The cold resolve I felt walking away from Northwood High didn't fade. If winning was about using the tools you had, then fine—I only had one tool left worth anything. My brain. Marcus Sterling's brain, trapped in Elias Finch's wreck of a life.
When I finally dumped Eli's backpack onto his dusty bedroom floor, it looked like a time capsule of failure. Crumpled worksheets, old receipts, greasy fast-food wrappers, and one AP Bio textbook that looked like it hadn't been cracked open since the day it was bought. I flipped through it anyway, and the concepts came rushing back. I could almost hear Mrs. Albright's clipped voice, see that strange smile of hers that was both icy and warm at the same time. She used to call me her "guarantee of success."
I didn't need Eli's sloppy notes or half-baked assignments. What I needed was to remind the world that this kid wasn't a total zero. Or maybe, more honestly, that Marcus Sterling's mind hadn't disappeared with the rest of him.
The next morning, I walked into AP History—the class Eli had been bombing. Mr. Harrison, who had spent three years staring at Marcus Sterling's brilliance like it was some natural phenomenon, barely even glanced at me as I slouched into Eli's usual back-row spot.
Bad move on his part.
That day was the big unit quiz. Normally half the class went down in flames. The night before, I didn't just skim the chapter like I used to—I devoured it. Every page. Built my own map of the information in my head, just like I used to.
When Harrison handed out the test, I swear you could hear the collective groan ripple through the room. Eli Finch was the guy who turned in blank sheets or doodled garbage in the margins. Not today. I picked up the pencil, and for thirty straight minutes, I wasn't Eli. I wasn't greasy hair or a sagging body or a reputation for failure. I was Marcus Sterling again. The machine.
By the time I finished, I'd written a sharp, airtight essay with three examples, most of them hadn't even read about. Thirty minutes in and I was done. I dropped the paper off at the desk and walked out without a word, ignoring the side-eyes from kids who couldn't believe "Finch" had actually filled in answers.
Two days later, Harrison called my name after class. My stomach dropped. Great. He thought I'd cheated. Maybe copied off someone. Eli Finch getting a good grade was more suspicious than a UFO landing on the football field.
But when I walked up, Harrison didn't look angry. He looked… confused. Tired, but also sharp, for once. He stared at the test in his hand, then stared at me like he was actually seeing me.
On the top of the page: 98%. Written in big, bold red.
"Eli," he said slowly, "this… this is incredible. The depth of your analysis on the Treaty of Westphalia—it's the best I've seen this year. Did you get a tutor or something?"
I forced my voice to sound small, almost apologetic. "No, sir. I just… started studying."
He shook his head like he couldn't process it. "Well. Keep it up. This is a complete turnaround. Do this again, and we can start talking about salvaging your GPA."
That was the seed.
Next week, I aced the Physics midterm with a perfect 100%. Confused everyone. The dumb kid suddenly pulling miracles out of nowhere.
And then, in the hall, Sarah—a girl who had never wasted a single word on Eli Finch—actually stopped me.
"Hey, Eli, what'd you get on the Physics test?"
I didn't even dress it up. "Hundred."
Her jaw literally dropped. "What? Can I see your notes?"
Notes. They wanted my notes. Me.
The attention wasn't the kind I used to get—the stares at my clothes, the easy laughs when I spoke. No, this was different. But it was still a kind of power. And I'd take it. After the school, i decided to go again to that clumsy yet my only hope "Shop"
That night, I was back in the greasy inferno of Wok Stop. Henderson barking, Kevin throwing looks like he owned the place.
"Finch! You missed a spot!" Henderson snapped, pointing at a stain so small it was practically invisible. "Did your brain go on vacation?"
The old me—the Marcus me—wanted to cut him in half with some smart remark. But winners adapt. And losers? They just complain.
"Sorry, sir," I muttered, wiping it down until it gleamed.
I worked the whole shift like that—silent, efficient, focused. Didn't joke, didn't push back. I wasn't there to impress them. I was there to stack cash. Every dollar went into a stash. Every crumpled five-dollar bill was fuel for independence from the Finch family's dead weight.
When I dragged myself home close to midnight, Eli's mom was at the kitchen table surrounded by bills.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
"Bus was slow," I answered, pouring water into a glass.
This time, she actually looked at me. Her eyes narrowed. "You've been… different. Trash was out on time this morning. Shirt looks folded. And you're not mouthing off."
My pulse skipped. She was noticing. The discipline was showing.
"I'm just trying, Mom," I said, adding a slump to my shoulders, trying to slip back into Eli's role. "Don't want to get fired. Bus runs too early if I skip the trash."
She grunted, already retreating back into the bills. "Good. Keep it up. We need that money."
And that was that. First family check passed.
I collapsed into Eli's scratchy bed, the smell of fryer oil stuck in my clothes. My body was wrecked, my head buzzing from the double-life gymnastics. The 98% felt hollow against the weight of the Wok Stop, the humiliation, the erased locker.
Sleep hit me hard.
And then came the fracture.
Not a dream. Not really. Just blackness cracking open. A deep vibration like a bell tolling from somewhere far below. The sound sank into my bones, pressed against my lungs, like I was drowning but awake.
Then came the voice. Not Eli's thin whine. Not Marcus's commanding tone either. A voice that was vast, feminine, and terrifyingly clear. It didn't speak to me—it spoke into me.
"The Gold must be stripped for the Steel to be forged."
The pressure built, crushing, alive.
And then the final words, ringing through every nerve:
"You are the chosen one. Rise, and reclaim your fate."