Alex lay sprawled across his bed, the cracked ceiling of his small apartment a jagged map of shadows under the faint glow of streetlights seeping through the blinds. His mind churned, replaying yesterday's chaos: the scarred man's threat in the music room, the glint of a hidden camera, Mia's piercing stare that lingered too long. Three weeks at Westfield High, and the normalcy he'd fought for was unraveling. The organization—those faceless puppetmasters from his past—was circling closer, and he couldn't afford to sit still.
That camera was his only thread. If he could hack into the school's security system, he might trace where the feed was going and uncover what they wanted. The IT room during lunch was his best shot—risky, but he'd faced worse odds. He needed to move fast and smart; hesitation wasn't an option anymore.
He rolled off the bed, the cold floor jolting him awake. His morning unfolded on autopilot: cold shower, faded jeans and a gray hoodie, toast and eggs eaten over the sink. He paused at the kitchen's smudged window, scanning the street—empty, gray, just leaves tumbling in the dawn breeze. But a prickle crawled up his neck. Someone was watching, same as yesterday. A shadow dogging his steps from school. They wanted him on edge. Good. I work better that way.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, he locked the door—two sharp clicks—and stepped into the chill. The walk to school was rote: cracked sidewalks, sagging houses, a dog yapping behind a chain-link fence. Halfway there, a flicker in a car's side mirror caught his eye—a figure ducking behind a dumpster. His pulse kicked up, but he kept his stride steady. I'll turn this around on you.
Westfield High hummed with morning chaos—jocks lobbing a football across the courtyard, girls scrolling phones, freshmen weaving through the fray. Tim jogged up near the entrance, all restless energy and a grin that begged for company.
"Alex! Varsity game tonight—you in? It's gonna be wild!" Tim's excitement was a bright thread Alex couldn't weave into his own tangled mess.
Alex shook his head, forcing a faint smile. "Can't. Got plans."
Tim's shoulders slumped. "Dude, you're always bailing. What's keeping you so tied up?"
"Stuff," Alex said, keeping it vague, eyes scanning the crowd.
Tim huffed but let it drop. "Your loss, man. They're saying it's a close one."
The hallways roared to life as Alex slipped inside—lockers slamming, laughter ricocheting, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Faded posters for the Fall Dance clung to the walls, promising "A Night to Remember." He moved through the current, head low, steps quiet, already plotting his path to the IT room.
English came first, Mr. Thompson presiding—rumpled shirt, crooked glasses, a faint tang of alcohol trailing him as he paced. "Ambition," he lectured, voice gravelly, "lifts us or breaks us—look at Macbeth." Alex sketched a rough map of the school in his notebook—hallways, exits, IT room circled—ignoring the lesson. Thompson's shaky hands and sour breath hinted at a man crumbling. Not my mess to fix.
The bell snapped the room awake, and Alex melted into the hallway stream. Math was next—quadratic equations he could unravel in his sleep. But today, the teacher switched it up: group work. Alex's gut twisted. He landed with a girl who gnawed her nails raw and a boy who sneezed every other breath. They stumbled over the problems, Alex nudging them toward answers without baring his own sharpness. It was slow, suffocating, but he held his mask in place.
Near the lockers, he spotted Mia, nose in a book, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. She glanced up, her gaze cutting through the noise. "Alex, you look off. Everything alright?"
He faltered, caught by her sharpness. "Yeah, just tired."
She tilted her head, skepticism flickering. "You sure? You've been weird since yesterday."
"Fine," he said, brushing past. Her worry was a weight he didn't want. She was too close already.
Lunch meant the history club in the library, but the IT room tugged harder. He needed Mia distracted. In the cafeteria, she sat with Tim and Ethan, papers and wrappers littering their table.
"Alex!" Tim called, waving him over. "We're kicking off!"
"Be there in a bit," Alex replied, steadying his tone. "Gotta handle something."
Mia's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"Nothing major," he sidestepped. "I'll catch up."
She leaned in, but Tim launched into a rant about trench warfare, hooking her focus. Alex peeled away, threading through the packed halls to the IT room.
The door was locked. A quick glance—no eyes on him—and he fished a lock-picking kit from his bag. The tumblers gave way in seconds, and he slipped inside, easing the door shut. The room thrummed with server lights and dim screens. He dropped into the chair at the main terminal, plugged in a USB with a custom script, and cracked the login. The screen flared—he was in.
Under "Surveillance," he pulled up the music room feed. The footage didn't save locally—it streamed off-site. Odd for a high school. He nabbed the IP address, then checked other feeds—hallways, cafeteria, library, classrooms. Too many, too precise. He traced the IP and poked the external server. Military-grade encryption blocked him hard. He'd need heavier tools to break through.
Footsteps echoed outside. His heart thudded. He closed the windows, yanked the USB, and slid under the desk as the door swung open.
"Anyone here?" Mr. Jenkins barked, voice rough.
Alex held his breath, still as stone. After a tense pause, Jenkins grumbled and left. Alex exhaled, easing out—straight into Mia.
"Alex! What were you doing in there?" Her eyes burned with suspicion.
"Checking email," he lied, shrugging. "Library was packed."
"That room's restricted," she countered. "I saw you go in."
"Needed to send something quick," he said, voice even.
She crossed her arms. "What's really going on? The music room thing, now this—you're not telling me something."
"I'm good, Mia," he said, sharp. "Let it go."
She stepped closer. "That guy knew your name. Who was he?"
"Some random," he dodged. "Didn't know him."
"He recognized you," she pressed. "And you took him down like it was nothing."
"Mia, enough," he cut in, firm. "It's not your fight."
She flinched but stood her ground. "If it's trouble, it might be."
The intercom blared—mandatory assembly in the gym. Relief hit him like a lifeline.
"Let's move," he said, seizing the escape.
"This isn't done," she warned, matching his pace.
The gym buzzed with chatter about the dance—tickets, dresses, dates—but Alex's mind spun. Who controlled the cameras? What were they after?
Afterward, he found a note tucked under his backpack strap: "We see you. Stay out, or pay." Ice flooded his veins. They'd clocked his hack. He scanned the crowd—Mia's glance caught his, searching.
He was boxed in—the organization closing, Mia prying. He needed a move. Walking home, the note burned in his pocket. At his apartment, he locked the door—two clicks—and collapsed onto his bed. Tomorrow, he'd chase the server from safer ground. For now, he closed his eyes, shadows crowding in.