Adrian Chen stared at his reflection in the FBI building's bathroom mirror, running a hand through his deliberately tousled hair. At twenty-five, he'd been blessed—or cursed, depending on the assignment—with a face that could easily pass for a teenager's. Today, that genetic lottery was about to pay off.
"You sure about this, Chen?" Agent Rodriguez leaned against the doorframe, holding a manila folder thick with fabricated documents. "High school's no joke. These kids will eat you alive if they smell fake."
Adrian straightened his shoulders, adopting the slightly slouched posture he'd been practicing. "I've gone undercover in drug rings and organized crime families. I think I can handle calculus and cafeteria food."
"Famous last words." Rodriguez tossed him the folder. "Adrian Matthews, eighteen years old, transferred from Portland due to family relocation. Your 'parents' travel for work, hence the independent living situation. Grades are decent but not outstanding—we don't need you standing out as a genius."
Adrian flipped through the carefully constructed identity. Birth certificate, school records, even a fake social media presence dating back months. The FBI's background team was thorough. "And the target?"
"Drug ring operating out of the school. We're talking serious stuff—not just weed. Opioids, cocaine, designer drugs. Someone's using the school as a distribution hub. Your job is to identify the dealers and suppliers, gather evidence."
"Any suspects?"
"Could be students, could be staff with access. Maybe both. We've had three overdoses in the past month—all traced back to drugs that came through Riverside High. The DEA wants this shut down fast."
Adrian nodded, sliding the documents into his backpack—a deliberately worn JanSport he'd bought at a thrift store. Everything about Adrian Matthews needed to scream 'authentic teenager,' down to the scuffed sneakers and slightly too-long jeans.
"Transportation?"
"Used Honda Civic parked outside. Registration matches your new identity. You start Monday."
Monday. Three days to mentally prepare for high school round two. Adrian had barely survived it the first time.
"One more thing," Rodriguez said, his expression serious. "This stays compartmentalized. Trust no one inside that school. Teachers, administrators, students—anyone could be involved. You're Adrian Matthews until this case closes."
Adrian shouldered his backpack, the weight of fake textbooks and real surveillance equipment settling familiarly across his shoulders. "Got it. How hard can it be?"
---
The answer, Adrian discovered Monday morning, was very hard.
Riverside High School looked like every high school in every movie—sprawling brick building, crowded hallways lined with lockers, the distinct smell of industrial cleaning supplies and teenage anxiety. Adrian had arrived early, hoping to get his bearings before the halls filled with actual students.
"You must be Adrian Matthews."
Adrian turned to find a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a clipboard approaching. Her badge read 'Mrs. Patterson, Guidance Counselor.'
"Yes ma'am." Adrian kept his voice carefully modulated—not too deep, not too eager.
"Welcome to Riverside! I know transfers can be challenging, especially senior year. Let's get you oriented." She handed him a class schedule. "Your first period is Advanced Calculus with Mr. Morrison. Room 204, second floor."
Adrian glanced at the schedule. Mathematics filled most of his day—apparently Adrian Matthews was supposed to be decent at numbers. At least that part wouldn't require much acting.
"Mr. Morrison is one of our best teachers," Mrs. Patterson continued as they walked. "Strict but fair. He's helped dozens of students get into excellent colleges."
Something in her tone made Adrian's investigative instincts prickle, though not for the reason she'd expect. He was looking for signs of drug activity, not academic achievement.
The hallways began filling with students as the first bell rang. Adrian let himself be swept along in the current of backpacks and chatter, observing everything. Who seemed too wired? Who looked like they were coming down from something? Who was making quick exchanges by lockers? In his experience, drug operations always left traces.
Room 204 was halfway down the second-floor hallway. Adrian paused outside, taking a steadying breath. Once he walked through that door, he was no longer FBI Agent Adrian Chen. He was eighteen-year-old Adrian Matthews, transfer student, just trying to fit in.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The classroom was neat, organized, with mathematical equations covering the whiteboard and college pennants lining the walls. About twenty students were already seated, chatting quietly as they waited for class to begin.
"You must be our transfer student."
Adrian looked up at the voice and felt the world tilt slightly off its axis.
The man standing behind the teacher's desk was tall, lean, with dark hair and serious brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a simple button-down shirt and slacks, professional but not stuffy. There was something familiar about the set of his shoulders, the way he held his head...
"Adrian Matthews?" the teacher prompted, and Adrian realized he'd been staring.
"Yes sir. Sorry, I'm—yes, that's me."
"Blake Morrison. Welcome to Advanced Calculus." The teacher's voice was calm, controlled, with just a hint of warmth. "Take any open seat. We're reviewing limits today—I assume you've covered the basics?"
Adrian nodded, moving toward an empty desk in the middle of the room. As he sat down, he caught another glimpse of Mr. Morrison's profile and felt that strange sense of familiarity again.
Where had he seen this man before?