The near-silent thwip of the air bullet, a projectile designed for non-lethal correction, sliced through the air towards my right shoulder. But it never connected. In a movement so fluid it defied conscious thought, my torso subtly shifted to the left, a mere inch or two, just enough for the harmless burst of compressed air to dissipate harmlessly against the empty space beside me.
The reaction in the classroom was instantaneous. A collective gasp rippled through the students. Teacher Anya, her composed demeanor momentarily shattered, stared with wide eyes, her AI-enhanced senses undoubtedly replaying the trajectory and my seemingly impossible evasion. But… how?
My own surprise mirrored theirs. One moment, the comforting darkness of my feigned nap; the next, my body moving with a precision and economy that was utterly alien. But as the Guardian's calm explanation flooded my mind – a rapid-fire analysis of the air bullet's trajectory, the optimal counter-movement requiring minimal energy expenditure – understanding bloomed. It was a seamless integration of threat assessment and physical response, a solution formulated and executed in milliseconds, far faster than my own sluggish, sleep-addled brain could have managed.
The logical next step, Guardian's internal voice continued, was to maintain the illusion of drowsiness. Any sudden alertness, any display of conscious control over such a precise maneuver, would only amplify suspicion. Play the part.
"Yes, Teacher," I mumbled, pushing myself upright with a deliberately exaggerated stretch, feigning disorientation. "Sorry, I must have… drifted off in thought. What was the question again?" My cheeks flushed with a manufactured embarrassment, a clumsy act that, thanks to Guardian's preemptive analysis of the classroom dynamics, felt surprisingly convincing.
The initial shock amongst the students began to recede, replaced by a wave of murmurs. "He's just acting," someone whispered. "Trying to look cool." Rizal and his cronies snickered derisively. "Yeah, yeah… just pretending." But beneath the dismissive bravado, I could sense a lingering unease in some eyes, a flicker of doubt. Even Teacher Anya's gaze remained sharp, her brow furrowed. Evading a non-lethal projectile without looking was one thing; doing so with such minimal, almost preternatural efficiency was another entirely. Even if I was pretending, the level of reflexive awareness it implied was unsettling.
She pointed again at the complex diagram still shimmering on the display screen. "Mr. Harun," she said, her voice carefully neutral now, "perhaps you can explain the implications of quantum entanglement on sensory data transmission in high-bandwidth neural interfaces?"
The answer flowed from me with an almost disconcerting ease, Guardian seamlessly feeding me the relevant information, the complex concepts translating into readily accessible understanding. The surprise on the faces of my classmates was palpable, a wave of collective astonishment washing over the room. Even the top-scoring students in Beta class exchanged bewildered glances. Teacher Anya, her initial shock giving way to a focused intensity, watched me, a dawning comprehension flickering in her eyes. A soft "ahh" escaped her lips, almost involuntary. So… the descendants of the Harun family… If he's been feigning ignorance all this time… all these years… especially this last year… maybe that…
As I finished the explanation, a subtle, urgent message pulsed directly into my mind from Guardian: Secondary scan initiated. External surveillance detected. Low-level energy signature, origin indeterminate. Maintain current posture. Do not acknowledge.
I startled again, a more genuine reaction this time. "Uhh… oh, sorry," I stammered, feigning confusion. "I must have… read about that in some advanced texts." A clumsy cover, but hopefully enough to explain the unexpected depth of my knowledge. My gaze darted around the room, a manufactured nervousness. The majority of the students seemed to buy it, their whispers now tinged with a grudging respect, bordering on jealousy, especially from Rizal's clique. "Just reading ahead," one of them scoffed, though the conviction in his voice wavered. "Yeah… advanced books. Anyone can do that."
But in the minority, in the watchful eyes of Teacher Anya and a few of the sharper students, a different kind of curiosity was taking root. They remembered my past struggles, the sheer effort it took for me to grasp even the foundational concepts. Advanced texts? It didn't quite fit. The seed of suspicion had been planted, and in Teacher Anya's gaze, I saw a growing certainty, a feeling that the unassuming Iskandar Harun they thought they knew was a carefully constructed illusion.
The weight of their gazes lingered, especially Teacher Anya's. Even after the class settled back into the lesson, I could feel her eyes on me, a subtle pressure that belied her seemingly neutral expression. Her sharp tone when she told me to sit properly felt less like a standard reprimand and more like a pointed observation, as if she were trying to see through my clumsy act.
"Sorry, Teacher," I mumbled, nodding my head with what I hoped was convincing sheepishness. The lesson continued, a dry explanation of some complex quantum entanglement application in neural interfaces, but my mind was racing, replaying the impossible dodge. How did I do that? Guardian's calm voice echoed in my thoughts, a detached analysis of trajectories and optimal movements. It was unsettling, this sudden, effortless capability that wasn't me.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Teacher Anya's instructions about the assignment felt directed squarely at me. "Okay everyone finished the assignment I give you, make sure you finished it before next class," she said, her eyes flicking to mine. A few students grumbled about the heavier workload, but her only reply was a curt, "So?"
It was obvious. This was because of me. In all the previous years, Teacher Anya had always calibrated assignments so that even I, the resident slowpoke who couldn't rely on AI during tests, could manage. This sudden jump in difficulty felt like a deliberate test, a direct consequence of my earlier, involuntary display. The nanny's constant warnings echoed in my head: Always be on guard. Never reveal too much. It was exhausting, this constant balancing act between appearing suitably inept and accidentally revealing something more.
As I finally made my way out of the classroom, I saw Adila leaning against the doorframe, waiting. Her arms were crossed, and her expression was tight with barely concealed anger.
I instinctively tried to avoid her, pretending I hadn't seen her as I walked towards the exit. Maybe if I kept my head down and moved quickly…
But Adila wasn't having it. I saw her push off the doorframe and stride quickly to intercept me, blocking my path. Her eyes, usually flashing with a sharp intelligence, now held a direct, almost violent intensity as she fixed her gaze on me.