The bell rang like it was personally offended to still be doing this every weekday.Bobby Stokes slouched his shoulders and moved quickly through the familiar hallways of Edison High. He kept his eyes evenly low and his hoodie up, but it didn’t matter. It never did. They always saw him. It seemed inevitable.“Yo, Stokes!” A heavy thud struck his backpack. It was Derek, a Football varsity, future dropout and part-time tormentor.Bobby swayed unsteadily, heading forward before maintaining balance. “Nice aim,” he spoke softly, too quiet for anyone to hear, almost as if he barely uttered any words. That was the trick. Be invisible, not noticeable. Be quiet, not loud. Be nothing, act like you don't exist.The halls had the smell of sweat, floor wax, and normal teenage drama. Lockers slammed open and shut, producing the sound of a metal beat. Bobby carefully walked past a group of cheerleaders blocking the stairs and ducked his head lower as another wave of laughter swirled in his direction

Bobby ran until his legs gave out. Not metaphorically—literally. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His throat was sore from swallowing cold air. As he slowed down behind a dumpster near the old train station, his hoodie was saturated with sweat and his heart was straining to escape his chest.He collapsed behind the rusted metal, leaning against the brick wall. The image was still charred into his mind: the man standing at the bus stop, completely still. Neatly polished shoes. Tactical coat. Eyes sharp and cold as ice.And then… that step forward. Just one. That was all Bobby had needed.That, and the message from the shattered phone replaying in his skull like a warning bell:"A tall black man with a bald head, and a brown stylish mustache is coming after you. Please, avoid him at all costs"It didn’t feel real. None of it. The man’s presence had frozen time, like Bobby had stumbled into the middle of a movie scene—only this one was directed by panic and lit with dread. Was it a

Bobby couldn't speak. The man’s grip on his hoodie was firm and unyielding, difficult for him to break free. It was not violent but it didn’t feel optional. His breath was shallow as if air couldn't help him further.“Stop running,” the man said again.His voice had a low, measured quality and a mysterious weight, as though it had been used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He didn’t shout. Didn’t move aggressively. Just held Bobby there, on the cold concrete floor of the storm tunnel, as if waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.“I’m… I’m not who...who you think,” Bobby stammered, throat sore.The man's eyes were steady, focused and calculating, but not vicious, his eyes shone in the tunnel's darkness.“You’re Bobby Stokes,” he said flatly.Bobby's jaw jerked. Before the man could say anything further, a faint voice echoed down the tunnel.“Who’s over there?”The man turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.Upon hearing the voice, he released Bobby and stepped backwar

Bobby pressed the trigger.The jammer in the lunchbox came alive with a low, vibrating hum—like a hornet trapped in a glass jar. A burst of compressed electromagnetic static filled the air, silent to the ear but deafening to anything even remotely electronic.Across the courtyard, Darius Cross jerked mid-step. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise. His hand shot instinctively toward the device strapped to his wrist. The glowing symbols across its face flickered—then went dark.His body staggered as if gravity had shifted. One foot slid, unbalanced. He stumbled forward, caught himself, and looked up—straight at the library window where Bobby was watching.Bobby hid down immediately—his heart pounding.It worked.He didn’t know for how long. The pulse wasn’t strong—maybe five seconds of disruption, maybe less. But for the first time since this nightmare began, he had made Cross falter.He peeked back over the windowsill. The man was gone. Not teleported—vanished. No shimmer. No