The first class had already started.
Both Riya and Merlin were absent.
The teacher sensed something was wrong.
If it had been only Merlin, it wouldn't have raised suspicion. Merlin was often late, often absent. But Riya had been in class—everyone had seen her. She had asked permission to leave for the restroom and never returned.
That made the situation unsettling.
The teacher knew that if this went sideways, he would never live it down. Worse, he could lose his job. With few options left, he did the one thing he had been avoiding.
He consulted Merlin's father.
He dialed a number he had memorized from calling it too many times, always from the same school line.
"Hello, Mr. Maxim," the teacher said carefully. "I was wondering if you could help me pass an assignment on to Merlin."
There was a brief pause.
"Why not give it to him in person?" Mr. Maxim replied.
The man was seated at his desk, phone held to his ear, a pen resting between his fingers.
The teacher tensed. He had expected this question and still wasn't ready for it. His next words could decide everything. He could lie to a man who controlled everyone and everything—or tell the truth, which sounded just as dangerous.
Losing his job at Mr. Maxim's hands meant losing all future opportunities.
He steadied himself.
"But he isn't at school," the teacher began. "Considering how you often tell him to stay home once in a while, I assumed he would be with you."
The teacher only realized he'd been holding his breath after he finished speaking.
Depending on Mr. Maxim's mood, this could still be the end, he thought.
What an embarrassing way to go.
"I'm sorry for my son's incompetence."
The voice cut through his thoughts.
Relief slipped from the teacher's lips before he could stop it.
"It's a good thing you called," Mr. Maxim continued. "I see people like you as valuable assets."
The tone was pleasant—but still commanding enough to make the teacher uncomfortable.
"I'll send someone to search. Don't worry about it. Just continue with your lectures."
"One more thing," the teacher said quickly, his voice nearly stuttering.
"Go ahead. Speak your mind."
"It's about the girl—the one who's always around him."
A pause.
"What about her?"
"Don't tell me she wasn't in class as well," Mr. Maxim interrupted.
"No—she was. She came in, but left for the restroom before the first period and hasn't returned."
The teacher's chest tightened as he said it. He could almost see the glare forming on the other end of the line.
"Go back to class," Mr. Maxim said. His voice carried enough pressure to make anyone tremble. "I'll handle this."
The call ended.
"Bruce."
The door opened almost immediately.
A man in his mid-twenties stepped forward, slender in build, gray eyes unreadable beneath dark hair. His expression was calm—too calm.
"I have a job for you," Mr. Maxim said.
"Two targets. Find one, and the other will fall right into your hands. Bring them back unharmed."
Bruce let out a low groan. "You never give me anything interesting. What a waste of talent."
"I assure you," Maxim said, his tone turning cold, "they'll do their best to make you eat those words. Take this seriously."
A smirk slipped onto Bruce's face as he turned toward the door.
Bruce left the office whistling—quietly, off-key.
He stopped when he realized he was doing it and frowned, as if mildly offended by himself.
"Unharmed," he repeated. "That's new."
Outside, the school looked ordinary. That usually meant it wasn't. He liked places like that. They lied badly.
He paused near the exit and crouched, examining a faint smear on the floor. Mud. Fresh. Someone had been in a hurry.
"hall pass," he said to no one.
Bruce straightened and rolled his shoulders once, like a man preparing for a stretch rather than a pursuit.
Two targets, Maxim had said.
But only one of them was afraid.
Bruce smiled faintly.
Fear made people predictable.
He stepped outside the school and let the door close behind him.
Bruce put one foot in front of the other and started walking. He was counting his steps—at least he tried to. He stopped at sixty-three and raised his right arm at a ninety-degree angle.
"Ding, ding, ding," he murmured, like he'd just won something.
Bruce lowered his arm slowly.
He stared down the street he had pointed at, eyes half-lidded, as if listening for something beneath the noise of the city. Wind brushed past him, carrying dust, distant voices, the ordinary sounds of people who had no idea they were part of the background now.
"...No," he muttered.
He turned in place, scanning again. Rooflines. Side alleys. The thin trail of trees that bordered the school grounds. His smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.
Running straight was what frightened people did.
Smart people curved.
Bruce clicked his tongue, irritated—not at them, but at himself.
"Almost fooled me," he said quietly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook given to him by Maxim, its pages creased and uneven. He flipped to a page filled with messy arrows and short notes written at strange angles.
Girl: panicked
Boy: controlled
Timing: wrong on purpose
Bruce stared at the last line for a moment, then drew a line through it and rewrote it.
Timing: chosen
He shut the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket.
Instead of following the obvious path, he stepped off the sidewalk and into the dirt, deliberately leaving a clear footprint behind him. Then another.
"Go on," he murmured, as if speaking to someone just out of sight. "watch me go the wrong way."
He slowed his pace, counting his steps again. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. He stopped, crouched, and brushed his fingers over the ground.
Two sets of footprints.
One heavy. One light.
Bruce's smile returned—wider this time.
"There you are."
He straightened and glanced back toward the school, then in the opposite direction of where he had first pointed.
"They think they're buying time," he said softly. "That's cute."
Bruce adjusted his collar and began walking—unhurried, almost lazy—toward the less obvious path.
Behind him, the school bell rang again.
He didn't look back.