"A burning sensation across my entire body. Am I really going to die?"
That's the only thought racing through my head right now, even though just 26 hours ago, I was a regular college student trying to get through another long, awkward day.
"Jim, what do you think about the Israel-Hamas War?"
The professor's voice caught me mid-yawn.
I blinked. "Uh… yeah, I think it was… bad?"
Half the class either chuckled awkwardly or sighed. I felt the professor's disappointed gaze press down on me like extra gravity.
Class ended not long after. I started gathering my things, slinging my battered backpack over my shoulder. Just as I turned to make my escape, I heard it:
"Jim."
Damn it.
I turned slowly. "Yes, Professor Daniels?"
He walked over, arms folded, his face carrying that fake concern I'd seen a dozen times before.
"You've been unfocused lately. Is something on your mind?"
Not this again. I gave him a small, dry laugh and scratched the back of my head. "No, not really. Just… pollution and stuff. Gotta save the Earth, right? Ha… ha…"
I coughed and looked away. "Anyway, I should get going—"
"Jim," he interrupted gently, "I know it must be hard. Losing both your parents… if you ever need someone to talk to—"
"I'll let you know." I smiled tight. "But I'm fine. It happened a month ago. Old wounds heal quickly, am I right?"
He gave me that look—the one that tried to peel open everything inside me—but I was already halfway out the door.
The walk back to my off-campus apartment was about fifteen minutes. It gave me time to think. Or overthink. But I was halfway home when I remembered something—Or rather, someone.
Emma.
She lived nearby, in one of those small green-roofed houses that always smelled like lavender. She was my chemistry partner. Smart. Pretty. Always carried this quiet confidence. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I'd catch her outside watering plants or talking on the phone.
I'm not a stalker or anything, I swear. It's just... we walk the same path. It's a coincidence. Probably.
Okay. Holy shit, I'm a stalker.
I shook the thought from my head and picked up my pace, trying not to look at her house like some creep. But when I passed by, the place was empty. Quiet. No bikes. No light in the window.
Right. She's on vacation with her family.
I sighed. "Man, I'm out of it…"
I kept walking, hands deep in my pockets, head full of noise. Truth is—I did need someone to talk to. No parents. No real friends. Sure, I was doing fine in college, grades-wise. But life?
Life sucked.
That night, I set my alarm. Brushed my teeth. Laid in bed, eyes wide open, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. I must have fallen asleep at some point…
But when I woke up—
I wasn't in my bed.
I was cuffed to a cold, metal table. My wrists ached. The room around me looked like a movie set—everything was metal, sterile, silent. There were no windows except for a single pane of glass set high into the far wall, like one of those two-way mirrors in cop shows.
The only sound was a low hum of ventilation, and the only company I had was the rising panic in my chest.
What the hell is this?
Footsteps. The metal door creaked open.
A man stepped in—suit, tie, briefcase. Calm as if he'd walked into a business meeting.
I swallowed hard. "Is this… the FBI?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just adjusted his tie, then set the briefcase down.
"Mr. Jim Shane."
"...Yeah?"
"I am Agent 956. I work with an organization called SHAPE."
"Shape?" I blinked. "Like… triangles and circles? Wow, don't tell me this is a reality show. Are there cameras hidden somewhere?"
He didn't smile. Not even a twitch.
"You're serious?"
Still nothing.
I took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, trying to keep my voice steady. "Well, then I'm not talking without a lawyer."
He sat across from me, opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder, and flipped it open. His eyes flicked across the pages like he already knew what was written.
"Jim Shane. Son of Amber Shane and Thomas Shane. You are currently under investigation for potential dangerous magic use."
I froze.
"Wait… what?"