Alex stood at the entrance of Westfield High School, his heart beating just a fraction faster than normal. It was his first day, and he was determined to blend in. No one here needed to know about his past—the years spent training with assassins, the skills etched into his bones, or the mind that operated at a level far beyond his peers. He was just Alex, a regular 14-year-old starting high school.
He adjusted the straps of his backpack, feeling the unfamiliar weight of textbooks instead of the knives and gadgets he'd once carried. The sensation was jarring, but he pushed it aside. Today, he was a student—nothing more. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, he stepped through the gates, his eyes instinctively scanning the environment despite his best efforts to stop.
The school buzzed with activity. Students rushed to class, their footsteps echoing off the red brick walls. Others clustered in groups, laughing and chatting, while a few lingered by the blue-and-white lockers plastered with posters for the upcoming school dance. Alex kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, his plain jeans and t-shirt carefully chosen to scream average. But his training betrayed him: he couldn't help noting the security cameras at each corner, the two main exits plus several side doors, the flow of bodies moving through the halls. Stop it, he told himself. You're not on a mission.
His first class was English with Mr. Thompson. Alex had memorized the school map the night before—a habit from his old life—and navigated the crowded halls with ease, slipping into the classroom silently. He chose a seat in the middle row, avoiding the front where eager students sat and the back where the troublemakers lounged. Invisibility was the goal.
Mr. Thompson, a middle-aged man with glasses perched crookedly on his nose, spotted him immediately. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair slightly disheveled—a man stretched thin. "Ah, you must be the new student. Alex, right? Stand up and introduce yourself to the class."
Alex suppressed a flicker of irritation. Attention was the last thing he wanted. He rose smoothly, his movements controlled from years of discipline. "Hi, I'm Alex. I just moved here from out of state." His voice was flat, unremarkable. He sat down quickly, hoping that would suffice.
Mr. Thompson nodded and launched into a lesson on Macbeth. Alex tried to focus on the discussion—something about ambition and guilt—but his mind had other plans. He noticed Mr. Thompson's tired eyes, the way he rubbed his temples, the faint tremor in his hands. Stress, Alex deduced. Maybe personal issues or overwork. He caught himself and clenched his pencil tighter. No profiling. Just listen.
His classmates didn't help. A girl in the front row doodled flowers in her notebook, bored. A boy to his left tapped his foot incessantly, restless. In the back, another stared out the window, lost in some private world. Alex wondered what they were thinking—then stopped himself again. He was here to be normal, not to dissect human behavior.
When the bell rang, he gathered his things and headed to his next class. Halfway down the hall, a commotion caught his attention. Three older boys had cornered a smaller kid against the lockers, their postures aggressive. The smaller boy clutched his backpack like a shield, his face pale.
"Come on, kid, just hand over your lunch money," one of the bullies sneered, his voice carrying over the chatter of the hallway.
Alex's instincts roared to life. He could take them all down in seconds—disarm the leader with a wrist lock, sweep the second's legs, and pin the third before they knew what hit them. But that wasn't an option. He had to stay under the radar.
He took a steadying breath and approached, keeping his tone casual. "Hey, is there a problem here?"
The leader—a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a shaved head—whirled on him. "Mind your own business, new kid. This doesn't concern you."
Alex raised his hands, palms out, the picture of calm. "Look, I'm sure we can work this out without any trouble. Maybe you guys can let him go, and we all get to class. No one needs to get hurt."
The bullies laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "What are you gonna do about it?" one of them taunted, stepping forward to shove Alex.
In an instant, Alex sidestepped, his body moving with fluid precision. The bully's hand swiped empty air, and he stumbled, nearly crashing into the lockers. Alex widened his eyes, feigning surprise. "Whoa, careful there. Don't want anyone getting hurt," he said, lacing his voice with just enough concern to sell the act.
The bullies hesitated, exchanging glances. Something about Alex's unshakable calm and the effortless way he'd dodged unnerved them. "Whatever, let's go," the leader muttered, and they slunk off, casting wary looks over their shoulders.
The smaller kid stared at Alex, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thanks, man. I thought I was done for. I'm Tim."
"No problem," Alex said, nodding. "Just watch yourself, okay?"
Tim scampered away, and Alex headed to math class, adrenaline still humming in his veins. He'd kept his cover intact, but it had been close.
In math, he breezed through the problems, his mind solving equations faster than the teacher could write them. Years of mental conditioning had made numbers a playground, but he deliberately scribbled a few wrong answers. Standing out wasn't an option.
Gym class came next, and with it, dodgeball. Alex groaned inwardly. His reflexes were a liability here—sharpened to dodge bullets, not rubber balls. As the game began, he forced himself to move slower, letting a few throws hit him. He even faked a trip, earning chuckles from his classmates. It stung his pride, but it worked.
He noticed a girl on his team dodging with surprising agility, her movements quick and graceful. She caught his eye for a moment, and he filed her away as someone to watch. Maybe she was more than she seemed.
Science class followed, where Mrs. Garcia asked a tricky question about chemical reactions. Alex knew the answer instantly—his IQ made such things child's play—but he hesitated, raising his hand only halfway. She called on someone else, and he exhaled in relief.
At lunch, he found a quiet corner in the cafeteria, the air thick with the smell of pizza and fries. He ate his sandwich slowly, observing the room. The popular kids held court at one table, all loud laughter and easy confidence. The nerds huddled over laptops at another, while the goths brooded in their corner. He spotted the girl from gym again, sitting alone with a book. She didn't fit any clique, an outsider like him. He considered approaching her but decided against it. Too risky.
As he ate, he overheard a snippet of conversation from the next table. "You know the old music room? They say it's haunted. Some kid vanished there years ago." Alex's curiosity stirred, but he dismissed it. School rumors. Irrelevant.
After school, he walked home, senses on high alert. Halfway there, he felt it—the prickle of being watched. Someone was following him. His pulse quickened, but he kept his pace steady, betraying nothing.
He detoured through the downtown bustle, weaving past shoppers and vendors. Using shop windows as mirrors, he glimpsed his pursuer: a man in a dark coat, blending into the crowd. Alex slipped into a bookstore, pretending to browse while tracking the man's movements. When the figure passed without entering, Alex darted out the back, scaled a fence with silent ease, and took a winding route home. The tail was gone.
His apartment was small and sparse, a cover arranged by his former handlers. Alone, he sank onto the bed, replaying the day. The bullies, the dodgeball, the follower—each moment had tested his resolve to stay hidden. He'd managed it, but barely.
Lying back, he stared at the ceiling. Who was following him? Someone from the organization, checking his progress? A rival group sniffing out a loose end? He couldn't know yet, but one thing was clear: living an ordinary life was harder than any mission he'd faced.
For now, he closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take over. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and he'd face them—one carefully ordinary day at a time.