The bet was made.
A thousand dollars.
It was an absurd amount of money to bet on a high school competition.
To Julian, it was a toy, a tool for a public spectacle of humiliation.
To Miles, it was an asset.
It was the seed money for his war.
He already had a small bit of capital to his name, a few hundred dollars left over from a city-wide academic scholarship he'd won the previous year.
He had been saving it for a rainy day.
Well, it was pouring.
That evening, he didn't rest.
He didn't celebrate his small victory over Julian's ego.
He sat by the light of his cheap laptop, which cast long shadows in his empty apartment.
He wasn't researching the decathlon's historical records or famous athletes.
He was shopping.
He purchased three of the cheapest,least known fitness trackers he could find on an online marketplace.
They were plastic things from brands no one had ever heard of.
When the trackers arrived two days later, he strapped one to his wrist, one to his ankle, and tucked the third into his pocket.
He powered them on.
Right away, the voice in his head spoke, sounding cold and like it came from a lab.
[NEW BIOMETRIC DATA SOURCES DETECTED.]
[CONNECTING TO EXTERNAL SENSORS… CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.]
[ABSORBING REAL-TIME DATA: HEART RATE, OXYGEN SATURATION, STRIDE LENGTH, CALORIC BURN…]
A flood of information poured into his mind, not as thoughts, but as pure data.
[CROSS-REFERENCING HOST BIOMETRICS WITH PUBLICLY AVAILABLE ATHLETIC PERFORMANCE RECORDS.]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE.]
[GENERATING OPTIMIZED TRAINING REGIMEN FOR DECATHLON VICTORY.]
A list appeared in his mind's eye, a schedule so demanding and specific it was laughable.
It detailed everything.
Wake up at 4:45 AM for anaerobic threshold training.
Consume precisely 850 calories within thirty minutes of workout completion, with a 40/30/30 carb, protein, fat ratio.
Practice sprint starts for exactly 47 minutes, focusing on a 1.2-degree forward lean.
It went on and on, a blueprint for turning a human into a machine.
"You're a real bundle of fun, you know that?" Miles muttered to the empty room.
The system did not reply.
It simply added another line to his mental display.
[SUSTAINED EXTREME PHYSICAL EXERTION HAS UNLOCKED A SUPPORT SUB-SKILL.]
[SUB-SKILL ACQUIRED: MUSCLE MEMORY OPTIMIZATION LVL 1.]
[DESCRIPTION: ACCELERATES THE NEURAL PATHWAYS BETWEEN INTENT AND PHYSICAL EXECUTION. THE BODY LEARNS AND ADAPTS AT TEN TIMES THE NORMAL HUMAN RATE.]
The next morning, his training began.
It was brutal.
He ran until his lungs felt like they were full of acid.
He did push-ups until his good arm trembled uncontrollably.
He followed the system's bizarrely precise instructions, feeling less like an athlete and more like a lab rat.
But as the days passed, something began to change.
Thanks to the new sub-skill, every movement he practiced, every stride he took, was instantly perfected and stored.
He wasn't just getting stronger.
He was becoming efficient.
He started training at night, using the school's empty track field under the dim orange glow of the security lights.
It was quieter there.
Safer.
He thought he was alone.
One evening, after finishing a series of exhausting wind sprints, he was lying on the cool grass, gasping for air, his body slick with sweat.
"You're going to make yourself sick, you know."
The voice was calm, clear, and familiar.
Miles shot up, his body instantly tensing.
Clara stood just at the edge of the track, a small bag slung over her shoulder.
She wasn't looking at him with pity, but with that same analytical curiosity he'd seen in the hallway.
"What are you doing here?" Miles asked, his voice coming out harsher than he intended.
His defenses went up automatically.
She was a variable he couldn't account for.
"My study group ran late," she said, unfazed by his tone. "I saw the lights on at the track and got curious."
She took a few steps closer.
"I didn't realize the library ghost was also a vampire."
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
Miles felt an internal warning from the system.
[ANALYSIS: SUBJECT 'CLARA' PRESENTS NO IMMEDIATE PHYSICAL THREAT.]
[HER PRESENCE, HOWEVER, INCREASES THE PROBABILITY OF EXPOSURE BY 14%.]
[RECOMMENDATION: MINIMIZE INTERACTION. WITHDRAW.]
"I have to go," Miles said, getting to his feet and grabbing his worn sweatshirt.
He started to walk away.
"Why are you doing this?" Clara called out behind him.
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"Doing what?"
"This," she said, her voice softer now. "The decathlon. Training like your life depends on it. Pushing a thousand-dollar bet against Julian Cross."
She paused.
"It doesn't fit the profile of the quiet, brilliant guy who hides in the back of every class."
Miles stayed silent, his back to her.
"It's like you're two different people," she continued, her voice filled with genuine wonder. "And I can't figure out which one is the real you."
He finally turned to face her.
In the dim light, he could see the earnest curiosity in her eyes.
She wasn't mocking him.
She was trying to understand him.
He didn't know how to respond.
So, he just walked with her, away from the track and toward the main street.
They didn't talk much at first.
It was an awkward, shy silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It felt… stable.
Like her presence was an anchor in the chaotic storm of his new life.
He felt the strange pull of a normal life, a life he thought was forever out of his reach.
"Julian's an idiot," Clara said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Miles glanced at her, surprised.
"His entire personality is built on a foundation of his father's money," she explained, as if stating a simple fact. "Take that away, and there's nothing left but insecure noise. That bet wasn't about you. It was about him needing to feel powerful after I bruised his ego in the debate."
Miles found himself letting out a small, dry chuckle. "Bruised is one word for it."
"I'm just good at identifying flawed arguments," she said with a shrug.
They reached the edge of the school grounds, the streetlights of the city ahead of them.
It was time to part ways.
But their path was suddenly blocked.
Two figures stepped out from the shadow of the school's entrance gate.
One was Austin Ward, a broad-shouldered jock who was rarely seen without Julian Cross somewhere nearby.
The other was another of Julian's lackeys.
"Well, look what we have here," Austin said with a sneer, his eyes moving from Miles to Clara.
He looked Clara up and down with a leering grin.
"Clara, I'm surprised. I thought you had better taste."
Clara's expression went cold. "My taste is my business, Austin. I suggest you find some of your own."
Austin's grin faltered.
He turned his attention to Miles, puffing out his chest.
"Julian was looking for you, Vane," he said, his voice low and menacing. "He's not happy. He says you're going to pay for embarrassing him."
Miles's system immediately chimed in.
[THREAT ANALYSIS: SUBJECT 'AUSTIN WARD'. PHYSICAL CONDITION: SUPERIOR TO AVERAGE. FIGHTING STYLE: UNREFINED BRAWLING, HEAVY RELIANCE ON RIGHT-HANDED PUNCHES. PROBABILITY OF VICTORY IN PHYSICAL CONFRONTATION: 99.8%.]
[ANALYSIS: SUBJECT'S FIGHTING POSTURE IS A 78% PARTIAL MATCH TO 'JULIAN CROSS'.]
[CONCLUSION: SUBJECTS SHARE THE SAME MEDIOCRE BOXING COACH.]
Miles almost smirked at the system's was reading his stats.
"I'm not interested in trouble," Miles said, his voice flat.
He tried to step around them, gently guiding Clara with him.
Austin moved to block him again, shoving a hand into Miles's chest.
"I don't think so," he snarled. "I think you need to learn a little respect."
The shove was meant to send Miles stumbling backward, to make him look weak.
But Miles didn't move.
The system had already calculated the trajectory and force of the push.
Without even thinking about it, Miles shifted his weight by a single inch.
It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
Austin's hand, expecting resistance that wasn't there, slid right off Miles's chest.
The momentum of his own shove sent him stumbling forward.
He tripped over his own feet with a loud, clumsy grunt.
He flailed his arms wildly for a moment before crashing face-first into a large, decorative bush next to the gate.
His friend just stared, his mouth wide open.
Clara's eyes went wide, and she quickly covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Miles didn't even look back.
He gently took Clara's arm and walked past the guy who was shocked.
He had neutralized the threat without throwing a single punch.
Word of the incident traveled fast.
The next day at school, the story had already become a small legend.
Julian Cross heard it from a half-dozen of his friends.
He sat in the middle of the cafeteria with his usual group of followers, his face getting more serious each time he told the story.
Austin, his supposed enforcer, had been publicly humiliated.
Vane, the pathetic little ghost, had done it without even trying.
And Clara had laughed.
Julian slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump.
His water bottle tipped over, spilling across his tray.
"That freak," Julian hissed, his voice tight with rage.
"He thinks he's so clever."
He looked around at his friends, his eyes wild and furious.
"This ends at the decathlon."
He pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the gym.
"The first event is the 100-meter dash. I'm not just going to beat him."
A cruel, vicious smile spread across his face.
"I am going to personally crush him in front of the entire school."