PHYSICS, PRAISE AND PARANOIA

For the first time since I got here, my class was… almost peaceful.

No one was flying. Nothing was glowing. There wasn't even poultry.

And—most importantly—Blake Fletcher was absent.

The chair beside me was empty.

I didn't ask where he went. I just basked in the rare, unpolluted air of personal space.

"Good morning, everyone," said Mr. Tomlinson, our Introduction to Physics teacher, walking in with a coffee mug that said Mass Matters. "Let's talk motion, gravity, and why half of you fail to obey either."

I opened my notebook, silently thanking the universe for a moment of academic normalcy.

And then…

"Excuse me, sir?" came a voice from the back of the class.

I stiffened.

Oh no.

Blake.

He stepped into the room late, carrying a model of a rollercoaster made entirely out of paper clips and chewing gum.

"I was running tests on centripetal force in the art room. I have results."

Mr. Tomlinson blinked.

"You… built a model?"

"And graphed its velocity, trajectory, and emotional arc."

The teacher squinted. "Emotional arc?"

"I gave the paperclip cart a backstory. It makes the math more invested."

He marched up, dropped the project on the teacher's desk, and waited.

Mr. Tomlinson examined it, checked the charts Blake handed over, and—to my absolute horror—nodded in impressed silence.

"Class," he said, turning to us with the weary pride of a man whose job just got complicated, "this is excellent. Remarkable work. Everyone, take note—this is the kind of initiative I expect from you."

Thirty pairs of eyes turned.

To Blake.

Then to his seat.

Which was empty.

Then to me.

Sitting beside the empty chair.

"I don't know him," I wanted to say. "He just sits here."

But it was too late.

The attention shifted. Whispers began. Some curious. Some suspicious.

And then, like the final nail in my social coffin, she approached.

Rosaline Nox.

She emerged from her seat like a shadow in a spy thriller. Every step was calculated, each glance sharp.

She stopped by my desk, leaned in slightly, and whispered,

"I've been watching you."

I blinked. "That's… unsettling."

"Don't play coy," she said, voice low. "Your academic proximity to Subject Blake has not gone unnoticed. You're clearly part of his network."

"I assure you I am not."

She slid a folded note onto my desk.

"Meet me after class. Code Alpha-17. Neutral zone: under the third stairwell. Come alone. Bring nothing but your intellect."

Then she walked off like nothing happened.

I stared at the note. It was blank.

Of course it was.

I sighed.

Blake wasn't even in his seat and I was still suffering.

I leaned back, eyes to the ceiling.

Physics was never meant to be this dramatic.

––––

"Neutral zone," she said.

"Third stairwell," she said.

"Come alone."

I obeyed. Mostly out of curiosity. Also out of the faint, foolish hope that maybe—just maybe—she was finally going to admit that the "secret agent descendant" thing was an elaborate joke and we could all move on with our lives.

But no.

There she was.

Standing half-shadowed beneath the third stairwell, wearing her uniform like it was tactical gear and holding… what I can only describe as a clipboard duct-taped to a calculator.

"Agent Harold," she said as I approached.

"I'm not an agent," I replied.

"That's what you have to say. Standard protocol."

She stepped aside, glanced up the stairwell like someone might be eavesdropping from the art club above, then lowered her voice to a whisper:

"I need to debrief you."

"Please don't say that sentence ever again."

She ignored me and pulled a small flashlight from her blazer pocket, flicking it on and off three times.

"That's not Morse code," I said.

"It's modified Morse. I replaced all the dots with suspicion."

"Of course you did."

She leaned closer. "Now. According to my analysis, Blake Fletcher is not merely an overenthusiastic student. He may be a Level-3 Disruptor."

"You mean… a really annoying guy?"

"A potential source of dimensional instability. Possibly inter-realm. No one is that effortlessly chaotic without training."

I blinked at her.

"Are you saying you think Blake was sent here?"

"Possibly. And I think you're his handler."

"Rosaline, I have anxiety just from sitting next to him."

She narrowed her eyes. "A classic double bluff."

"It's not a bluff. He once tried to high-five the fire alarm and blamed it on invisible bees."

"So you admit he triggered the fire alarm?"

"That's the part you focus on?"

She began pacing, tapping the clipboard-calculator hybrid with a pencil that had "CONFIDENTIAL" written on it in glitter.

"Tell me, Agent Harold—do you trust him?"

"Absolutely not."

"Interesting. That means yes."

I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"Rosaline, I came here because I thought maybe—just maybe—you were going to say something normal."

She turned to me, suddenly solemn.

"I am being very normal. I'm recruiting you."

"To what?"

"My agency. Covert Intelligence Reconnaissance Division."

"…C.I.R.D?"

"Don't mock the acronym. I've printed badges."

She pulled out two tiny plastic cards with clip-art logos and our names spelled wrong.

"I don't want this."

"It's too late. You were observed eating radioactive lasagna. That's level-zero initiation."

"It wasn't radioactive. It just glowed a little."

She handed me the card.

I took it. I don't know why.

"Your first mission," she said dramatically, "is to monitor Blake Fletcher. Report all anomalies. If he starts floating again, text me immediately."

"He never floated."

"He might."

She turned and disappeared into the stairwell like she just dropped a smoke bomb.

There was no smoke.

Just an awkward silence, the sound of someone playing harmonica from a locker down the hall, and me…

Standing there.

Holding a fake badge.

Wondering how I went from top student of London's finest academy…

To being recruited by a girl who thinks gravity is optional.

…And wondering why, somehow, I didn't entirely hate it.

But I can assure you of one thing I hate at this very moment....

And that is never really having a peaceful personal space in this damn school.