Years of being a target had given Junior a sixth sense for trouble, as he yelped instinctively when two predators set their sights on him.
"I'm dead," he thought, already resigned and bracing for what came next. Glances that once would've slid past him without pause now lingered—twice, long enough to confirm that Klaire's presence had changed the rules.
A storm was forming with Klaire at its eye, and somehow, he was tangled in its cause.
Klaire didn't notice. Or didn't care. Drama had never been her forte. Short on time, she dove straight to work, intent on cracking another impossible case before the polished crowd caught on to the street beneath her polish.
Junior's notes described him as the most handsome man the female students had ever seen, brought in to unravel the supernatural mystery. Iso Duzy, the former bully and largest student in the building, had reportedly been cowed by a single glance.
"Former?"
"Yeah. Got a replacement," Junior said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile; his half-shrug spasming beyond control.
"Call me if anything feels off," Klaire said, the encouragement edged with warning.
Junior forced a chuckle. "Hey there, Metelda!"
They cracked up together, a little too loud, drawing curious looks from nearby students.
"Seriously, though," Klaire said, nudging him with a playful jab.
"If anything, you sticking close to me would cause more harm," Junior said, attempting a jab in return but missing, as Klaire abruptly stops.
His momentum carries him forward. His foot acted too late, tripping him, and the moment ended with him on the floor.
"You're right," Klaire said, voice stripped bare. She dipped her head and stepped away. "I won't be a nuisance anymore."
He turned away to catch his breath and found Metelda looming at his shoulder; the shriek that followed broke several laws of masculinity.
Metelda didn't react; Her expression alone was judgment enough; a mental torture far worse than losing what might've been his final chance with Klaire.
Time warped within itself; a second felt like an hour, until the silence snapped him and his voice into a squeak. "Say something!"
Metelda waited one heartbeat longer before crouching and dropping a key onto his stomach. "Keys. Terrace. Jump. Head first," she whispered, straightened, slid her hands into her jacket, and walked away as if the matter were settled.
"I'm not going to kill myself!" Junior screamed, the pitch climbing.
"Y—!"
"At least finish the goddamn sentence," Junior whispered hoarsely. "That's good for you! — Four goddamn words. The part that matters…" his voice failed, but his lips kept moving, stuck on words he couldn't force into sound.
Klaire paused, worry flickering at Junior's broken voice and the jacket she hadn't taken off.
No time, she reminded herself, burying the feeling and going back to the research.
The school regarded him as a hawk, and themselves as rats caught in his shadow. "Kudo," Klaire muttered, skimming ahead.
His visit coincided with a weekend, when only Triple-S's worst offenders bothered to attend. Still, Klaire had no doubt he'd solved the case already. All that remained was gathering proof; a week's work, perhaps less.
"Please be complicated," Klaire wished, settling for a week. Wanting more felt blasphemous, considering the gift some god had clearly wasted on Kudo.
Or speed up my process, she thought, briefly indulging an optimism she knew better than to trust.
"May I come in, ma'am?" Klaire said, knocking once.
"Late on the first day," the science lecturer said, eyeing her over the rim of her glasses. "At this rate, no crash course will get you into college."
She flipped through the registry, displeasure settling in. "And you're here on a recommendation. A trial run for a trial run." She snickered, and the class took it as permission to ridicule her.
Klaire tuned out the students and did a quick assessment of her new science teacher: Pointed glasses signaled discipline with a rebellious streak. A silver cross leaned toward faith, while the adjusted habit revealed someone negotiating conformity on her own terms. And finally, the heavy concealer completed the picture: She was a woman caught somewhere between goth defiance and holy restraint.
"Sorry, Miss Hyka," Klaire said as her tongue flicked unconsciously to the empty space where a fang used to be. "This place is… a lot. Bigger than I expected. Easy to get lost." Her tongue traced back along her teeth, finding the remaining fang on the left.
Anyone could put on a mask. Fake a personality. But only the streets taught you how to make it stick. One had to leave hints, mirror habits, borrow language, a problem just believable enough to share. Best of all, offer them the chance to guide you through the process. People love becoming mentors. To pass on their way of life. They always mistake instruction for connection.
Later, you did it again with the person closest to them—separate threads, loosely woven. Close, but never touching. Close enough to reinforce each other, distant enough to avoid overlap.
No one really notices. No one ever does when it comes to their community, someone they consider theirs. And that's how you stayed invisible.
A fellow goth, wavering on the edge of salvation; How could Miss Hyka ignore such a blatant cry for help?
"Come in, dear." Hyka's demeanor flipped, a smile curling across her lips. "Ask me for anything." She lowered her glasses. "Any…thing."
Her expression hardened as she swept her gaze across the students who had mocked her dear mentee. "Have I mentioned the surprise test yet?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Pencils out."
Her expression softened as she turned back to Klaire. "You may skip this one, dear. It isn't really mandatory."
"Thank you, ma'am." Klaire all but skipped inside, her bubbly, wide-eyed demeanor doing precisely what it was meant to—
A student slid a chair out for her. "I'm Tazuel," she said. "But call me Tammy."
Klaire clutched her skirt, cheeks flushing as she twisted the fabric nervously. Same nickname, she reasoned. Must be an older-sister thing.
Her heart clenched even harder, and she pushed the feeling down, instead focusing on her goal: Target acquired.
On the surface, she offered a jittery nod and slid into the seat beside Tammy.
Direct connections were the cleanest way forward, unless the other side was broken beyond reach.
After all, psychopaths didn't bond.
If I dial my talent down to eleven, she told herself. That should be the golden spot.
People draw closer when you appeal to their inner demons: Naivety attracts the predatory, certainty comforts the willfully blind, and weakness invites the bully's loyal hound.
Tammy stood out as the group's leader, holding her circle together by entertaining their demons and binding them with mutual blame. One wrong move, and you belonged to her for good.
Unfortunately for Tammy, it was a system Klaire had never respected nor bowed to. Social norms had never kept her alive. If it had, she wouldn't have walked the supernatural path or survived alone from the age of nine.
Social norms. Klaire scoffed, scanning the room; everyone embodied them, from teacher to student alike. The hierarchy was subtle yet rigid, the system obvious once you stopped pretending otherwise.
At the top sat Tammy, the shadow leader of everything whispered and hidden. Below her were the hotties, Triple-S's cheerleaders, and visible currency. Third came the shifters, mediators desperate to belong everywhere and ending up nowhere. Last were the nerds, future innovators, if society didn't grind them down first.
Klaire was stunned that the streets had allowed such an insulated world to exist.
Or am I the one in a bubble? She chuckled at the absurd thought.
Everyone thought they'd settled into who they were. That illusion held until a higher social tier came into play. Then they reshaped themselves to fit. Not with Klaire's precision, but close enough to pass.
Miss Hyka was proof of it, abandoning her goth self to belong to something bigger, proving that even rebellion bent when belonging was at stake.
Questions have always been discouraged. Dangerous even.
The information age promised to bring us closer to our true selves and to like-minded people… or so we were led to believe.
Kudo's words finally clicked. As Klaire studied the classroom, the students, and the teachers cycling in and out, the noise fell away, narrowing toward a single, undeniable truth.
Discard the norm—the mask people wear to avoid questioning themselves. What they claim to see are individuals. What they actually track are groups. What they seek, knowingly or not, is hierarchy.
Boil every perspective down to what survives, and the answer is always the same: people move, think, and act in obedience to their immediate social surroundings. Not morality. Nor reason. Just proximity.
Status without substance. Order without meaning; a hollow social order mistaken for truth—A Senseless Social Standing.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Fifty-Nine. ———<>||<>———