The week passed in a blur of numbers and tests.
Every assignment, every project, every exam — I crushed them. Not with arrogance, but with ease. My mind felt electric, sharper than ever. Chuck's instincts, my memories, our fused IQ working at a level I'd never imagined. While others sweated through twenty-minute exams, I finished in two, leaving professors blinking in disbelief.
When the grades posted, my name was at the top of every list. A wall of A's, standing like a monument.
It was the proof I needed. Stanford Chuck had been awkward, nervous, uncertain. But now? Now I was something else. Something more.
And today was the day that would define everything. The Omaha Project meeting. The fork in the road where, in the original timeline, Bryce Larkin would cut my future short.
Not this time.
I arrived two hours early, dressed sharp, notes in hand. No margin for error. No chance for Bryce to interfere.
The building was quiet at this hour, the hum of fluorescent lights echoing in the hallways. I found the office, knocked once, and stepped inside.
Professor Fleming looked up from his desk. A man in his fifties, gray streaking his hair, sharp eyes behind wire-rim glasses. His surprise was mild, but noticeable.
"Mr. Bartowski," he said, setting down his pen. "You're… early."
"Better early than late," I said with an easy smile. Calm. Confident. "I've been looking forward to this."
His gaze lingered on me for a moment, like he was recalibrating what he thought he knew about me. Maybe in another life, Chuck Bartowski would have shuffled in nervously, fumbling for words. But not now. Not anymore.
We spoke briefly — pleasantries, questions about coursework, my ambitions. I answered with clarity, weaving truth with polish. Enough to prove I belonged, without tipping my hand about what I really knew.
And then the door slammed open.
I turned.
Bryce Larkin stood in the doorway, radiating confidence like he always did. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect arrogance. His smirk was automatic — the look of a man who believed he'd already won.
But then his eyes landed on me. Sitting across from Fleming. Calm. Composed. Already inside.
And the smirk faltered.
Bryce's POV
What the hell?
Chuck Bartowski was in Fleming's office. Talking to him.
That wasn't possible. Chuck wasn't supposed to be here. I'd timed it perfectly — intercepted the message, buried the invite. Without it, Chuck would miss the meeting, and Stanford would shove him out. It was kinder this way. He wasn't built for this world. He didn't have the edge.
But now… here he was. Sitting tall. Meeting Fleming's gaze. Not stammering. Not sweating bullets. He looked… different.
How did he get the message?
This wasn't Chuck. Not the Chuck I knew.
Back to My POV
I caught the flicker of doubt in Bryce's eyes. The tiny crack in his façade. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected me.
I smiled faintly. "Bryce. Glad you could make it."
His jaw tightened.
Professor Fleming's tone was calm but firm. "Mr. Larkin, could you please wait outside? I'd like to finish my conversation with Mr. Bartowski."
Bryce bristled. "With respect, sir, Chuck—"
I turned in my seat, meeting his eyes with polite finality. "I'm in the middle of a meeting with our professor. Could you please give us a moment?"
For a second, the air crackled with silence. Bryce's fists clenched at his sides. He muttered something under his breath — low, clipped, venomous — then spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass.
I turned back to Fleming, smiling faintly. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"
Fleming chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Well. That was… poise. Not what I normally expect from my students." He reached for a folder on his desk and slid it toward me. His expression grew serious. "Perhaps it's time to explain what this project really is."
I leaned forward slightly, keeping my face open, curious.
"The Omaha Project," Fleming said, "is not just a Stanford research program. It's a recruitment initiative. For the CIA."
I let my eyebrows rise, my voice careful. "Recruitment?"
He nodded. "Yes. In collaboration with the NSA. What we call the Intersect Project."
The word landed heavy, even though I already knew it was coming.
"It's an image retrieval database," Fleming continued. "The first of its kind. Designed to compress every piece of U.S. intelligence into a single system — accessible, retrievable, analyzable. The goal is simple: the future of intelligence, integrated into one place."
He opened the folder fully, sliding the sheet across the desk toward me. A list of names and numbers. Scores.
At the top of the list: Bartowski, Charles – 99% accuracy.
Fleming tapped the page. "That's why you're here. You're one of the only candidates to score this high. Ninety-nine percent image recognition. Nearly perfect recall. Only a handful have ever come close. You have the kind of mind we're looking for."
I looked down at the sheet, then back up, letting my eyes widen in practiced disbelief. "You're saying the CIA wants… me?"
Fleming allowed himself a faint smile. "Correct. This is highly classified, Mr. Bartowski. If you're chosen, you won't just be working on theory. You'll be shaping the future of intelligence. But it's not for everyone. The Intersect requires more than brilliance. It requires resilience. The ability to process what others can't."
His eyes lingered on me, searching. "And I believe you may have that."
I gave him a careful nod, masking my calm with just enough awe. "Then I won't waste the opportunity, Professor."
Outside the office door, I thought I heard the faintest scrape of a shoe. A shadow shifting. Bryce, no doubt, straining to listen.
And realizing that for the first time, the game wasn't his to control.