The day of the Sports Festival came, bright and stupidly sunny—like the universe had decided perfect lighting was necessary for either public humiliation or glory. I was up at six, restless in a way that wasn't Kaelen Vance's usual late-night hangover fatigue but Marcus Sterling's need to keep things under control. This wasn't just a race. It was PR. A performance. Proof to everyone—including Kaelen's broken mother—that he could be someone worth cheering for.
We left at seven, a full hour early. My mom was driving, dressed in some designer athleisure that probably cost more than most people's rent. She looked stiff but proud, which was unsettling in its own way. Her actually chaperoning me felt like some kind of corporate approval—like the CEO had personally signed off on the project.
The school grounds were already buzzing when we got there. Parents overcheering, athletes stretching nervously, students pretending they didn't care while low-key checking out the competition. Exactly the kind of crowded stage Marcus Sterling thrived on.
The festival was split into three events:
First up, Tug-of-War. Chaotic, all-team effort, and something Kaelen would usually fake an injury to get out of.
Then, the Long Jump. Pure mechanics and technique. With Kaelen's height and legs, I could probably scrape something decent.
And finally, the 200m Sprint—the real spotlight. Speed, visibility, reputation, all in one. If I won, it would rewrite Kaelen's name instantly.
My mom drifted off toward a group of equally polished-looking moms, already swapping business cards and gossip. I used the chance to slip away toward the far corner of the track to stretch.
Kaelen's body was strong, but it still felt like revving up an old muscle car. The horsepower was there—you just had to coax it to life. I was deep in a hamstring stretch, trying to get into a rhythm of calm breathing, when I heard her voice.
"How are we doing, Marcus? Ready for today?"
I straightened immediately. Yui was there, leaning against the fence, looking like the school gym uniform had been custom-made for her. She was too calm, too perfectly put together, like always.
"I'm ready," I told her, tightening Kaelen's laces. "I've been training this body nonstop for a week. It's fast. And I know what I'm doing—I've been through more of these events than I can count. I know how to win."
She tilted her head, sunlight sliding over her hair. "Don't get overconfident. You've already learned what happens when you are. The arena adapts."
"It's not overconfidence," I shot back, keeping my gaze steady. "It's belief. My mother is here, and I don't get another shot. This has to be a win."
Her eyes flickered with something sharp—interest, maybe. "That's new. Just don't forget, the trial adapts to your strategy."
Then she walked off, waving like this was all just casual. I hated how much space she managed to take up in my head. I shook it off, focused on the track, and started warming up with a light jog.
Kaelen's strides were long, powerful. The body was stronger than it had been just a week ago. I was finding a rhythm, letting the sun and the sound of my feet on the dirt settle me—until I rounded the far bend and saw them.
Tank and his two sidekicks. The same idiots from yesterday's hallway mess. They were leaning against the fence, right at the 100-meter mark, watching like they owned the track.
I thought about cutting across, but that would just scream weakness. So I kept pace and aimed straight down the line.
That's when Tank moved. Quick, calculated, not even pretending it was accidental. He shot his leg out just as I passed.
My foot clipped his heel, and everything exploded into chaos. Dirt, limbs, momentum gone. I slammed forward, hands scraping against the ground, the jolt screaming up into my thigh. It wasn't just pain—it was the wrong kind of pain. A deep, sick pull.
I rolled over, spitting grit out of my mouth. My right leg throbbed with a hot, sharp ache. I knew the difference. Fatigue was manageable. This was a sprain. Maybe fine for walking, but for sprinting? Basically a death sentence.
"You bastard!" I yelled, shoving myself up on my elbows. "You did that on purpose."
Tank didn't even bother to fake innocence. He just smirked. "Relax, Vance. Accidents happen. Especially to guys who think they're too good to watch their step." His buddies laughed on cue. They hadn't touched me, so no one could pin it on them. Perfect sabotage.
"You're done," Tank mouthed silently before swaggering away.
I dragged myself up, brushing dirt off Kaelen's now-ruined outfit, every step stabbing through my thigh. I limped toward a bench in the shade, panic eating away at the edges of my focus. I had maybe an hour before the race. If I couldn't run, everything—my mother's trust, Kaelen's redemption, the trial itself—was over.
I sat down hard, looking at the injured area. It didn't look that serious, but I could feel the pain in my right ankle.
There wasn't any swelling, fortunately, but while rotating it, I could feel the pain. "Maybe this is what Yui was talking about." I wondered as I was trying to massage the bruised area.
That's when I heard a voice.
"Man, you look in serious pain."
I looked up and froze.
Standing there, slightly awkward but genuinely concerned, was a face I knew too well. Round, plain, familiar in the worst way.
Elias Finch. My first host.
He was just standing there in a hoodie, holding a thermos, looking like any normal classmate. He wasn't seeing Marcus Sterling.
Was he not participating in the sports festival?
He wasn't seeing the switch. He was just Eli Finch—the kid I had replaced—talking to Kaelen Vance.
For a second, I forgot the pain in my leg. My brain just locked up. Because this wasn't possible. Not at all.
It raised a ton of questions in my mind. Why is he here? How did he know me? could it be that he remembers everything... no, that's impossible!