The day of the decathlon came with a sky the color of faded blue jeans.
Nervous energy filled the halls of Northwood High.
It wasn't just a school event anymore.
The bet between Julian Cross and the ghost, Miles Vane, had elevated it into something more.
It was theater.
Julian, for his part, was soaking in the attention.
He swaggered through the school, a proud smile plastered on his face, accepting well-wishes from his followers like a king receiving tribute.
But under his proud attitude, he was quietly making a plan.
He cornered two of his most loyal, and least intelligent, friends near the locker rooms.
"Okay, listen up," Julian whispered, his eyes darting around nervously.
"Vane is faster than we thought. That little trick he pulled on Austin proves he's not just a bookworm."
"So, what's the plan, J?" one of them asked, cracking his knuckles.
"We can't risk him getting lucky in the race," Julian said. "We need to make sure he's not running at his best. An ounce of prevention, you know?"
He gave them a meaningful look.
"I want you to take care of him before the race. Nothing that leaves a permanent mark. Just… slow him down. A sprained ankle. Some bruised ribs. Got it?"
The two boys grinned stupidly. "We got it, Julian. He won't know what hit him."
"Good," Julian said, clapping them on the shoulders. "Don't fail me."
Miles felt the usual nervousness before the competition, but it was quiet compared to the sharp focus of his system.
He needed to use the restroom before the first event was called.
He stepped into the quiet, tiled men's bathroom near the gym.
He was splashing cold water on his face when he heard the door click shut behind him.
He looked up at the mirror.
Two of Julian's friends were standing there, blocking the exit.
They were trying to look casual, but their posture was tense, their smiles predatory.
"Hey, Vane," one of them said. "Getting ready for the big race?"
Miles turned around slowly, his mind instantly on high alert.
[WARNING: HOSTILE INTENT DETECTED.]
[TWO HOSTILES, VECTORS FLANKING. PROBABILITY OF IMMINENT ATTACK: 98.9%.]
[ACTIVATING COMBAT SUB-MODE.]
The world shifted.
The outlines of the two boys glowed faintly in his vision.
Red lines appeared, mapping their potential attack patterns.
"I don't want any trouble," Miles said, his voice low and steady.
"That's too bad," the other one sneered, pulling a small, black object from his pocket.
It was a compact taser.
"Because trouble wants you."
They attacked him at the same time.
It was a classic double attack, meant to overpower him.
One went low, aiming for his legs.
The other went high, jabbing the taser toward his chest.
But to Miles, their movements were happening in slow motion.
He saw the taser coming.
He saw the leg sweep.
He reacted.
He sidestepped the boy with the taser, letting the attacker's own momentum carry him forward.
As the boy stumbled past, Miles jabbed two fingers into the pressure point behind his ear.
The boy's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the tile floor with a soft thud, unconscious.
The second attacker, seeing his friend go down, hesitated for a split second.
It was all the time Miles needed.
He pivoted, but not quite fast enough.
The thug managed to land a clumsy, powerful kick to his side.
A sharp, explosive pain shot through his ribs.
He heard a faint crack.
[WARNING: HAIRLINE FRACTURE DETECTED IN THE 9TH RIB, LEFT SIDE.]
Miles grunted in pain, but his focus didn't waver.
He fought through the pain, grabbing the boy's extended leg and twisting.
The boy yelled in surprise as his balance was destroyed.
Miles shoved him backward, sending him crashing into the row of sinks.
The porcelain cracked under the impact.
The boy slid to the floor, dazed and groaning.
The entire fight had lasted less than five seconds.
Miles stood in the center of the bathroom, breathing heavily.
The fresh, sharp pain in his side was a serious problem.
The system confirmed it.
[PHYSICAL INTEGRITY DECREASED BY 4%. RUNNING EFFICIENCY WILL BE COMPROMISED.]
He didn't have time to recover.
The first call for the hundred meter dash echoed from the hallway.
He straightened his shirt, ignored the fire in his ribs, and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the two thugs in a heap on the floor.
He made it to the starting line just as the announcer was calling the names for the first heat.
"In lane four, Julian Cross!"
The crowd cheered loudly.
"And in lane five, Miles Vane!"
A confused, scattered applause rippled through the stands.
Miles ignored it.
He took his position at the starting block, his eyes fixed on the track ahead.
Julian was in the lane next to him, a look of pure shock on his face.
He had expected Miles to limp onto the field, if he showed up at all.
But here he was, looking focused. Unharmed.
"How…?" Julian whispered, his smug confidence evaporating.
Miles didn't answer.
He was focused on the pain in his side and a new, blinking warning in his vision.
[HAZARD DETECTED: LOW-FRICTION ZONE IDENTIFIED IN LANE 5.]
[COORDINATES: 28 METERS FROM STARTING LINE. PROBABILITY OF SLIP AND FALL: 87%.]
His eyes scanned the track ahead.
He saw it.
A faint, almost invisible shine on the artificial surface of his lane.
A thin sheen of clear oil mixed with water.
A second trap.
They were really trying to make sure he lost.
Rage, cold and pure, mixed with the pain in his ribs.
"Runners, take your marks."
Miles settled into the blocks.
"Set."
The silence of the stadium was absolute.
BANG!
The starting pistol fired.
Miles exploded from the blocks.
His form was perfect, a symphony of optimized muscle memory.
For the first twenty meters, he and Julian were neck and neck.
The crowd was on its feet, roaring.
Julian was running with everything he had, his face a mask of strained effort.
He glanced over, a triumphant smirk forming as he saw they were even.
He knew about the oil slick. He was just waiting for Miles to hit it.
Miles felt the system screaming warnings in his head.
The strain on his body was immense.
Every step felt like a hot knife cutting into his broken rib.
He was pushing himself to the absolute limit.
And then, the system itself began to change.
[PHYSICAL STRESS EXCEEDING OPERATIONAL THRESHOLDS.]
[ECHO STEP LVL 4 IS REACHING OVERLOAD STATE.]
[EVOLUTIONARY MUTATION TRIGGERED.]
The world around him seemed to stutter.
[SKILL MUTATION COMPLETE. NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: PHANTOM DRIFT LVL 1.]
[DESCRIPTION: A MOMENTARY, HIGH-SPEED BURST THAT PUSHES THE HOST'S PHYSICAL FORM PARTIALLY OUT OF PHASE WITH NORMAL REALITY, LEAVING A TEMPORAL AFTERIMAGE.]
He was five feet from the oil slick.
He didn't have time to dodge.
He didn't have time to slow down.
So he just… ran through it.
He activated the new skill.
For one quick, amazing moment, Miles's body turned into a flash of shining blue light.
He didn't slip.
He didn't falter.
He took a single, impossible step, his foot passing through the oil as if it wasn't there.
A faint, ghost like image of him appeared briefly on the slippery spot before disappearing.
To the crowd, it seemed like he had jumped across the track, a weird sparkle playing tricks with their eyes.
But Julian, running right beside him, saw it clearly.
His eyes grew wide with pure, overwhelming fear.
That one step, that one impossible burst of speed, had launched Miles forward.
He wasn't just running anymore.
He was rocketing.
He became a blur, pulling away from Julian as if he were standing still.
He crossed the finish line a full second ahead of everyone else.
The stadium fell into a dead, shocked silence.
No one knew how to react to what they had just seen.
Miles slowed to a stop, his chest heaving, the pain in his ribs a raging inferno.
He turned around slowly.
He ignored the stunned faces in the crowd.
He didn't pay attention to Clara, who was watching from the stands with a look of surprise and growing doubt.
His eyes found only one person.
A disbelieving, humiliated, and utterly terrified Julian Cross, who had just stumbled across the finish line in second place.
Miles stood there, panting, in the middle of the silent stadium.
Then, he raised his hand.
He held it out, palm up, in a simple, undeniable gesture.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't have to.
The message was clear.
Pay me.