Monday afternoon at school, and the cafeteria buzzed with the usual clatter of trays, the hum of conversations, and the occasional laughter spilling from nearby tables. Adam slid through the crowd, clutching his tray with a simple lunch, grilled chicken breast, quinoa salad, steamed broccoli, and a carton of iced coffee, his small comfort in this new, overwhelming world.
He found an empty seat by the window, away from the clusters of loud chatter. The sunlight poured in, casting warm streaks over the sleek, high-tech tables embedded with translucent screens that displayed news, weather, and occasional school announcements. It was a strange mix of calm and chaos, a modern jungle where technology and teenage energy clashed.
Adam sat down and took a moment to breathe it all in. It had been almost a week since he'd started at this school, Wednesday last week, to be exact, and he was still adjusting. For starters, he'd learned that each grade was split into three classes, A, B, and C, ranked by a brutal formula: academics made up 50%, sports 10%, club activities 20%, and extracurriculars the remaining 20%. The kicker? The student who finished last overall was expelled at the end of the year, no exceptions.
"That means for high school, a total of three people are going to expelled," Adam thought aloud. "Two if you count, the poor lad who got expelled last year."
He swallowed hard at the thought. The competition here wasn't just fierce; it was life-or-death for his school future. Since enrolling late, he'd been given a handicap, but even so, he was sitting at the bottom of the class ranks. Expulsion wasn't just a threat; it was a looming shadow. One thing didn't sit well in his mind; The school enrolled a total of 93 students per class with the aim of graduating 90 of them after the 3 were expelled. By the Time Adam transferred in, there were 92 students which meant there was a problem, Adam concluded.
Either one students had to be expelled this year or one student was going to drop out. Either way Adam suspected the school didn't make this choice by mistake, and he sure as hell didn't want to be on the receiving end of it.
Abigail had already offered to help him catch up with his academics, and Bryce had promised to guide him through the extracurriculars. Still, the pressure gnawed at him. How was he supposed to impress the basketball coach? The thought made him sigh. Club Day on Friday was his chance, and he planned to give it everything he had.
Taking a sip of his iced coffee, Adam's mind drifted back to the morning assembly. The auditorium had been packed, students crammed into rows, listening to the principal's announcements. A senior student had stepped forward to give a speech as school president, but Adam barely caught the words, his attention wandering. The newness of it all was overwhelming: the tablets replacing textbooks, the screen tables that transcribed every teacher's word, and the student ID cards controlling everything from lockers to dorm room access.
It was futuristic, efficient... and exhausting.
"Lost in thought again?" came a calm, familiar voice.
Adam blinked. Abigail was standing there, her nonchalant expression belying any real urgency. She slid into the seat opposite him with practiced ease, folding her hands on the table.
"Just thinking about how I'm going to avoid getting expelled this year," he confessed, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.
She gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. You won't be. I'll help you with the academics. Meet me in the library after class, bring your study supplies. We'll work on it together, every day if we have to."
Adam felt a flicker of warmth despite the knot in his stomach. "Thanks, Abi. I guess... I'll need all the help I can get."
"Good," she said, her voice casual but steady. "Because I don't plan on letting you fail."
For a moment, the cafeteria noise faded into the background. Despite everything, Adam felt a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this school year.
Meanwhile, The late afternoon sun hung low over the outskirts of town, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement of the industrial district. A faint chorus of cicadas buzzed in the still air, broken only by the distant hum of a lone engine somewhere far away. Joe Hawkings parked his aging sedan beside the chain-link fence that enclosed the abandoned warehouse. The air smelled faintly of rust and dust, mingled with the distant tang of burnt oil.
Joe's breath was steady but his mind raced. He pulled on a pair of worn leather gloves, the kind he always carried for moments like this. From his worn shoulder bag, he produced a compact camera and a small notepad, its pages dog-eared and filled with scribbles from years of obsession.
The letter had arrived three days ago, placed on his study's door with no return address, its words sharp and urgent:
"...I don't expect you to believe me. I only expect you to do what you've always done. Dig.
There is a warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. No cameras, no patrols. Abandoned, supposedly. But you'll find traces there. Claw marks, burned claws, a silver cartridge lodged in brick.
It's the first of many things the Gryphons tried to erase..."
Joe studied the warehouse's peeling facade, its boarded windows like blind eyes. The place had been forgotten by time, but he knew secrets lurked inside.
Stepping cautiously through a rusted side gate, he pushed open the creaking door, his flashlight beam piercing the dim. The warehouse smelled of mildew and old smoke. On the concrete floor, faint scorch marks traced a chaotic pattern, as if some violent struggle had erupted here.
Near a crumbled brick wall, Joe's eyes caught the first clue: jagged scratch marks gouged deep into the weathered surface, like claws trying to tear through stone. His fingers traced the grooves, rough and desperate. Nearby, a small metallic glint caught the light. Kneeling, Joe retrieved a silver cartridge, cold and heavy in his palm, its surface scratched but unmistakably real.
He snapped photos carefully, the camera's shutter breaking the silence, then jotted notes in tight, precise script.
Every detail matched the letter's description perfectly, too perfectly. The scene almost felt staged, but the grime, the subtle odors, the dust disturbed by recent footsteps confirmed its authenticity.
Joe scanned the space methodically, every movement deliberate, the practiced rhythm of a detective at work. Yet no connection emerged, no hint linking this battle-scarred warehouse to the grisly bungalow murder that haunted his thoughts. The Gryphons' shadow loomed large in his mind, but here, the evidence was fragmentary, whispers of violence without clear answers.
Frustrated, Joe sank onto a battered crate in the far corner, the wood groaning beneath him. He pulled a small flask from his coat pocket, uncapping it with a practiced flick. The burn of whiskey was welcome, a brief reprieve from the weight of the unknown.
Then, cutting through the quiet, a voice broke the stillness.
"Long time no see, old friend."
Joe's head snapped up, eyes narrowing into the dim. From the shadows emerged a figure, casual, confident, with an easy grin. Recognition flared instantly.
John.
His old pal, once inseparable in high school, now a ghost from a past life.
John's easygoing demeanor clashed with the tension in Joe's jaw, a mixture of nostalgia and guarded suspicion flickering across his face. They shared a long look, old memories tangled with present uncertainty.
The warehouse, the Gryphons, the murder, all seemed to fade for a moment beneath the weight of this unexpected reunion.
"We should get out of here," John said, voice low, eyes flicking toward the shadows beyond the warehouse walls. "Someplace quieter."
Joe hesitated, then nodded, rising with the weight of unanswered questions settling back into his bones.
Together, they stepped back into the afternoon light, the warehouse looming behind them, a silent witness to secrets yet to be uncovered.
***
The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the smoky, dimly lit private booth where Joe Hawkings and John sat nursing their beers. The bar was a typical dive loud, cluttered with half-empty tables, and thick with the scent of stale beer and fried food. Yet this corner offered a sliver of privacy, away from the crowd's cacophony, a place where old ghosts could resurface.
Joe took a slow sip of his amber beer, eyes never leaving John's face. The years had softened some lines, but the sharpness in John's gaze was undiminished, like a hawk cloaked in easy smiles. Joe felt the familiar tug of nostalgia but tightened his jaw. He'd learned long ago that people with charm could hide the sharpest blades.
"Long time no see, old friend," John said, a casual grin curling his lips.
Joe nodded, folding his hands on the table. "Yeah, too long."
They spent the next hour reminiscing about high school, the pranks, the late-night study sessions, the dreams they once shared of being detectives. John's laughter was easy, his tone light, but Joe noticed the way his eyes flickered now and then, scanning the room, calculating. The facade of ease was almost too polished.
Finally, Joe cleared his throat. "So... what's this all about, John? Why track me down after all this time?"
John's smile tightened. He leaned forward, voice dropping just a notch. "I'm working a case. Private detective stuff. I hit a wall, and I need your help."
Joe raised an eyebrow, skepticism sharpening. "Private? Since when?"
"Since the department got... complicated. But I've got evidence from a crime scene that might break things wide open." John's fingers tapped a small, plastic bag on the table, inside, a tiny gold earring gleamed under the muted light.
Joe's eyes flicked to it, then back to John. "Where'd you get this?"
John shrugged, vague. "Let's just say it came from the scene. But to make sense of it, I need access to proper lab work, something I can't get on my own."
Joe studied him, the way John avoided direct answers, the careful choice of words. Yet, the detective's instinct told him this was genuine... or at least useful.
John's tone shifted, softer now. "I know you've found something too. You don't chase shadows for nothing."
Joe's grip tightened around his beer. "Maybe."
A brief pause hung between them, thick with unspoken questions.
John's gaze held Joe's steady. "Show me the letter."
"What letter?"
"The letter that led you to that abandoned warehouse. the letter you used to get Sutton to rally your case."
"Looks like you've been busy." Hawkings remarked.
"Any good detective would." John said with a sly smile.
Joe hesitated but then slid the folded paper across the table. John adjusted his glasses, leaning in to read. "Mind if I keep it?"
Joe shook his head firmly. "No."
John gave a quick nod, respect layered with a hint of something unreadable. They exchanged a handshake, firm and measured.
As John stood to leave, he slipped the plastic bag into Joe's palm. "We'll get to the bottom of this."
Outside, John's steps quickened toward his car. Once inside, he pulled out his phone, tapping a button on his glasses. A small light flickered, the spy camera had captured a clear photo of the anonymous letter.
John's lips curled into a satisfied smile. They knew now. They were closer than ever.