Undercover High School

The morning air was still damp with dew, but it did little to calm Alister’s racing heartbeat. He twisted the throttle once and came to a stop right in front of the school’s main gate. As usual—he was late.

“Sir, open the gate,” he said a bit loudly, but not quite shouting.

Inside the guard post, a middle-aged man in a navy-blue uniform was playing on his phone.

No response.

Only the sounds of a video playing on his screen filled the silence, as if Alister’s voice was just another part of the morning wind—irrelevant and easily ignored.

“Sir! It’s me, Alis—”

“I know, I know... you again,” the guard muttered under his breath—loud enough for himself, but too quiet for Alister to hear clearly. “Damn brat. Always late,” he complained.

Alister squinted, trying to contain the irritation building up inside. He lifted his helmet halfway, revealing a face that was equal parts annoyed and frustrated.

“Come on, sir, I’m already late, look at the time…”

But the old man kept pretending to be busy, as if guarding the gate was the highest rank in the country and letting in a chronically late student would somehow be a disgrace to his honor.

Alister let out a long sigh.

That was when a sleek black car glided up to the front entrance. Clean white plates. Through the windshield, Alister immediately recognized the familiar face inside. “Miss Clara?” he thought.

A young woman with neatly styled dark brown hair. Thin-framed glasses. Sharp eyes, yet a gentle face. Not only the most feared math teacher—but also the most secretly admired by every boy in school. Including... Alister, though he would never admit it.

Honk.

The car’s horn sounded, and instantly, Mr. Imron—the school security—sprang into action and opened the gate. Alister scoffed.

“Tch… moves fast for a pretty teacher,” he grumbled, glaring at Mr. Imron while putting his helmet back on.

The gate creaked open slowly. CREEK.

“So only fancy cars get in, huh?” Alister muttered sarcastically.

Not waiting for the gate to fully open, he slipped through the narrow gap on his motorcycle, the wheels scraping the edge of the curb and nearly grazing Miss Clara’s car.

Mr. Imron jumped back in surprise, especially at the roar of Alister’s modified exhaust. “Hey! Alister! You can’t just barge in like that! Come back here!”

But the voice only echoed in the wind. Alister didn’t look back. He was simply returning the favor—pretending not to hear, just like the old man had done earlier. Karma works fast when you know how to use it.

Miss Clara glanced at the fading motorcycle, shaking her head.

“Let him be,” she said calmly, prompting Imron to bow respectfully.

Meanwhile, Alister dismounted his bike, expressionless—but satisfied deep inside.

He walked toward his classroom. Students passing by gave him cautious glances. The girls looked captivated by his sharp features, but Alister didn’t care. He kept his eyes forward.

The school hallway was still quiet. The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the image of the homeroom teacher holding a tardy sheet danced in his head. Not that it mattered to him.

His black shoes echoed against the tiled floor. A sharp, familiar rhythm—everyone in school could probably identify him just by the sound of his steps.

Some students quietly stepped aside as he passed. Not out of fear, but because of his presence. Alister was like a wildfire in human form. You never knew when he’d be calm—or when he’d burn.

A short-haired girl by the lockers bit her lip, watching him with a mix of awe, curiosity, and something deeper.

“Whoa, that’s Alister, right?” someone whispered.

Alister ignored the whispers. To him, school was just a formality—a place he only half-cared about. His real life existed elsewhere: at work, on the race track, or in the shadows of the dark web where he was known by a different name—ZeroTrace.

When he reached his classroom door, he took a deep breath and pushed it open without hesitation.

Click—

Every head turned toward him. Including the daily homeroom teacher standing near the whiteboard with an attendance sheet.

“Alister!” Mrs. Dewi snapped. “It’s already 7:20! Late again?! How many times is this now, this week?”

Alister didn’t answer. He just looked at her for a moment, then walked to his seat in the back corner.

“Alister! I’m talking to you!”

He stopped mid-step. His shoulders barely moved before he slightly turned his head.

“Sorry, Miss. Traffic,” he said simply. His voice calm, but with a sharp edge of sarcasm that anyone could catch.

Some students held back laughter.

Mrs. Dewi clenched her fists behind her back, her face tight with frustration. But before she could speak again, the click of high heels echoed from the hallway. All heads turned.

Miss Clara entered.

Her hair tied low, a simple yet elegant white blouse, and eyes that scanned the room sharply—finally resting on Alister.

“Apologies, I’m a bit late,” she said politely to Mrs. Dewi.

Mrs. Dewi quickly adjusted her expression and bowed slightly. “Oh, yes... please, Miss Clara.”

Alister continued to his seat, but this time his eyes briefly locked with hers. Miss Clara looked like she was trying to read his mind.

He gave her a faint, almost mocking smile.

“All right, open your books. We’ll start with yesterday’s assignment,” Clara instructed, shifting her gaze to the rest of the class.

The classroom quieted down. Pages rustled as students opened their books. Alister leaned back in his chair, flipping open his book with disinterest. His face revealed nothing—least of all interest.

Miss Clara walked calmly to the front. Her steps measured. She didn’t speak much, but her presence commanded the room. She carried an aura of quiet strength—and mystery.

“Alister,” she called out, causing heads to turn again. “I didn’t see your assignment in my email. Why didn’t you submit it?”

The room went silent. A few students looked up, waiting.

Alister raised an eyebrow lazily.

“My home internet’s been acting up,” he said casually. “But if you’d like, I can send it right now.”

He pulled out his phone. The screen revealed apps and code most students wouldn’t recognize. Not a normal student’s phone—not something a boy from a modest background should even have.

“Fine. Send it now. And next time, don’t be late,” said Miss Clara, her tone neutral but firm.

Alister gave a small nod. His fingers danced across the screen. Within seconds, the file was sent—but not through a regular email. It came encrypted, IP masked, with a small prank that momentarily glitched the school server before it resumed.

He glanced at Clara. She showed no sign of noticing. Or maybe—she noticed everything.

As the class refocused on the lesson, Alister leaned back in his seat, spun his pen, and smiled faintly.

“All right, let’s get back to the material. Eyes up front,” said Clara.

But Alister kept his eyes on the window, staring far into the distance beyond the school walls.

***

Later that Night

The roar of a motorcycle echoed through the empty streets. Alister wore his black leather jacket, a dark visor helmet, and a small backpack slung over one shoulder. The streetlights were dim, some completely out. The cold night air didn’t bother him. Nights like these were perfect for street racing—where adrenaline surged and the world faded away.

But he came to a sudden stop in front of an old abandoned house. His eyes narrowed as he noticed something off—a white car parked carelessly, tilted, like it had arrived in a hurry. He recognized the license plate.

In the distance, a sound. Faint—but unmistakable. A woman screaming.

Alister shut off his engine and hid his bike behind a bush. He crept forward, crouching behind a rusted gate. His eyes locked on a man forcing open the driver’s side door. Inside—Miss Clara. Her eyes red. Hands trembling as she tried to keep the door shut.

“Rudi, stop! We’re over!” Clara shouted.

The man—Rudi—yanked the door open and grabbed her arm roughly. “I don’t care, Clara! You’re mine! Always will be!”

Clara struggled, her body pulled out of the car, stumbling in her heels. “Let me go! Don’t touch me! I said we’re done, Rudi!”

But he didn’t stop. His hand clamped around her wrist like iron. His eyes wild with rage.

“I’ve been patient enough! You think you can just leave me?!”

***