The last bell before lunch echoed like freedom, but Mr. Halberd had other plans.
Mr. Halberd walked in, looking like he was fighting his own body. His tie was crooked, his eyes red and tired, and his worn-out tweed jacket looked like it had stopped caring decades ago.
He dropped a stack of papers onto his desk with a thud that sent up a small puff of chalk dust.
"Surprise," he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Hope you studied."
With that, he collapsed into his chair like gravity had finally decided to call in a long-overdue debt.
The class groaned. A surprise quiz from Halberd was more torture than a test.
Miles Vane, however, felt a calm settle over him. Tests were predictable clear rules, logical steps, no surprises. Unlike people, tests never lied.
He took the paper passed back to him and scanned the questions. Standard stuff. Dates, names, the socio-economic ramifications of the Carolingian Renaissance. Easy.
And then he got to the final question.
He read it once. Then twice. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly.
Question 10: Citing the 1788 Treaty of Ghent, explain the primary territorial disputes that were resolved between the United States and Great Britain, and how this directly influenced Napoleon's decision to abandon his Egyptian campaign. (25 points)
Miles's brain, a finely tuned engine for facts and patterns, hit a screeching halt. A red flag began to wave violently in his mind.
The Treaty of Ghent was signed in 1814.
It ended the War of 1812.
It had absolutely nothing to do with Napoleon's Egyptian campaign, which had ended fifteen years prior.
The question was not just wrong; it was a logical impossibility, a historical paradox wrapped in a typo.
He could just write that. Point out the error. But that felt… loud. It would draw attention.
He could try to answer it in two parts, ignoring the flawed premise. But that felt intellectually dishonest.
For ten seconds, he fought an internal battle. The side of him that wanted to stay invisible told him to leave it blank, but the scholar in him who loved the cold certainty of facts refused to let it go.
His hand went up, slowly, almost reluctantly.
Mr. Halberd's tired eyes slowly opened. He looked at Miles's raised hand as if it didn't belong there.
"Yes, Vane?" he sighed.
"Sir," Miles began, his voice quiet but clear. "Regarding question ten."
"What about it?"
"The premise is factually inconsistent," Miles stated, trying to sound helpful rather than critical. "The Treaty of Ghent was signed in 1814, whereas Napoleon's campaign in Egypt concluded in 1801. They are unrelated events."
The room went silent. Every student turned to stare at him. Some students looked impressed. Others looked like they wanted to launch him into the sun.
Mr. Halberd narrowed his eyes at the paper. After a moment, he got it, and then he just looked worn out.
"Ah," he said. "Right. That was supposed to be the Treaty of Amiens. From my old exam bank." He waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Just… write about the War of 1812. Whatever. Bonus points for everyone."
A few scattered, confused cheers erupted.
Miles lowered his hand, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on him. So much for staying unnoticed. He quickly finished the test, fixed the flawed question, wrote both answers, and walked to the front to hand it in.
As the class filed out a few minutes later, someone tapped him lightly on the arm.
"Miles, right?"
He turned and nearly froze.
Clara.
She stood in the aisle beside his desk, eyes bright with amusement, her half-graded paper tucked under her arm.
"I was halfway through writing a fake essay about Napoleon time-traveling to 1788," she said. "Thanks for saving me from that."
Miles blinked. "Uh… no problem."
"I'm Clara, by the way." She offered a small wave, like it was optional.
"I know," he said, then immediately regretted it. "I mean you introduced yourself last week. In Chemistry."
She smirked. "Wow. Most people don't remember stuff like that."
"I… usually do," he said, managing the tiniest shrug.
There was a pause.
Clara tilted her head, still studying him. "You're hard to read, Miles Vane."
He gave a noncommittal smile. "I get that a lot."
She lingered for a second, then nodded like she was filing the interaction into some mental folder.
"Well, if you ever want to debate Halberd's historical crimes again, I'll be in the library during lunch. Sometimes." She turned and walked off before he could think of a reply.
Miles stood there for a beat longer, unsure whether to feel proud or confused.
He adjusted his backpack and walked out into the hallway, mind buzzing.
She was... interesting.
But it didn't matter. He had his own shadows to deal with.
Still he couldn't help the tiny smirk that tugged at his mouth as he walked away.
The short exchange left him unsettled. It broke his routine and chipped at the careful way he kept himself hidden.
He needed the silence. He needed the comforting scent of old paper and dust.
The library was quiet, a place where Miles could blend in. He stayed late, lost in books that never judged or noticed his cracks.
Academically brilliant but otherwise invisible.
That was his camouflage, his shield. He wore it every day at Northwood High like a second skin.
He preferred it that way.
Anonymity was safety.
Then after a long day at school.
The alley smelled like old rain and regret.
Miles Vane gripped the strap of his old backpack.
The city's noise surrounded him honking cars, footsteps on wet pavement, a distant dog but it all felt muted, as if the alley was cut off from the world.
Streetlights flickered nearby, their buzzing shadows shifting like they were alive.
He just wanted to get home.
A sudden, heavy shove from behind sent him stumbling forward, his sneakers scraping against the gritty pavement.
"Well, well, well."
The voice was greasy, thick with unearned confidence.
"Look what we got here, boys."
Miles turned slowly, his heart thundering in his chest like a trapped bird. Every instinct told him to run, but he was already too late.
Three of them.
They stood tall and bulky, with wide shoulders and threatening looks. The kind of people who thought violence was a language and they were fluent.
They wore jackets with a stitched symbol of a red snake curled into a coil.
The Crimson Serpents.
Low-level street thugs who thought they owned this part of the city.
"Just another bookworm from Northwood High," the leader sneered, cracking his knuckles with a sound like gravel being crushed. "Probably got some money from mommy and daddy for good grades."
Miles stayed silent. His mind raced, calculating exits, estimating distances, cataloging escape routes.
There were no good options.
The alley was a dead end.
He was trapped.
"I don't have any money," Miles said, his voice quiet but steady. He hoped it sounded more confident than he felt.
The leader laughed, a sharp, ugly bark. "That's what they all say."
"Let's just check for ourselves."
The first punch hit without warning, smashing into his jaw. Pain burst behind his eyes, and blood filled his mouth.
They threw his backpack to the floor, spiling contents like: textbooks, notes, a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
A kick to the stomach sent him folding inward, gasping like a fish pulled from water.
He crumpled, curling into a defensive ball as boots rained down on him. Steel-toed, heavy, unrelenting.
It was a symphony of violence.
Pain was a fire, consuming everything.
One rib gave way with a sickening, wet crunch.
His vision blurred.
"He doesn't have a wallet", one thug grunted, annoyed.
"Waste of time," another spat.
"Leave him," the leader said coldly. "Let him bleed."
Their footsteps faded, retreating into the night like ghosts satisfied with their cruelty.
Miles lay still.
Each breath stabbed like a dagger, each heartbeat a cruel reminder he was still alive.
Even blinking felt impossible.
Darkness beckoned.
Not just unconsciousness, but something deeper.
Colder.
Quieter.
And then something new bloomed behind his eyes.
A pain that wasn't physical. A sharp, electric presence humming just beneath the surface of his thoughts.
It was not the pain of broken bones.
It was activation.
Something was waking up.
[CRITICAL TRAUMA DETECTED]
A voice.
It wasn't spoken aloud but echoed in his head, digital and strangely familiar whisper.
[HOST VITAL SIGNS FAILING]
[INITIATING ECHO PROTOCOL]
What the hell? he thought weakly. A concussion with a user interface? Perfect.
[SYSTEM BOOTING... 10%]
Suddenly, a storm of information surged into his brain a torrent of numbers, code, unreadable symbols flowing across the inside of his eyelids.
[...25%]
[LINKING SOUL SHARD TO NEURAL PATHWAYS]
Sharp pain, hot and cold at once, shot through him the he couldn't scream.
Then
A memory.
Not his.
A woman's face.
Eyes full of fierce, desperate love.
Mira Vane.
His mother.
"It's okay, my sweet boy," her voice echoed through the static. "You will be strong enough."
He saw a man's hands, steady and sure, holding a strange, glowing syringe.
Dr. Alaric Vane.
His father.
"This is not an end," his father's memory said, proud and unyielding. "It is a new beginning. We made you to defy death itself."
[...50%]
[MEMORY FRAGMENT 1/25 UNLOCKED: 'A Parent's Love']
Tears ran down Miles' face, mixing with the blood and dirt.
The warm memory felt cruel against the cold reality.
[...75%]
[CORE COMBAT PROTOCOLS OFFLINE]
[SURVIVAL SUB-ROUTINES... ACTIVATING]
[...100%]
[ECHO PROTOCOL... AWAKENED]
The voice vanished.
But something inside remained humming, watching, alive.
He could feel everything.
Not emotionally.
Literally.
He felt the crack in his rib, the slow bleed in his stomach, the swelling in his throat, and his blood pressure dropping.
He was dying.
And for the first time, he understood every single cause.
"Hey, look!"
The greasy voice broke through the trance.
"The little roach is still twitching."
Miles turned his head slowly. The effort was monumental.
The three thugs stood at the alley's entrance, shadows wrapping around them.
"Maybe he had one of those fancy looking phones," one said, licking his lips.
"Let's check his pockets for real this time."
They started moving toward him again, steps slow and sure.
Predators circling a wounded animal.
He had nothing.
No strength.
No escape.
No chance.
Just as the last flicker of hope guttered out, the voice in his head returned no longer a boot-up sequence.
But a command.
A purpose.
A single, clear, undeniable directive that resonated through every fiber of his being.
[DIRECTIVE: SURVIVE]
He was a science nerd, not a street fighter.
He was meat.
The leader loomed over him, his face a mask of cruel satisfaction.
He raised a heavy, steel-toed boot, aiming directly for Miles's head.
This was it. The final, crushing punctuation mark on a short, unremarkable life.
[THREAT DETECTED: IMMINENT CRANIAL TRAUMA]
The digital voice inside his head was unnervingly calm.
[PROBABILITY OF LETHALITY: 99.7%]
Thanks for the specific odds, Miles thought bitterly. Really puts a guy at ease.
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: EVADE]
[EXECUTING: ECHO STEP LVL 1]