The conjoined Crestwood campus was a sprawling, modern design of glass and steel, split by a massive, shared quad. The west wing housed the high school, and the east, the middle school. As Kian disappeared into one, Leo headed for the other.
Leo's second-period AP US History class was packed. He slid into his usual seat near the back, immediately surrounded by friends and teammates.
"Leo, man, you see the game last night?"
"Hey, are you going to Chloe's party Friday? Everyone's gonna be there."
Leo handled the social traffic with an easy, confident grin. "Saw the highlights, and definitely. I wouldn't miss it," he said, giving a nod to Chloe two rows over, who beamed. He was the captain, and that role didn't end at the gym doors.
When the teacher, Mr. Harrison, a sharp man with a passion for debate, started the lecture on the Gilded Age, Leo was surprisingly focused. He wasn't a natural genius like Kian, but he was a grinder. He prided himself on breaking the "dumb jock" stereotype. He took diligent notes in a clean, sharp handwriting, his pen moving as fast as his feet on a fast break.
"So, we see the rise of these industrial titans," Harrison said, pacing. "Rockefeller, Carnegie... Men who, by all accounts, wanted to win. But what does that mean in this context? What's the difference between healthy competition and something... else?"
Hands went up. Harrison's eyes scanned the room and landed on Leo. "Mr. Vance. You're a competitive man. Enlighten us."
Leo leaned forward, comfortable in the spotlight. "It's like... healthy competition is just trying to win the game, playing by the rules. But those guys, they weren't just trying to win. They were trying to buy the league, own the ball, and pay off the refs. They wanted to make sure no one else could even get on the court. It's not competition if the other team isn't allowed to play."
A few kids chuckled, and Harrison gave an appreciative smile. "An apt, if... athletic... metaphor, Leo. Well put. They weren't just playing the game; they were changing the rules to ensure they were the only winners."
When the bell rang, a classmate, Sarah, tapped him on the shoulder as he packed his bag. "Hey, Leo, my notes on the labor movement are a total mess. Can I borrow yours later?"
"For sure," Leo said, zipping his bag without hesitation. "Just grab me after practice. But be warned, my handwriting is... creative."
"Thanks, you're a lifesaver!" she said, clearly a little star-struck.
Leo just gave his easy 'captain' smile and moved out into the crowded hall, a natural leader who made time for everyone, even when his mind was already on tryouts.
Four hundred yards away, in the top-floor advanced algebra class of the middle school, Kian's experience was the opposite.
He sat alone in the back corner, a deliberate island. His notebook was open, but instead of equations, it was filled with what looked like architectural sketches—sharp, clean lines, and impossible angles.
The teacher, Ms. Alani, was a brilliant woman who held a doctorate in mathematics, and Kian Vance was the single most frustrating student she had ever had. He wasn't a behavior problem. He was just... absent. He'd aced the midterm on the first day of class "to get it out of the way," and his homework, when he bothered to turn it in, was a pristine, minimalist display of perfect logic.
She was explaining a complex theorem, one that usually stumped even her brightest students. "And that is why the proof is so difficult. It requires a non-linear..."
She paused, looking at the back of Kian's head. He was sketching, not even pretending to take notes.
"Kian," she said, her voice sharp.
The sketching stopped. He looked up, his face polite, but his eyes empty of interest.
"Would you care to explain to the class the fundamental flaw in this theorem's common application?"
The class turned. This was her trap. She knew he knew the answer, and she was, once again, trying to force him to participate, to be there.
Kian held her gaze for a three-count. "No, thank you, Ms. Alani."
The teacher's lips thinned. "You 'would rather not'?"
"I just don't have anything to add to the discussion."
"Even though you understand it?" she pushed.
"It's a hypothetical," Kian replied, his voice flat. "It's a neat puzzle, but it doesn't build anything." He gestured to his notebook. "I'm busy."
The class was stunned into silence. No one talked to Ms. Alani like that. But before she could respond, the bell rang, saving them both.
As students flooded out, a girl from a few seats over, Hannah, approached his desk hesitantly. She was smart, in the coding club with Ren, and clearly nervous.
"Hey, Kian," she said, clutching her textbook. "I... I was looking at the bonus problem from last night. The one on fractal geometry? I couldn't even figure out where to start. I was wondering if—"
"Use a recursive function," Kian said, not looking up as he slipped his sketchbook into his leather messenger bag. "It's not a single equation. It's a loop. The pattern repeats into infinity."
"Oh. Right. A loop," she said, confused. "But... could you maybe show me? Just the first few lines of the code?"
Kian finally zipped his bag and lifted his eyes. His gaze wasn't mean, or even annoyed. It was just... blank. It was the look you'd give a piece of furniture that was in your way.
"I just told you the answer," he said, his voice quiet.
Hannah's face fell. "Oh. Yeah. Okay, thanks."
"You're welcome."
The words were polite, but the tone was absolute. The conversation was over. Hannah hovered for another second, hoping for an opening, but Kian had already stood up, his headphones settling around his neck. He walked past her and out the door, alone, leaving her standing by the empty desk, feeling small.
The cafeteria was a roar of noise. Kian, Silas, and Ren claimed their usual booth in the far corner of the middle school section, a spot partially hidden by a structural pillar.
"So I told him," Silas was saying, his hands waving as he talked, "if you want a dragon, fine. But a dragon breathing purple fire? It's tacky. It's... it's a T-shirt, not art."
"Purple is a perfectly valid wavelength," Ren mumbled, his eyes glued to his phone as he typed. "Subjectivity is inefficient. He likes purple, you like... not-purple. It's a data-point conflict."
"It's a taste conflict, you robot," Silas shot back.
Kian sipped his sparkling water, a small, rare, genuine smile on his face. "Let him have the purple fire, Silo. But make him pay extra. Tell him it's a 'rare pigment fee' that requires a special permit."
Silas's eyes lit up. "Ooh. That's evil. I like that."
A new wave of noise erupted from the high school side. At the 'jock table', Leo, Marcus, and Sam were holding court, breaking down the morning's tryouts.
"I'm telling you, the transfer from Northwood is fast," Leo announced, "but he's got no left hand. Coach Miller was riding him all morning."
"Who cares about him? Did you see the vertical on that freshman?" Sam said, practically vibrating. "Dude was touching the rim!"
"He's a stick, Sam," Marcus countered, tearing into a sandwich. "I'd snap him in half. We need size, not a pogo-stick."
"We need a playmaker," Leo insisted, his voice rising with that familiar, passionate frustration. "Someone who can see the court, who can run the offense when I'm doubled..."
His eyes, scanning the cafeteria, landed on Kian's booth. He saw his brother—actually smiling—with his weirdo friends, and the frustration from the bus, from every morning, boiled over.
But before Leo could shout, Sam stood up. "You know what? I'll go talk to him."
"Sam, don't," Leo said, his voice suddenly tired. "Just leave it."
"No, man! It's not right," Sam said, full of a teammate's loyalty. "We're out there killing ourselves, and he's just... sitting there."
Marcus stood up too, a resigned look on his face. "Come on, Sam, let's not... ah, hell. Fine."
The two high school basketball players—Sam, lanky and wired, Marcus, big and imposing—walked across the invisible line dividing the cafeteria. The noise level in the middle school section dropped as they approached Kian's booth.
Silas and Ren fell silent, tensing.
"Hey," Sam said, trying to sound casual and failing. "Little Vance."
Kian was in the middle of taking a sip of water. He finished, then slowly lowered the bottle, his face settling back into that neutral, unbothered mask. He didn't look at Sam. He looked at Marcus.
"You're in my light," Kian said, his voice quiet.
Marcus, surprised, actually shuffled a foot to the side.
Sam scoffed. "Seriously? That's what you've got? Look, your brother is out there busting his ass for the team. We all are. We were this close last year. He thinks you're the missing piece. Why are you being such a..." He looked at Ren and Silas. "Whatever this is."
"We're 'whatever this is'?" Silas said, his voice squeaking. "We're his friends. You're just... tall."
Ren looked up from his phone. "Statistically, your assumption is flawed. Adding one variable, even a skilled one, does not guarantee a different outcome. There are too many co-factors."
"Shut up, nerd," Sam snapped.
"Hey," Kian said. His voice was still quiet, but it cut through everything.
Sam turned back, emboldened. "What? Finally gonna say something? We need you. Your brother needs you. Stop being a selfish brat and help us win a championship."
Kian turned his head, his eyes as flat and cold as slate. He looked Sam up and down.
"You don't need me," Kian said.
"Yeah, we do!" Sam insisted. "We need a point guard who can see the court!"
"No," Kian said. "You just want someone to feed you the ball so you can take bad shots. You averaged 11 points a game last season, but you shot 28% from three and 34% from the field. You'd rather take a contested, off-balance jumper than make the right pass. Your stats are selfish. You're not a shooter, Sam. You're just a guy who throws the ball at the hoop."
Sam's face went white. He had no idea Kian even knew what a stat was.
Marcus, seeing his friend get eviscerated, stepped in, his voice more reasonable. "Hey, man, that's not cool. We're a team. And Leo's a great captain."
"He is," Kian agreed, shocking them. His eyes moved to Marcus. "He's a great captain. He's the only one on your team who plays defense with any intensity, and he's the only one who passed the ball more than he shot. His problem is his team."
"What did you just say?" Marcus said, his voice dropping.
"I said his problem is his team," Kian repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "Like you, Marcus. You're the center. You averaged 8 points and 10 rebounds. Good. But you have zero post-moves. You get the ball, you power-dribble right, and you hook left. Every. Single. Time. A high school defender with game tape could shut you down. That's why you fouled out of the semi-final against Northwood. You got frustrated because their center, who's half your size, kept taking charges. Because he knew. You. Only. Go. Right."
Marcus looked like he'd been slapped.
Kian leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You don't need me. You need to practice. You need to learn how to dribble with your left hand, Marcus, and you need to learn what a good shot looks like, Sam. Don't come over here and interrupt my lunch because you're too lazy to fix your own broken game."
He held their gaze for a long, terrible second. Sam and Marcus, the two high school stars, were completely, utterly silent. They had no response. He was right. And they knew it.
"Now," Kian said, leaning back. "My friends and I were in the middle of a conversation. I believe we were discussing... a rare pigment fee."
He turned his full attention back to Silas, who was staring, mouth open. "So, how much extra do you think he'd pay?"
It was a total dismissal.
Sam and Marcus stood there for another second, humiliated, the eyes of the entire cafeteria on them. They turned, without another word, and walked back to the high school side.
At Leo's table, no one was talking. Leo had his head in his hands. He'd heard every word.
In the middle school booth, Silas finally found his voice. "Dude... how... how did you know all that? 'He only goes right'?"
Kian took another sip of his water, his face perfectly calm, as if the last two minutes hadn't happened.
"My brother," Kian said, a shadow of something—annoyance, or maybe even sadness—flashing in his eyes. "He never shuts up about it. It's all he talks about."