Thompson's voice echoed through the quiet cafeteria as he tried to wield public opinion like a gavel.
"Today," he declared, "I'll represent the honor of Midtown High—and teach him a lesson!"
Marcus and several of his teammates stepped forward in unison. Their broad shoulders filled out their team uniforms, forming an imposing human wall.
"Thompson's right," one of them said. "This guy attacked him the second he showed up yesterday."
"Look at him—wearing that hat like he's got something to hide."
"Freaks should act like freaks. Don't come around here pretending you belong with normal people."
The jeers spilled from their mouths like pebbles dropped into still water—ripples of hostility spreading fast.
Whispers rose from the surrounding tables.
"Did he really do it? Thompson was messed up after that fall…"
"It's hard to say, but he definitely looks like trouble."
"Just stay out of it. Don't get involved."
Dozens of eyes locked onto Joren—gazes sharp with suspicion, judgment, and a flicker of fear.
Thompson drank it all in with smug satisfaction. He felt righteous—like he was standing on the side of justice.
His eyes swept the crowd… then snagged on a wiry figure a few yards away.
"Hey—wait a second," he said, pointing. "Isn't that Parker?"
A beat of silence.
"Am I seeing things?" Thompson sneered. "You're that freak's little tagalong! I saw you sneaking around behind him yesterday!"
Peter's face flushed crimson.
Heads turned. The attention that had been fixed on Joren now split—some swiveling toward Peter.
"I'm not!" Peter stammered. "I just—"
"What are you, huh?" Thompson cut in. "Wanna learn how to dismantle a chair with your eyeballs, you dweeb?"
His teammates burst into laughter.
Marcus and another player loomed over Peter, cutting off his view of Joren completely.
"Alright," Thompson said, turning back with a theatrical sigh. "Foreplay's over."
He faced Joren again, malice gleaming in his eyes.
"Time to show us your real face."
He winked at the two rugby players flanking him.
"Hold him down."
"I wanna see for myself what kind of shameful secret's hiding under that raggedy hat."
The two players grinned and lunged—one grabbing each of Joren's arms.
Thompson stepped forward, fingers outstretched toward the brim of the hat pulled low over Joren's eyes.
The entire cafeteria held its breath.
Behind the wall of muscle, Peter clenched his fists—but he was trapped, powerless.
And Joren?
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just stood there—silent, still, unreadable.
He quickly scanned the surroundings.
One meter away.
A student had just knocked over a cup. A puddle of cola spread silently across the smooth floor.
Two meters away.
On the edge of another table sat a discarded fork—leftover from someone's pasta, its tines pointing upward.
Above, the central air conditioning vents hummed softly, their louvers oscillating at low speed.
Just a second before Thompson's fingers could brush the brim of his hat—
Joren took half a step back.
Cafeteria chili sauce!
Meteor Finger Strike!
"Eora!"
Platinum Star's two fingers snapped forward, aimed with surgical precision at the metal fork.
Less than ten centimeters separated the rugby team's hands from Joren's sleeve.
Thompson's fingertips hovered mere millimeters from the hat's brim.
To everyone in the cafeteria, the next second seemed inevitable: the hat flying off, Joren slammed to the floor.
Click.
A faint metallic clang—so quiet it was nearly lost beneath the din of chatter and clattering trays.
The fork leapt from the table's edge.
Tracing an eerie, impossible arc, it struck a ceiling button with pinpoint accuracy.
Snap.
The vent's fan blades roared to life, accelerating to full speed in under a second.
WHOOSH!
A violent gust ripped napkins from nearby tables, sending them spiraling through the air like startled birds.
One napkin, caught in the vortex, slapped squarely onto a rugby player's face.
"What the hell?!"
Blinded, the man shrieked and staggered backward—
His heel landed straight in the slick puddle of cola.
His foot shot out from under him.
"Ah—!"
The towering 1.9-meter athlete toppled backward, arms flailing.
His wild grab snagged a teammate who'd been circling from the opposite side.
Startled, the second player lurched—only to crash into a bystander watching the commotion.
That student clutched a freshly served plate of creamy bacon pasta.
Splash—!
The plate flew from his grip.
Noodles and thick white sauce rained down like a dairy-laced monsoon.
Thompson, still reaching for Joren's hat, suddenly felt a scalding warmth on his scalp.
Creamy sauce oozed down his blond hair, coating his eyebrows and blurring his vision.
Strands of pasta dangled like absurd ornaments from his ears and the tip of his nose.
Silence.
Every eye in the cafeteria locked onto the surreal tableau.
Joren stood perfectly still.
Before him, two rugby players lay tangled in a human pyramid on the floor.
Thompson? He looked like a clown who'd lost a food fight with a spaghetti monster.
Peter Parker saw it all.
His gaze fixed on the fork now lying innocently on the tiles.
That trajectory… it's wrong.
Not a normal parabola—not even close.
It was like something… shot it. With impossible precision. At an impossible angle.