The world returned with a groan.
Miles's cheek was stuck to the smooth surface of his physics textbook.
He had blacked out at his desk, with a single lamp casting a small, lonely circle of light in the dark apartment.
For a moment, there was nothing but a dull, sleepy confusion.
Then the pain came rushing back, like a huge wave of agony the Bio-Stasis system had only held back for a short while.
His ribs screamed with every shift of his weight.
He hissed through his teeth, slowly peeling his face off the page.
The digital voice in his head, ever the helpful companion, chose that moment to make its report.
[ANALYSIS: BIO-STASIS PROTOCOL EXPIRED.]
[HOST'S PHYSICAL INTEGRITY AT 37%.]
[IMPROPER SPLINT DETECTED ON LEFT FOREARM. PROBABILITY OF BONE HEALING INCORRECTLY: 72%.]
"Oh, shut up," Miles rasped to the empty room.
He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure.
The system wasn't done.
[RECOMMENDATION: INITIATE DAILY PHYSICAL CONDITIONING REGIMEN.]
[SUSTAINED COMBAT READINESS REQUIRES A SUPERIOR PHYSICAL VESSEL.]
[FAILURE TO IMPROVE HOST BODY WILL RESULT IN INCREASED RISK OF SYSTEM OVERLOAD AND CATASTROPHIC FAILURE DURING FUTURE ENGAGEMENTS.]
Miles stared at the wall, his mind a mix of pain and bleak humor.
"Right," he muttered. "Future engagements."
Like the one scheduled in his own brain titled 'Eliminate the Serpent's Head.'
He was a high school student, not a secret agent.
Yesterday, his biggest worry was whether he'd finished his calculus homework.
Now, he had a "system" that sounded suspiciously like a sociopathic personal trainer, nagging him about his fitness levels.
He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest, and limped into the small living area.
He grabbed his laptop from the coffee table, a cheap, second-hand machine that was almost as battered as he was.
He sat down, hissing as his ribs protested, and opened a search engine.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What do you even search for?
He typed: Echo Protocol.
The results were a useless jumble of corporate jargon for communication strategies and sound engineering software.
Nothing about soul shards or secret projects.
He tried a new search: Dr. Alaric Vane, Dr. Mira Vane, scientists.
He found their obituaries.
Tragic lab explosion.
Gifted researchers lost too soon.
A footnote in the annals of corporate R&D.
There was no mention of Cross Corp, no hint of murder, and certainly no reference to a project named Revenant.
They had been erased, their true work buried under a mountain of lies.
He slammed the laptop shut.
He was completely alone with this.
No instruction manual. No tech support. Just a ghost in his head and a mission he never asked for.
The system's recommendation echoed in his mind.
Initiate daily physical conditioning.
It was the only lead he had. The only thing he could do.
Getting stronger was the only path forward.
He glanced at the clock.
If he left now, he could run to school instead of taking the bus.
It was a stupid idea.
He was injured. He was exhausted.
But it was a start.
He pulled on a fresh hoodie, carefully easing the sleeve over his splinted arm, and headed out the door.
The morning air was cool and sharp, completely opposite to the burning pain inside his body.
He started a slow, painful jog.
The first few blocks were hell. Every footfall sent a jolt of pain through his ribs.
But then, something shifted.
The system seemed to kick in, not with a voice, but with a subtle re-calibration of his own body.
His breathing evened out.
His stride grew longer, more efficient.
The pain didn't vanish, but it was background noise now, not the main event.
He was running faster.
Faster than he ever had in his life.
The world seemed to blur slightly at the edges as he moved, a newfound sense of speed and clarity washing over him.
He felt a strange, exhilarating power humming through his veins.
Then, it happened.
[WARNING: COMPATIBLE ENERGY SIGNATURE DETECTED.]
[PROXIMITY: 30 METERS. VECTOR: ROADSIDE, AHEAD.]
Miles slowed his pace, his head snapping up.
He saw a man standing by a bus stop, talking on his phone.
He looked perfectly normal. A guy in a business suit waiting for his morning commute.
But Miles could feel it.
Or rather, the system could.
It was like a low hum in the air, a specific frequency that only he could hear. A strange pull, like two magnets being drawn together.
Another system user.
Right here. Out in the open.
Miles's heart hammered against his ribs.
He wasn't ready.
He couldn't risk the exposure. He couldn't engage with another person who had abilities like his.
He immediately veered off his path, crossing the street and ducking down a side alley, his jog turning into a dead sprint.
Anonymity was safety.
He put as much distance between himself and the man as possible, the strange hum fading as he ran.
He finally arrived at Northwood High, panting, his body screaming, but also buzzing with a strange new energy.
He was also starving.
Not just hungry. It was a deep, primal craving for fuel.
He walked into the school café, a noisy, crowded place that he usually avoided.
The smell of greasy bacon and coffee hit him, and his stomach roared.
He got in line, his eyes scanning the menu.
[ANALYSIS: HOST REQUIRES 3,500 CALORIES TO COMPENSATE FOR SYSTEM EXPENDITURE AND ACCELERATED HEALING.]
[RECOMMENDATION: ACQUIRE FIVE BREAKFAST SANDWICHES, THREE CARTONS OF MILK, AND TWO APPLES.]
Miles stared at the chirpy cashier.
"Uh," he began, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes on him. "Can I get… five of the sausage and egg sandwiches?"
The cashier, a teenage girl with bright pink hair, stopped chewing her gum.
"Five?" she asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. "For you?"
"And three milks," Miles added, his face flushing. "And two apples."
She just stared at him, then shrugged. "Okay, dude. Whatever."
He paid for the mountain of food, feeling like a complete idiot, and found a secluded table in the corner. He ate like a starving wolf, barely tasting any of it.
It was during this profoundly awkward breakfast that he first saw her.
Or, more accurately, she saw him.
Her name was Clara.
She was new, a transfer student who had arrived last week.
She was also, according to the school's academic leaderboard that Miles had checked obsessively, the only person with a GPA that came close to his own.
She sat a few tables away, not staring, but observing.
Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and perceptive.
She wasn't looking at him like he was a freak for ordering enough food to feed a small family.
She was looking at him like he was a puzzle.
An anomaly.
She saw the clumsy splint on his arm, the faint bruises on his face, the way he held himself with a new, coiled tension. This wasn't the invisible, unremarkable ghost from the academic rankings. This was something else.
Miles felt her gaze and immediately looked down at his textbook, hiding behind his shield of anonymity.
Later that day, the universe decided he hadn't suffered enough humiliation.
He was standing in front of a vending machine, trying to get a bag of chips.
He put his money in, pressed B7, and watched as the little metal coil turned… and stopped.
The bag of chips hung there, trapped, taunting him from behind the glass.
He pressed the coin return. Nothing.
He let out a low growl of frustration.
[OBSTACLE DETECTED,] the system noted calmly. [RECOMMENDED ACTION: APPLY TARGETED KINETIC FORCE TO THE STRUCTURAL WEAK POINT OF THE DISPENSING MECHANISM.]
"I'm not going to punch the vending machine," Miles whispered under his breath.
He decided to give it a little nudge. Just a little one. To dislodge the bag.
He placed his hand on the side of the machine and pushed.
He had forgotten about the new, humming strength in his body.
He had forgotten about the rage simmering just beneath his skin.
The vending machine, a solid four-hundred-pound metal box, didn't just nudge.
It tipped.
With a horrifying, groaning screech of metal, it tilted past its balancing point and crashed to the floor with a deafening, echoing BOOM.
The entire hallway went silent.
Every single student turned to stare at him.
Miles froze, his hand still outstretched, his face a mask of pure horror.
The bag of chips, finally freed, lay innocently on top of the fallen machine.
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
It was in that moment of supreme, soul-crushing embarrassment that a voice cut through the silence.
It was the principal, speaking over the school's intercom system.
"Attention, students. A reminder that sign-ups for the annual Northwood Athletic Decathlon are now open."
"The competition will feature ten events testing speed, strength, and endurance."
"And this year, thanks to a generous donation from Cross Corp, the grand prize for the winner is one thousand dollars."
Miles's head snapped up.
The laughter and whispers around him faded away.
The humiliation of the vending machine vanished.
All he heard were two things.
A way to get stronger.
And money.
Money to buy better gear. Money to fund his mission.
The system in his head confirmed his thoughts, its voice cold and logical.
[ANALYSIS: ATHLETIC DECATHLON REPRESENTS AN OPTIMAL OPPORTUNITY FOR PHYSICAL GROWTH AND ASSET ACQUISITION.]
[PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS WITH DEDICATED TRAINING: 87.4%.]
[OBJECTIVE: WIN THE DECATHLON.]
Miles looked from the fallen vending machine to the sign-up sheet posted on the bulletin board down the hall.
A slow, determined fire began to burn away his fear.
He was done being a victim.
He was done being invisible.
He took a deep breath, ignored the stares, and began walking toward the board, a new, dangerous purpose in his step.