The brass gears of the academy's clocktower clicked another minute past three-fifteen, their steam-powered mechanisms hissing softly in the afternoon heat. Marcus Chen sat in the back row of Advanced Theoretical Physics, his emerald eyes tracking Professor Hartwell's chalk scratches across the blackboard while his mind dissected every word for useful information.
Not because he cared about pendulum motion or kinetic energy equations. Marcus cared about leverage.
"Mr. Chen." Professor Hartwell's voice cut through the drowsy classroom atmosphere like a blade through silk. "Perhaps you'd like to solve this problem for us?"
Twenty-three pairs of eyes swiveled toward Marcus. He caught the smirks from the trust fund brats in the front row, the nervous glances from the scholarship kids in the middle, and the barely concealed hatred from Derek Ashworth—whose girlfriend had been making eyes at Marcus for the past month.
Marcus stood with fluid grace, every movement calculated. At sixteen, he possessed the kind of looks that made grown women pause on the street and teenage girls write embarrassing poetry. Sharp jawline, tousled black hair that somehow looked perfectly messy, and those striking green eyes that seemed to see right through people's facades. His school uniform—standard issue white shirt and navy blazer—fit him like it had been tailored, though Marcus knew his mother had bought it secondhand from the academy's lost and found.
"The pendulum's period is two seconds," he said without looking at the equation. "The string length is approximately one meter, accounting for gravitational acceleration of 9.8 m/s²."
Professor Hartwell's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Show your work."
Marcus moved to the board, chalk dancing across the slate in confident strokes. But his real attention focused on the classroom dynamics playing out behind him. Sarah Flemming—the headmaster's daughter—leaned forward in her seat, blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the gear-work windows. Derek's knuckles had gone white around his pen. The scholarship kids watched with the desperate hunger of people who knew intelligence was their only weapon in a world that valued bloodlines over brains.
"Elegant solution," Professor Hartwell admitted as Marcus finished. "Take your seat."
Marcus returned to his desk, but not before letting his gaze linger on Sarah for exactly three seconds. Long enough to make her blush. Short enough to seem accidental. Derek's jaw tightened another notch.
Perfect.
---
The academy bell tower chimed four o'clock, its steam whistle echoing across the cobblestone courtyard. Students poured from Gothic Revival buildings that had been updated with brass fixtures and pipe work, their conversations mixing with the hiss of the heating system and the distant clank of the trolley line.
Marcus walked alone, as always. Not because he couldn't make friends—his strategic mind had mapped out exactly which social circles would benefit him most. But authentic relationships required vulnerability, and vulnerability was a luxury Marcus Chen couldn't afford.
"Wait up, Chen."
Marcus turned to find Tommy Blackwood jogging after him, expensive leather satchel bouncing against his hip. The mayor's son had been trying to befriend Marcus for months, drawn like a moth to the flame of Marcus's reputation. Academic genius. Student body treasurer. The boy who'd somehow convinced the school board to install new equipment in the engineering lab without spending a dime of their budget.
"Heard you're tutoring Sarah Flemming," Tommy said, slightly out of breath.
"I tutor several students." Marcus adjusted his own worn canvas bag. His mother had offered to buy him a new one for his birthday, but he'd calculated that the modest appearance worked in his favor. People underestimated those who looked like they came from nothing.
"Right, but Sarah's different. Her dad basically runs this place." Tommy lowered his voice. "Derek's been talking about how you two spend a lot of time alone in the library."
Marcus filed away this intelligence. Derek was more threatened than he'd appeared. Good. Threatened people made mistakes.
"Derek Ashworth can think whatever he likes," Marcus said. "Though I'd suggest he focus more on his own grades. Daddy's shipping fortune won't buy him into Oxford if he fails calculus."
Tommy laughed nervously. "You're cold, Chen. I like that."
They reached the bike racks where Marcus unlocked his transportation—a modified velocipede he'd assembled from salvaged parts. The brass steam engine was barely larger than a teacup, connected to gear work that assisted the pedals on hills. Not fast, but efficient. Like everything else in Marcus's life.
"See you tomorrow," he told Tommy, swinging his leg over the leather seat.
---
The ride home took twenty minutes through Millbrook's industrial district. Steam rose from factory chimneys while workers in oil-stained coveralls headed toward the public houses. This was Marcus's world—the space between the academy's privilege and the factory floor's desperation. His mother managed ledgers for a mid-tier clockwork manufacturer. Respectable work that paid enough for academy tuition and little else.
Marcus turned down Copper Street, pedaling past row houses with small gardens and brass nameplate. The afternoon sun caught the steam vents, creating prismatic halos in the humid air. He was calculating tomorrow's chess moves when the ground beneath him trembled.
Not the familiar vibration of underground steam pipes or passing cargo trains. Something deeper. Older.
Marcus slowed, emerald eyes scanning the cobblestones ahead. Everything looked normal. A stray cat picked its way between the trolley tracks. Mrs. Henderson tended her tomato plants behind wrought iron fence. The pub on the corner released its usual crowd of day-shift workers seeking their first pint.
Then the street exploded.
Not fire or steam, but pure absence. The cobblestones simply... ceased. A perfectly circular hole opened beneath Marcus's front wheel like a mouth hungry for prey. No warning. No cracking stones or rumbling earth. One second he was pedaling home, the next he was falling into darkness so complete it seemed solid.
His velocipede tumbled away into the void. Marcus's mind raced through possibilities even as terror flooded his chest. Sinkhole? Gas pocket explosion? Some kind of industrial accident involving the underground steam network?
The walls of whatever he'd fallen into weren't earth or brick. They looked carved from black stone, covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly. No, not symbols—writing. In a language that his rational mind insisted didn't exist, but which something deeper in his consciousness almost recognized.
Wind rushed past his face as he fell. And fell. And fell.
His mother would worry when he didn't come home for dinner. Professor Hartwell would mark him absent tomorrow. Sarah Flemming would wonder why he missed their tutoring session. Derek Ashworth would probably celebrate.
None of that mattered now.
Marcus Chen, honor student and strategic genius, plummeted through impossible darkness toward something that shouldn't exist. The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was a faint green glow rising from the depths below, and the vague impression of movement in the shadows.
Something was waiting for him down there.
Something hungry.