"A closed system?" Brad scoffed, though the tremor in his hands betrayed the bravado he was desperately trying to claw back. He took a half-step toward Jovan, his chest puffed out, but the aura of menace had evaporated, replaced by a frantic, jagged uncertainty. "You think you’re some kind of philosopher, Jovan? You’re just a kid who reads too many forums. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about how this town works."Jovan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He adjusted his backpack strap, his gaze fixed somewhere just past Brad’s left shoulder, as if reading a ticker tape only he could see. "I know that tomorrow morning, you’re going to walk into the gym and find a taped-up envelope in your locker from your ex-girlfriend, Sarah. I know that inside that envelope is a letter explaining exactly why she’s not going to be at the homecoming game, and I know that the contents of that letter are going to ruin your afternoon practice session. You’ll be so distracted you’ll miss the

"People are patterns, Brad. And patterns, given enough time and data, are entirely unavoidable," Jovan said, his tone clinical. He stepped back, the interaction losing its gravity as quickly as a spent firework. "Check your locker tomorrow. Or don’t. It won't change the trajectory."Brad didn’t answer. He stared at Jovan with a mix of genuine fear and mounting confusion, his hands twitching at his sides. For the first time, he didn't look like a high school bully; he looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, realizing that the ground he was standing on had been made of paper all along. He turned, wordlessly, and walked away toward the school parking lot, his pace hurried and uncharacteristically erratic."You’re going to give yourself a migraine if you keep playing god with the social hierarchy," a voice said from the shadows near the entrance of the arcade.Jovan didn’t turn around. He recognized the cadence of Camille’s voice—sharp, observational, and perpetually skeptical.

"An auditor who predicts locker room drama? That sounds less like accounting and more like voodoo. What was that back there? You looked like you were reciting a script from a movie Brad hasn't even seen yet." Camille crossed her arms, the flyers tucked under her elbow, her eyes narrowed in that way that usually meant she was trying to dissect his soul, or at the very least, his latest lie.Jovan pushed off the wall, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "It’s not voodoo, Camille. It’s just listening. Brad is loud, Sarah is predictable, and their relationship is a burning building everyone saw coming except for the people inside. I just provided the smoke alarm.""You’re doing it again," Camille noted, stepping closer until the smell of her shampoo—something like rain and cheap library books—was distinct against the stale, metallic scent of the arcade exterior. "You’re talking like you’re ten years removed from this school. It’s creepy, Jovan. People are going to start notic

"You have the box of old electronics in your trunk, don't you?" Jovan asked, his voice steadying as he shifted gears from the philosophical to the transactional. "The ones from your brother’s old tech shop? The broken iPhone 4s, the cracked screens, the parts that were supposed to be e-waste?"Camille blinked, the flicker of concern in her eyes replaced by a sharp, calculating glint. She took a half-step back, crossing her arms tighter against her chest. "How did you know about those? I haven’t even told my mom I’m moving them to the garage yet. You’ve been watching the driveway, haven’t you? That’s stalker behavior, Jovan. Seriously."Jovan laughed, a dry, humorless sound that lacked any real warmth. "I don’t need to stalk your driveway to know that a family of engineers has a junk drawer—or a junk trunk—filled with potential gold. You’re clearing out the garage for your graduation party, right? You’re discarding the 'obsolete' to make room for the new. It’s a recurring pattern in yo

"They think everything is worthless just because it’s a version or two behind," Jovan continued, tapping his pen against the paper. "They want the sleek, the new, the shiny. They don't see the component value. They don't see that a cracked iPhone 4 isn't a piece of trash; it’s a source of gold connectors, a functional battery, and a screen that, with the right light and steady hands, can be swapped into another unit that’s just missing a digitizer. It’s an ecosystem, Camille. A graveyard is just a resource hub for anyone who knows how to salvage properly."Camille let out a long, slow breath, her gaze drifting toward the neon lights of the arcade sign, which buzzed with a rhythmic, irritating hum. "You’re talking about my brother’s stuff like it’s scrap metal in a junkyard. That was his first job. He put hours into those devices. To you, they’re just numbers on a page, aren't they? Profit margins and depreciation curves.""To me, they are the first steps to something bigger than this