By lunch, I feel like I've lived an entire week.
Classes blur together.
Teachers talk too fast.
Students shove past each other like they're fighting invisible battles.
But the whole time, that quiet hum sits in my chest.
My morpher keeps pulsing.
Soft.
Warm.
Patient.
Like it knows something I don't.
Peter, Jake, and Noah stick with me all day, showing me shortcuts between classes, pointing out which teachers to avoid, and which vending machines actually work.
Noah explains the school's layout like he's memorized every inch of it.
"And avoid the west hallway on Thursdays," he warns. "Yoga club meets there. They do the stretches in the hall. You do not want to trip over them."
Jake laughs. "He's not kidding. I fell straight into downward dog last year."
I try not to grin, but I fail.
It feels good.
At lunch, we sit together. Tables all around are loud, messy, chaotic. But our corner is… peaceful.
For a moment, I forget about the zords waiting somewhere out there.
I forget about TGOB.
I forget about dying.
I'm just… here.
Talking. Eating. Existing.
And then—
Pulse.
My hand twitches toward my bag.
This one feels different.
Sharper.
More focused.
Like the morpher is nudging me toward awareness, not action.
Peter doesn't notice.
Jake doesn't notice.
Noah doesn't notice.
Only me.
And that's what scares me the most.
Not danger.
Not enemies.
Not threats.
The fact that I'm alone in feeling it.
After school, I head toward the front door with the guys. Peter's talking about a science experiment, Jake's joking about skipping homework, and Noah's ranting about inaccurate documentaries.
But all I hear is the quiet hum at my side.
A heartbeat.
Steady.
Predictable.
Patient.
Waiting for the day I'll finally use it.
Not today.
Not yet.
Right now, I'm just a kid trying to survive day one.