The morning felt slow, the kind that drags instead of moving. My head still throbbed from the stitches, but Mom said I was good enough to go back. The hallways buzzed with half-whispers about the beach fight, the broadcast, and all the chaos people didn't really understand.
By the time I got to math class, everything felt… normal. Or at least, the kind of normal I'd been pretending to live in.
Mr. Peterson wrote something about linear equations on the board while I stared at my notebook, the pen in my hand hovering over a blank page.
I wasn't really thinking about math. I was thinking about the vials. The colors. The names. The way Mom looked when she opened them.What she said about not being able to erase who we were.
That thought stuck with me longer than it should have.
I was halfway through pretending to take notes when the classroom phone rang. Mr. Peterson answered it, then turned his gaze toward me.
"Kaleb," he said, "the principal wants to see you."
A few kids looked my way. I grabbed my bag and muttered, "Of course he does."
The walk to the office felt longer than usual. My stomach twisted, not out of fear, but because every time I get this feeling, it usually means him.
Sure enough, when I stepped into the principal's office, there he was—Joe Wann. Same suit. Same smug calm. Like he'd been waiting for me.
"Ah, Kaleb," he said smoothly, hands clasped behind his back. "Good to see you again."
I blinked. "Wish I could say the same."
Joe gave that tiny half-smile that made my skin crawl. "Still as sharp-tongued as ever. Please, sit."
I dropped my bag by the chair and sat down slowly. "So, what is it this time? You wanna check my attendance? Ask about my grades? Or maybe you're here for another friendly chat about how I 'fit into' society?"
He ignored the sarcasm, pulling a folder from the desk. "Actually, it's about something we found. Something concerning your… recent injury."
I frowned. "My injury? You mean when I tripped in class?"
"Yes," he said, flipping the folder open. "See, whenever a student is hurt on school grounds, we're required to file a medical report. That report goes to Sentinel's Health & Safety division. Routine procedure. Normally, it ends there."
He paused, eyes flicking up at me. "But this time, the lab found something unusual in your blood sample."
I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms. "Let me guess—too much caffeine?"
"Traces of metahuman DNA," he said flatly.
I froze. He watched my face carefully, studying every twitch.
I tried to sound bored. "You sure you didn't mix me up with someone else? There are a lot of weird kids in this school."
Joe chuckled softly. "No mix-up, Kaleb. We ran it twice."
"So what?" I asked. "You find that in a lot of people. Meta genes aren't illegal."
"True," he said. "But unregistered ones are."
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Here we go…"
He took a slow step closer, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the sterile office air. "You've always been… interesting, Kaleb. Present, but detached. Always near the noise but never making it. Almost like you're trying not to leave a footprint."
I tilted my head. "You been watching me that closely, Joe? Starting to sound obsessed."
"Call it professional curiosity," he replied. "After all, I know more about you than you think."
"Yeah?" I said. "Like what?"
He smiled, pulling out a small data chip from the folder. "You see, the genetic markers in your blood don't just indicate metahuman potential—they match signatures linked to multiple known anomalies recorded after the South Mission Beach incident. Including residual energy readings consistent with something called Nexus radiation."
My pulse quickened. I forced myself to look unimpressed. "Sounds like a fancy word for bad science fiction."
"Oh, it's very real," he said quietly. "And it's connected to people who shouldn't exist in this timeline anymore."
That made me sit up. "Timeline?"
Joe met my eyes, smiling faintly. "Slip of the tongue."
"Right," I said dryly. "Sure it was."
He set the chip down on the table. "I'm going to ask you one question, Kaleb. Answer honestly, and we can avoid making this complicated."
I gestured lazily. "By all means."
"Are you, or anyone in your family, affiliated with Sentinel Solutions, the Harbingers, or any other metahuman organization currently under federal observation?"
I stared at him for a long moment. "That's a pretty big question for a high school kid who just failed his last math quiz."
He didn't react. "Answer it."
"Fine," I said, leaning forward. "No. I'm affiliated with exactly one thing—trying to get through the day without you showing up."
Joe's eyes narrowed. "You think this is a joke?"
I shrugged. "I think it's weird that a grown man keeps showing up at my school to ask questions he already knows the answers to."
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice. "You're not as ordinary as you pretend to be, Kaleb. That blood sample confirmed it. Sentinel's interested now."
I let out a breath, pretending to laugh. "Wow. You guys must be running low on suspects if you're wasting time on a teenager."
"You know," he said, tilting his head, "for someone with nothing to hide, you get defensive awfully fast."
"Yeah, maybe because you keep cornering me like I'm some lab rat."
His tone shifted—cool, clinical. "If there's something you're not telling me, now would be the time. We both know hiding meta activity is a federal offense."
I stood up. "And I'm sure you'd love to haul me off in front of the whole school just to make a point, huh?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze softened, almost curious. "You remind me of someone, Kaleb. Someone who used to deflect the same way."
I met his stare. "Let me guess—Ignis Rex?"
Joe's smile faltered. "Interesting guess."
"Yeah," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Guess that means we're done here."
He took a small step aside, but his eyes followed me. "We're never really done. You know that, right?"
I stopped at the door, glancing back. "Yeah. But if you're looking for monsters, Joe, maybe start with the ones who built your labs."
He didn't respond. Just watched as I left the office.
As the door closed behind me, I heard his voice through the thin wall—soft, almost to himself. "Just like his father."
As the door clicked shut behind me, I just stood there for a second in the hallway. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, the sound digging into my headache.
"Just like his father."That line wouldn't stop echoing in my head.
I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling through my nose. Great. Another thing to add to the growing list of problems I didn't ask for.
The hall was empty. Everyone else was in class, learning about equations and history dates that didn't matter. My steps sounded louder than they should've as I walked back toward the main building.
Every few feet, I glanced up at the ceiling cameras. They used to feel like background noise, but now… now it felt like they were looking right at me. Recording me. Measuring me.
By the time I reached the door to my classroom, I stopped. My hand hovered over the handle.
Part of me wanted to walk back in, sit down, and pretend like nothing happened. Like Joe Wann hadn't just said "Nexus radiation." Like he didn't know exactly what he was hinting at.
But pretending was getting harder.
I could still feel the dull throb of the stitches under my bandages. It wasn't just pain—it was a reminder. My blood had given me away.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Mr. Peterson paused mid-lesson as I slipped inside, every pair of eyes turning toward me for half a second before going back to their notes.
"Everything alright, Kaleb?" he asked.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just the principal being the principal."
He nodded and went back to the board. I dropped into my seat.
The chalk squeaked. The clock ticked. But I wasn't listening. My mind was back in that office—the way Joe looked at me, like he already knew more than I did.
He said Sentinel's interested now.
That meant they had proof. Something tangible. Something that connected me to all of this.
I rubbed at the edge of the bandage around my head, staring blankly at the math problem on my page. One plus one.
Funny. That was all this ever was—simple equations, simple reactions. You change one thing in the past, and the present doubles back to collect the difference.
The pencil in my hand snapped.
Mr. Peterson's voice faded into the background noise. Outside, I could hear the faint hum of a helicopter passing overhead, maybe Sentinel, maybe not.
I didn't look. I didn't need to.
Joe was right about one thing—nothing ever really ends.
I leaned back in my chair, watching the clock hands crawl forward. One plus one. Cause and effect.
I thought about the vials. About the broadcast. About Dad. Everything is adding up again, piece by piece.
And in that quiet classroom, under the buzz of lights and whispers, I muttered to myself, "Guess math finally makes sense."