There were no assassins. No gangsters.
Joren's life had, for the moment, returned to normal.
A new day.
The buzz at Midtown High about "lizard monsters" and "Spider-Man" had finally died down. In its place were the usual grumbles about upcoming final exams and excited chatter about a newly released blockbuster movie.
Joren pushed through the crowded hallway and slipped into the classroom, taking his usual seat in the last row by the window.
"Good morning, new deskmate."
Felicia's voice cut through the morning din—right on time, and laced with deliberate cheer.
Joren ignored her and pulled a book from his bag.
Felicia seemed… different today.
She didn't launch into her usual string of teasing remarks. Instead, she rested her chin in her palm and watched him, eyes bright with quiet curiosity.
Class ended.
Joren snapped his book shut and headed for the vending machine—coffee time.
The hallway was quiet now. He walked past lockers and chatter, rounding a corner—
—just as a cleaner pushed a cart toward him from the far end.
Blue uniform. Yellow baseball cap. Movements stiff, almost robotic.
Totally ordinary.
Joren brushed past without a second thought.
But in that split second they crossed paths, the cleaner froze.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But his eyes—sharp, scanning—flicked over Joren like a sensor locking on.
When Joren glanced back, the man was already wheeling the cart away, shoulders hunched, posture unremarkable.
An illusion?
At the vending machine, he dropped in a few coins.
Clang.
A can of iced coffee tumbled into the slot.
As he bent to retrieve it, his gaze caught a reflection in the glass panel: a female teacher had paused at the far end of the corridor.
She wasn't looking at him. She was flipping through lesson plans, head down, fingers adjusting papers.
But her stance—subtle, almost casual—angled her just enough to keep the entire vending machine area in view.
Second period: chemistry.
The teacher scribbled furiously across the blackboard, explaining a complex reaction mechanism.
Joren's attention, however, drifted to the window.
Outside, suspended high above the courtyard, a window washer dangled from a harness, wiping glass with mechanical precision.
His motions were flawless. Repetitive. Boring.
Except—
—he never once faced forward.
His helmet and respirator hid most of his face, but his head stayed turned, always, toward Joren's window.
And his eyes…
Empty. Numb.
Like glass orbs in a department store mannequin—no malice, no intent. Not even the flicker of a thought.
Just watching.
Joren didn't look away.
He held that hollow gaze—
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Only when the teacher's voice cracked through the silence did he break focus.
"Josta—please answer the question."
Without missing a beat, Joren recited the full reaction equation, balanced and precise.
"Very good."
He turned back to the window.
The washer had moved on—to the next pane, the next swipe of the squeegee—acting, for all the world, like nothing had ever happened.
Lunch Break
The cafeteria buzzed with noise—chatter, clattering trays, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Joren carried his tray, standing in line for food.
"Hey, what would you like to eat?"
The lunch lady offered a stiff smile, her eyes dulled by years of steam and smoke.
"One serving of mashed potatoes and one of fried chicken," Joren said.
"Okay."
She scooped a generous mound of mashed potatoes with a metal spoon. Her arm paused mid-air for half a second. Those clouded eyes locked onto Joren—searching, probing.
It was that look again.
Empty. Devoid of spirit.
She watched him like she was checking off a list, and only after confirming something unspoken did she dump the potatoes onto his tray.
Joren took his food and sat alone in a corner. He didn't reach for his fork right away.
He could feel it.
At least five pairs of eyes—intentional or not—kept drifting toward him.
A bespectacled boy slurping soup.
A blonde girl laughing with her friend.
A PE teacher walking past with a full tray.
Their movements were natural. Their conversations seamless.
But every few seconds, their gazes flicked toward Joren's corner—then snapped away, just a little too quickly.
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.
Joren slung his backpack over his shoulder and was the first out of the classroom.
He walked home, the late afternoon sun stretching his shadow long across the pavement. The city pulsed around him—cars honking, people rushing, conversations blending into white noise.
And yet…
A homeless man in rags sat on a bench, head tilting up as Joren passed. His bleary eyes tracked him like a radar.
A young mother waiting at a crosswalk glanced back—her stare lingered on Joren's back for two full seconds before returning to the light.
A newsboy on a bicycle zipped by, hat brim fluttering in the wind. For a split second, cold, calculating eyes—far too sharp for a boy his age—met Joren's.
The whole city had become someone's eyes.
This street—once so familiar he could walk it blindfolded—now felt alien, hostile. Every passerby could be a spy. Every window might hide a watcher.
Joren stopped.
A flicker of golden light shimmered at the soles of his feet—subtle, imperceptible to anyone else.
He could summon Star Platinum right now.
Yank one of those "innocent" bystanders aside.
Demand answers with fists, not words.
But that's exactly what he wanted.
He wanted Joren to lose control.
To strike first. To expose himself.
What a boring, vicious game.
Joren kept walking.
He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Finally, he reached home.
Pushing open the door, the scent of old wood and laundry detergent eased the knot in his chest—just a little.
He dropped his backpack, shrugged off his coat, and stepped into the living room.
Out of habit, he moved toward the window to draw the curtains.
His hand froze mid-reach.
Across the street, in the two-story Tudor-style house, a dark silhouette stood behind a window.
Motionless. Watching.
Even from this distance, Joren could feel the weight of that gaze—piercing through glass, through air, through walls—locking onto him.
His home. His last sanctuary.
Now compromised.
Joren stared back, face blank.
The storm inside him quieted into perfect calm.
He pulled the curtains shut. Heavy fabric swallowed the light, plunging the room into shadow.
"Yare yare…"
He turned, his tall frame vanishing into the dimness.
He repeated the phrase under his breath—no laziness this time. No impatience.
Only resolve.