After school, Castor walked through the holographic marketplace of New Griza. Neon signs blinked in every color imaginable, advertising AI tutors, emotion-calming patches, and robotic pet rentals. But for all the noise and shimmer, Castor moved with practiced indifference—hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes narrowed against the late-evening sun.
By the time he reached his apartment complex, the city lights had begun to flicker on. Their home was nestled on the ninth floor of a smart-building, modest by New Griza standards but well-kept. The door slid open with a soft hiss as soon as it detected his presence.
Inside, Cassie sat cross-legged on the couch, her black hair tied into a messy bun, eyes glued to a tablet screen streaming a true-crime series.
"Back late," she said without looking up.
"You could at least pretend to miss me," Castor replied, kicking off his shoes and tossing his bag onto the side table.
"I would, but I'm busy solving a murder case."
"It's a show."
"Details."
He poured himself a glass of chilled water, the kitchen lights adjusting to a warm tone as he stepped in. Cassie peeked at him from over the tablet.
"You look weird."
"I am weird," Castor said, sipping. "Thanks for noticing."
"You meeting anyone tonight?" she asked, a little too casually.
"Why?"
"No reason. You've got that… broody-wannabe-cryptic look going on. Like you're about to meet your hacker girlfriend again."
Castor smirked, then grabbed his coat again.
"Don't wait up."
"I never do," she called after him as the door slid shut behind him.
The café was tucked between a tech repair shop and a bookstore that sold nothing but conspiracy fiction. It wasn't anything flashy—a warm-lit place with quiet music, soft velvet seats, and the smell of roasted espresso and vanilla.
Castor stepped inside and spotted her immediately.
Snowflake.
She was sitting by the window, white hair cascading down her back like frost in moonlight, a cup of untouched tea before her. Her red eyes found him in seconds, but there was no smile—only that calm, unreadable expression she always wore in public.
Castor slid into the seat across from her.
"Long day?" he asked.
"Routine," she said softly. "Until I sensed something strange."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
She folded her hands over one another. "Psychic energy. Real, concentrated, and controlled. This morning. I was passing by the crosswalk near the junction to New Griza High… and I felt it spike."
Castor leaned back, eyes narrowing. "You were passing by?"
"Yes," she said, a little too quickly. "Completely coincidental."
"Are you stalking me again?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not that desperate."
"You did break into the headmistress's office for me."
"That was fun," she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "This is serious."
Castor sighed and leaned forward. "So. Psychic powers. Phenomenal Paradox Spectrum again?"
She nodded. "I cross-checked the city surveillance grid. The psychic flare happened near a civilian who walked away unscathed from a traffic accident. And get this—she's a student at your school."
There was a beat of silence between them, the sound of a coffee grinder buzzing faintly in the background.
"You want me to investigate her," Castor said.
"I want us to," Snowflake corrected. "You have easier access. I'll pull info from the administrative systems."
"You know this'll get messy."
"It always does," she said with a light shrug. "But you're not the type to turn down curiosity. Especially when it stares you in the face."
Castor looked out the window. A faint rain had begun to fall, soft and rhythmic against the glass.
"Alright," he said after a moment. "I'll look into her. But if she's just some girl who tripped on a sidewalk, I'm blaming you."
"I'll take full responsibility," she replied, her voice sweetening with amusement. "That's what secret partners do, right?"
He gave her a sideways glance. "We're not calling ourselves that."
"I already do," she said, sipping her tea at last.
And just like that, the real game had begun.
The next morning at New Griza High, the school halls buzzed with their usual electric rhythm—students darting between classes, voices overlapping like coded chatter in a busy server. Holographic screens lit up along the walls, displaying announcements, sports rankings, and today's cafeteria menu. Castor moved through it all like a ghost in a machine—present, but never quite part of the noise.
His eyes scanned the students loosely clustered near the lockers. Snowflake had sent him a name earlier that morning—Isla. Third year. Shared one class with him: Phenomenon Studies.
He found her easily enough.
She stood quietly near the stairwell, away from the other students, her presence oddly isolated. Her long purple hair draped neatly down her back, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her. There was something about her expression—stoic, cold, like she was too focused on something invisible to care about the real world.
He watched her from behind a water dispenser, pulling out his phone and holding it to his ear—pretending to be in a call as he observed.
No unusual movement. No flinches. No conversations. Just stillness.
He approached slowly, acting casual as if about to pass by her. As he walked past, she turned—just barely—her eyes brushing his for a second. They were sharp. Purple, piercing, but also… tired.
Castor paused.
"Hey," he said.
She didn't respond.
He angled himself toward her just slightly, enough to appear friendly but not invasive.
"You're Isla, right?"
Her gaze narrowed a fraction. "Yes. Why?"
"I think we're in the same Phenomenon Studies class."
A pause. Then a nod. "You're Castor."
"You remembered."
"I remember most things," she said quietly, eyes drifting back to the stairwell window, where clouds loomed heavy over New Griza. "Is there something you want?"
He studied her face. No obvious tells, but her eyes were wary—like someone hiding too much in too small a space.
"I saw what happened yesterday," he lied. "At the crossing. You stopped that truck."
She tensed. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But he caught it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"I think you do," Castor replied, tilting his head slightly. "And I think you hate it."
She turned to him fully now, face cold and emotionless. "I didn't ask to be part of that circus."
"Phenomenal Paradox Spectrum?"
"I don't want it. I didn't choose it. And I don't care to explain it to people looking to poke at it like it's some… science fair anomaly."
Castor blinked. It wasn't just denial—there was loathing in her tone.
"You've had it for a while?"
Another long pause. "I said I don't want to talk about it."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair. I'm not trying to expose you. Just… curious."
She gave him one final look. "Then don't be."
With that, she walked off, her silhouette vanishing into the flow of students heading to their next class.
Castor sighed. That went well.
He pulled out his phone and texted Snowflake.
CASTOR: She definitely has it. Telekinesis, I think. She's not thrilled about it.
SNOWFLAKE: Can you get her to trust you?
CASTOR: She's the type who'd rather throw me out a window.
SNOWFLAKE: Then don't give her a reason to. Observe for now. We'll find the angle.
He pocketed the device, a slight frown creasing his lips.
The world was changing, and people like Isla—people with real abilities—were surfacing. Whether they liked it or not.
After the odd conversation with Isla, Castor returned to his usual rhythm—or at least tried to.
He took his seat in the back row of Phenomenon Studies, ignoring the droning voice of the holographic lecturer, a flickering projection of a past Nobel physicist who now "taught" at every school in New Griza.
He leaned on his elbow, occasionally scribbling into his notebook—random symbols, half-thoughts, and subtle observations.
Subject: Isla. Power type: Telekinesis. Emotional response: Rejection. High instability potential.
A voice snapped him from his thoughts.
"Yo," Nicole whispered, sliding into the seat beside him in the next class, Cybertech Theory.
Nicole Demara.
Castor glanced at her. Her short blonde hair was messy, and there was a smudge of engine grease on her cheek—probably from working on her robotic racing drones during lunch again. The biological sister of Aria Demara.
"You look like you fought your way out of a junkyard."
"I did, actually. Third-year students keep hogging the circuit bay. But listen," she leaned in, lowering her voice, "what were you doing near the stairwell earlier? You looked like you were about to interview someone for a secret government agency."
"Maybe I was," Castor said with a smirk.
Nicole grinned. "As long as you're not signing up for the debate club, I'm cool with it."
They shared a quick laugh, the class passing by in idle banter and half-focused note-taking. For a moment, things felt normal.
But normal never lasted.
It was during his final class of the day—Basic Ethics, ironically—that Castor felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He casually slipped it out under the desk, screen angled so only he could see.
MISHA: Get to the club room. Now. Something's wrong. Ethan's gone.
Castor's heart skipped.
He stood up mid-class.
"Bathroom," he muttered to the teacher.
Before anyone could protest, he was already out the door, footsteps fast and silent across the hallway tiles. The Occult Club was tucked away in the older section of the school, past unused classrooms and dusty bulletin boards.
He reached the club room in under two minutes.
Misha was pacing inside when he slid the door open. Her face was pale, her green eyes wide and anxious.
"What do you mean gone?" Castor demanded.
"He never showed up after class. I tried calling—no response. Then I checked the student exit logs." She pulled up a hologram from her tablet and turned it to him. "His ID never scanned out. It's like he vanished."
Castor stared at the data. "He left separately after school yesterday, didn't he?"
"Yeah," Misha said. "We were all supposed to go help Aria's club member today. He even texted this morning saying he'd meet us after class."
Castor's mind spun.
"Maybe he just ditched."
Misha shook her head. "Ethan? He's like Mr. Responsible. He wouldn't ditch the club, especially not now. Not with the disbandment threat."
Castor sat down at one of the desks, fingers steepled.
No calls. No exit record. No sign of him.
And worst of all—no explanation.
The clock ticked in the background, unbearably loud in the heavy silence between them.
"…We need to find him," Castor finally said. His voice was low but certain. "I'll check the surveillance network. If someone took him, they'll leave a trace."
"And what if it's not someone?" Misha asked softly. "What if it's… something?"
Castor didn't answer.
Because in New Griza, both options were equally likely.