Monday came like it was waiting for me.
The sky over San Diego was washed gray, and the air hung thick with that pre-storm heaviness that makes everything feel smaller. I barely noticed the walk from home to the bus stop — just the steady scrape of my shoes on the sidewalk and the black envelope tucked inside my bag, pressing against my notebooks like it was alive.
Project Apex.
Joe's words from Saturday kept looping in my head. Freedom with eyes on you, or none at all.
That wasn't freedom. It was a leash with longer slack.
The bus ride passed in static. I sat by the window, headphones in but no music playing, watching the city slip by. The courthouse's glass facade flashed in the distance as we passed. It looked clean and empty — nothing like the place that had branded me property.
The school looked the same as always, but quieter. The parking lot still had blackened burn marks near the gym from the night of the dance, a faint ring where Sentinel's field dampeners had fried the pavement. The banners that read HOMECOMING 202 flapped half-torn in the morning wind.
When I walked in, people stared. Some whispered. A few pointed, probably swapping theories — who that masked guy was, what he wanted, whether it had something to do with me.
I didn't blame them. Sentinel's vans had been parked outside my neighborhood all weekend. You couldn't exactly hide that.
I found my locker, shoved the envelope inside, and tried to pretend it wasn't there.
But it was. It always would be.
The first period felt slower than usual. The teacher kept talking about quadratic equations, but all I heard was the ticking of the wall clock and the faint buzz from the security camera in the corner.
Two months ago, there hadn't been cameras in every room. Now, tiny black lenses stared from each corner of the ceiling, blinking once every few seconds. The school board had called it "temporary precautionary monitoring."
Yeah. Right.
At lunch, my friends tried to act normal. Malique talked about the Chargers game like nothing happened, Ski tried to get a laugh by mimicking the DJ's feedback screech from the dance, and Delilah kept scrolling through her phone looking for updates.
It almost worked — almost — until Sariya sat down beside me.
She was quiet at first, picking at her fries. Then she said, "I saw them outside your house yesterday."
I looked up. "Who?"
"Those black cars. With the weird blue lights."
I hesitated. "Sentinel."
"Are you in trouble?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I shook my head. "Not exactly."
She frowned. "Then why are they watching you?"
"Because that's what they do," I said softly. "They watch things they don't understand."
She didn't respond, and neither did I. The silence between us felt heavier than any sound.
Finally, she said, "You didn't deserve that, you know. Any of it."
I forced a small smile. "Thanks."
Her hand brushed mine under the table — quick, barely there. "Just… be careful, okay?"
"I will," I lied.
The rest of the day blurred. I walked from class to class, answering questions I didn't hear, watching agents come and go through the front office like they were fixing a leaky pipe instead of managing a crisis.
Everywhere I went, I felt eyes on me. Not people's eyes — lenses, microphones, signals bouncing through invisible air.
By the final bell, I couldn't stand it anymore.
I grabbed my bag and left through the back gate, cutting across the track field to the street that led toward downtown. The wind had picked up; my hair whipped against my face, and I could smell rain in the distance.
I didn't know where I was going — just away.
But Sentinel doesn't let anyone go far.
Halfway down the block, a car engine purred behind me. I didn't need to look to know what color it was.
"Need a ride?" Joe's voice called through the rolled-down window.
I kept walking. "I'm good."
The car rolled alongside me, matching my pace. "You missed orientation."
"Didn't realize I was supposed to be oriented."
"You agreed to oversight," he said. "That means reporting in. A simple health scan, a Q-and-A, a psychological review."
"That all sounds really casual for a sixteen-year-old."
He exhaled through his nose, parking the car at the curb and stepping out. The wind caught his coat, making it flap slightly around his legs. "Kaleb," he said evenly, "this doesn't have to be adversarial."
"It already is."
"You think you're the first person Sentinel's had to manage after a metahuman event? You're not."
I turned to face him. "No, I'm just the first one they decided to brand."
He frowned. "No one's branding you."
"Then what's this?" I pulled the envelope halfway out of my bag. "What do you call printing my name under a project code like I'm a prototype?"
He paused. "It's a precaution."
"It's ownership."
Joe's tone sharpened. "You need to watch how you talk about Sentinel. You're walking a thin line."
I took a step closer, rain starting to spit against the pavement. "No, Joe, you need to realize something. You can tag me, track me, throw a barcode on my file — but you'll never own me. Not my choices, not my mind, and sure as hell not my life."
For a second, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Pity.
He straightened his tie. "You sound like your father."
I froze. "Don't."
"Strong words, no plan," he continued. "That's what got him buried in classified files and missing reports. You think standing on the moral high ground changes anything? It doesn't. The world isn't kind to anomalies, Kaleb. It measures them, cuts them open, and builds weapons out of what's left. I'm trying to keep you from becoming that weapon."
"You're too late," I said.
He narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," I said quickly.
He studied me for a long second, then his tone softened again. "You're scared. I understand that. But if you cooperate, you'll still have a life — a future, an education. You can stay out of the labs."
"And if I don't?"
His silence was answer enough.
He stepped back toward his car, opening the door. "You're due at HQ tomorrow at nine. Don't make me send anyone to get you."
The door shut, and the car pulled away, leaving me in the drizzle and the sound of distant thunder.
By the time I got home, the rain had started coming down in steady sheets. Booker and Aaliah were on the couch watching a news recap of the dance, both wide-eyed as the headline scrolled:
"SENTINEL CONTAINS ATTACK: NEW META CLASSIFICATION DISCOVERED."
Underneath, a smaller caption flashed: PROJECT APEX – SOURCE UNKNOWN.
Mom muted the TV when I walked in. "You talked to him."
"Yeah."
"What did he want?"
"Control."
Her expression hardened. "Then don't give it to him."
I looked at her, rain still dripping from my hair. "You think that's a choice?"
She didn't answer.
I went upstairs and shut my door. The sound of the rain on the roof was steady, hypnotic, but it didn't help. The envelope sat on my desk where I'd dropped it earlier, its black paper gleaming faintly under the light.
I tore it open this time.
Inside was a single silver card with the Sentinel insignia engraved in the center. Beneath it, one line of text:
AUTHORIZED SUBJECT – PROJECT APEX – ACTIVE.
My name was stamped under it. And below that, a QR imprint I didn't dare scan.
I turned it over. On the back, three words were etched in gray letters:
PROPERTY OF SENTINEL SOLUTIONS.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Then I gripped it between my fingers and pressed until the metal bent.
It didn't break — of course it didn't.
But I wanted it to.
Outside, thunder rolled over the city, long and low. Somewhere out there, Breaker was probably watching the reports too, smiling that same sharp grin. He'd said, "They'll call you property."
He was right.
And in that moment, for the first time since everything began, I realized something simple and terrifying —ownership wasn't just about control. It was about definition.
And Sentinel was already writing mine for me.