising that whatever fragile trust he'd started to build...
...was gone.
***
Rory sat rigid in the plastic chair, staring at the deep scratches in the laminate of Mr. Hughes' desk. His jaw was locked. His hands were pressed flat against his thighs, knuckles turned a bloodless white. The principal's voice filled the small office—sharp, rhythmic, and furious—but the words felt muffled, as if Rory were listening from underwater.
Inside his head, the afternoon was playing on a loop.
The phantom voices. The way reality had warped at the edges. Pete. Ethan. Will. And then—the sickening crack of his knuckles against Dan's jaw.
The memory of Dan's face was the worst part. The transition from worry to shock, and then to a raw, jagged fear. It twisted in Rory's chest like a length of barbed wire, tightening with every breath.
It wasn't real, he told himself, a desperate mantra. None of it was real.
"...unacceptable, entirely unacceptable behaviour!"
The volume dragged him back into the room. Rory blinked once, but his gaze remained fixed on the desk.
"...and don't think for a second this will be treated lightly. Are you even listening to me, Rory?"
Then, the verdict landed.
"You're expelled."
Rory's head snapped up. The numbness that had been shielding him finally fractured.
"What?" His voice sounded thin and hoarse, a stranger's sound.
Mr. Hughes didn't soften his expression. "You heard me. This school has zero tolerance for unprovoked assault."
The room seemed to tilt. Rory felt the floor drop out from under him even though he was still seated. Expelled. The word hummed in his ears like a swarm of hornets.
"Miss Harp is contacting your parents now," Mr. Hughes continued, his tone turning curt and dismissive. "An official letter will be issued today. You are to collect your belongings and wait in the front office until they arrive to collect you."
Rory's heart thudded violently.
Pete.
They were calling Pete.
A sharp knock at the door made him flinch. Miss Harp stepped in, her professional mask perfectly in place. "I couldn't reach them," she said calmly. "There was no answer at the house or on the mobiles. I've left a message on Mr. Lander's phone."
For a fleeting second, the pressure in Rory's chest eased.
Maybe...
She placed a crisp sheet of paper on the desk. "The expulsion letter is ready. We'll just need a signature once the guardian arrives."
Rory's eyes locked onto the document. His fingers twitched helplessly in his lap. If he could just snatch it, if he could somehow prevent that paper from ever reaching the house—
But Mr. Hughes slid the letter back toward the secretary without a second glance at the boy in the chair. "Thank you, Miss Harp."
The paper disappeared into a folder. So did Rory's last excuse to pretend this wasn't happening.
Mr. Hughes leaned forward, his voice dropping into a heavy, disappointed register. "I am truly disappointed, Rory. What you did today was dangerous. There is no excuse for that kind of violence. None."
The accusation hovered in the air between them. Rory stared past him, his vision blurring. He didn't argue. He didn't try to explain that he'd been fighting a ghost. He didn't know how to put the truth into words that wouldn't make him sound even more insane.
After a long silence, the principal sighed and waved a hand toward the door.
"Go collect your bag. Then wait in the reception area until your parents arrive. Do not leave the school grounds. Do you understand?"
Rory rose slowly. His legs felt like leaden weights, unsteady and foreign.
"Yes, sir." The response was a hollow reflex.
He stepped out into the hallway, where the distant, cheerful chatter of other students drifted through the corridor as if the world were still turning. But for Rory, everything had stopped. His life had just dismantled itself in the dirt of the yard, and he was powerless to stop the pieces from falling.
***
Rory gripped his backpack and moved with leaden steps to the row of plastic chairs outside the office. Students streamed through the corridor in a blurred rush, laughing and swapping stories, living normal lives that weren't currently burning to the ground. He sank into a seat, his bag slumped at his feet. His hands had gone entirely numb.
Wait here. Wait for Pete. Wait to be dismantled.
His chest constricted, the air in the hallway tasting thin and stale. A frantic buzzing vibration built behind his ribs, a rising, claustrophobic panic that threatened to choke him.
Pete would listen to that voicemail.
Pete would park the car, walk through those front doors, and look at him with that specific, dark expression—
No. No, no, no.
Rory's breathing turned into shallow, desperate hitches. He pressed his palms into his kneecaps, trying to anchor himself to the chair, but the mental image of the drive home wrapped around his lungs and squeezed.
There was still time. Maybe.
He cut his eyes toward the office window, then back to the long stretch of the hallway. The red exit sign at the far end glowed like a beacon.
His body acted before his brain could even finalise the impulse. He snatched his bag from the floor and stood. He began to walk, maintaining a mask of forced calm, down the corridor, past the rows of lockers and the open classroom doors.
No one called out. No one noticed the boy slipping through the shadows.
The school gates loomed ahead, wide and indifferent.
Just keep moving.
He stepped through the threshold, leaving the property behind. The moment his feet hit the public sidewalk, the moment the school was finally at his back, he ran.
Rory didn't stop until the school vanished behind a row of shopfronts. He slowed to a walk, trying to look unremarkable, trying to remember how to breathe. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
With trembling hands, he fished his phone from his pocket. For a single, fleeting second, his thumb hovered over Dan's name. He should check on him. He should say something, anything, to bridge the gap he'd just torn open.
But then he pictured the office phone ringing. He heard the click of the recording and Pete listening in the heavy silence of his car. Pete going quiet.
His chest tightened. There wasn't time.
Rory shoved the phone away and broke into a run again. He cut through the side streets he'd memorised over the years, back alleys lined with dumpsters and cracked concrete paths behind cafes, places where no one bothered to look. The city blurred into a smear of traffic noise, shop door chimes, and the low rumble of air conditioning units. It all felt distant, like a dream he couldn't wake up from.
He checked the time reflexively. Every passing minute felt like another nail sealing a coffin shut.
By the time he reached the glass-fronted building where Pete worked, sweat was slick on the back of his neck. He forced himself to decelerate, walking through the front doors with a false, fragile confidence. The lobby smelled of expensive coffee and printer toner. The receptionist didn't even look up.
Rory swallowed hard, adjusted his backpack strap, and headed for the elevators.
Third floor. Same as always.
His reflection stared back at him in the polished metal doors as the lift ascended, pale, tensed, eyes glassily bright. He looked like a kid trying very hard to hide the fact that he was falling apart.
The doors slid open with a soft, melodic chime. He stepped out, his pulse thundering in his ears now that he was actually here. The hallway was unnervingly quiet, filled only with the muffled ring of distant phones and the rhythmic click of keyboards. Normal workplace sounds. Nothing that matched the catastrophe spiralling in his head.
He followed the carpeted corridor he'd walked a hundred times before until he reached the office. Pete's door was slightly ajar.
Rory stopped and listened. No voices. No movement. He nudged the door open just enough to peer inside.
Empty.
His breath left him in a shaky, jagged rush. There, sitting on the desk, was Pete's phone. The screen was dark, still, and waiting.
Rory stepped into the room, the silence feeling heavy and judgmental. His hands shook as he picked up the device. The passcode was Abbey's birthday; a familiar sting of grief sliced through him, sharp and brief, before the panic swallowed it back up.
He saw the missed calls from the school. And the voicemail icon. Just one.
He tapped it.
The line clicked, a calm automated voice announcing the timestamp. Before the principal could even say his name, Rory's thumb hit Delete. He did it so fast the phone nearly slipped from his grip.
The notification vanished.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at the empty screen as if the message might somehow reappear. It didn't.
Slowly, meticulously, he placed the phone back exactly where he'd found it. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. He backed out of the office, forcing his feet not to bolt, even though every survival instinct screamed at him to run.
The elevator arrived. He stepped inside, gripping the handrail to keep his knees from buckling until the mirrored doors closed him in.
When he reached the lobby, he didn't look at the receptionist. He didn't look at anyone. He just walked.
Outside, the cool air hit him with a sharp, bracing clarity. He stopped on the footpath, his heart still racing, but there was nothing left for him to do. The evidence was gone. For now, Pete wouldn't know.
But the relief he'd been chasing didn't come. There was only the hollow weight of guilt, the ringing silence in his head, and the cold knowledge that no matter what he deleted, none of this was actually over.
***
Rory didn't remember the walk home. One moment he was exiting Pete's office building; the next, he was turning onto his own street. Everything in between was a sensory blur, the roar of traffic, the jarring rhythm of footsteps on pavement, all of it happening to someone else, somewhere far away.
By the time he reached the front steps, the adrenaline had evaporated, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its wake.
Dan.
The memory hit him like a physical strike to the solar plexus. The sheer shock on Dan's face. The blood. The fact that Dan hadn't even tried to defend himself. Rory fumbled for his phone and pulled up Dan's contact, his thumb hovering over the call button.
Just do it. Say something. Explain.
But the words died before they could even form. What was he supposed to say? Sorry I lost my mind? Sorry I saw someone else who wasn't there? Sorry I don't even understand what happened myself? Shame surged up the back of his throat, thick as bile. He locked the screen and shoved the phone away. Not now. He wasn't ready to face the sound of Dan's voice.
He pushed the front door open and stepped into the quiet house. He had deleted the evidence of his expulsion, but it brought no relief. If anything, the secret felt heavier, like he was merely delaying a collision he couldn't prevent. He rested his hand on the door handle, eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe past the knot in his chest.
A sharp, authoritative knock rattled the wood beneath his palm.
Rory's eyes snapped open. He moved to the narrow window beside the door and peered out, his heart stuttering. Two men were standing on the stoop. One wore a navy suit, crisp and surgical; the other was more casual in slacks and a button-up, possessing the relaxed posture of someone who dealt with trouble for a living.
The man in the suit looked directly at the glass. "Rory," he called, his voice calm and certain. "Open the door."
Rory froze, his pulse thundering.
"We're from Karmal," the man continued. "We know you're in there."
Realising there was no use in hiding, Rory fumbled with the lock and pulled the door open. The suited man took him in with a single, clinical glance, neither cruel nor kind, just observant.
"You Rory?"
Rory gave a small, jerky nod.
"Ian Digges," the man said, tapping his chest. "Oversight. We monitor recruits, candidates, and anyone with an active implant falling under Karmal's jurisdiction." He spoke with the rehearsed cadence of a man who had delivered this speech a thousand times. "Earlier today, you triggered a high-level flag."
Rory swallowed hard but remained silent.
Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew a slim, dark red strip. He held it up, the colour appearing bruised and ominous in the daylight. A band. Rory's stomach turned to lead.
"You're being red-banded for an unprovoked assault on a civilian while enhanced," Ian stated. "Effective immediately."
He paused, as if expecting an argument. Rory couldn't have spoken if he tried.
"You know what this means," Ian continued, and when Rory didn't respond, he spelled it out. "It marks you as a restricted asset. Your enhancements stay, but your authority is gone. You're on our radar now. Any further incidents, any at all, and you're done. No training, no placement, no future. You'll be blacklisted."
The words landed like a succession of blows. Ian stepped closer, not as a threat, but with the efficiency of a technician.
"Arm," he commanded.
Rory hesitated, and Ian's tone sharpened. "Now."
Rory lifted his arm. Ian took his wrist, his grip firm and controlled, and snapped the band around it. A sharp, localised sting radiated through Rory's arm as the underside of the band bristled with micro-filaments, anchoring itself just beneath the surface of his skin.
Rory hissed through his teeth, trying to pull away, but it was done. The band sat flush against his skin, wrapped so tightly it looked like a permanent part of his anatomy.
Then the heaviness hit.
It was like a thick veil had been dropped over his nervous system. His muscles softened; the world felt suddenly dulled, as if someone had filed down all his sharp edges and left him blunt and exhausted.
Ian released him and watched for a moment, assessing the reaction. "You'll report to a Hector facility every two weeks," he said. "Compliance checks. Welfare. Standard protocol. If you miss a check-in, we come looking for you."
Rory managed a weak nod.
"We'll be in touch," Ian said, tucking his hands back into his pockets and turning away as if he'd just finished filing a routine report. His partner followed without a word.
Rory closed the door slowly and leaned his back against it. He looked down at his wrist. The band was a digital shackle that couldn't be unclipped. It felt permanent. It felt real.
He didn't move for a long time. The house was quiet, but the silence didn't feel safe; it felt like the pause between one blow and the next.
The red band pulsed faintly with his heartbeat, a small, unforgiving weight that tethered him to people he couldn't see and rules he didn't understand. It felt less like a warning and more like a verdict.
He didn't move for a long time. For the first time since the gym, since the "way out," since it all began... he felt very, very small.
And that's the chapter! Rory has: lost his school, punched his best friend, deleted a voicemail, gained a stylish new government anxiety bracelet, and discovered that Beau and Owen were literally spectating his breakdown like it was premium cable. Ten out of ten, no notes, everything is fine.
Next we're heading into fallout territory: Ethan finding out what actually happened, Owen stewing in guilt (and denial), Beau continuing to be a chaos raccoon, and Rory starting those lovely mandatory Hector check-ins while his world keeps shrinking. It gets messier, but we are crawling toward "found family and actual support," I swear! Don't forget to check out my instagram (rory.atwood) for fresh art and more and my patreon (; for even more, I'm uploading my first pages of the graphic novel version of this there shortly! x eCee
Where are you at with Beau right now?
