Thompson's voice rang through the silent cafeteria. He was weaponizing public opinion, trying to drag Joren into a public trial.
"Today, I'm going to teach him a lesson on behalf of the order of Midtown High School!"
Marcus and several teammates stepped forward. Their broad shoulders and padded uniforms formed a human wall.
"Lightning's right. The guy shows up and suddenly he's injured."
"Look at that hat. Who knows what he's hiding?"
"A freak should stay out of normal people's business."
Their words fell like stones into still water.
Whispers spread across the cafeteria.
"Did he really do it? Thompson fell pretty hard."
"He does look intimidating…"
"Stay out of it."
Dozens of eyes turned toward Joren — curious, suspicious, faintly afraid.
Thompson felt righteous.
His gaze swept the room… then locked onto a thin figure nearby.
"Hey. Isn't that Parker?"
He pointed.
"You. The freak's tagalong. I saw you sneaking behind him yesterday."
Peter's face flushed instantly.
Half the cafeteria turned to him.
"I didn't!" Peter protested. "I just—"
"You just what? Want to learn how to dismantle a chair with your eyes, nerd?"
Laughter burst from the football players.
Marcus and another teammate stepped forward, blocking Peter's line of sight.
"Alright," Marcus muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Show's over."
Thompson turned back to Joren, malice undisguised.
"Time to reveal your true colors."
He winked at the two players beside him.
"Hold him."
"I want to see what's hiding under that ragged hat."
The two players grinned and reached for Joren's arms.
Thompson stepped forward, fingers spread, aiming for the brim of the hat.
The cafeteria held its breath.
Behind the wall of bodies, Peter clenched his fists helplessly.
Joren did not move.
His eyes swept the environment.
One meter away:
A student had knocked over a cup. Cola spread across the polished floor.
Two meters away:
A fork rested on a pasta plate, its tines angled upward.
Above:
The central air vent rotated lazily at low speed.
One second before contact—
Joren shifted half a step back.
Invisible to all—
Star Platinum appeared.
Two fingers flicked forward.
A precise strike.
The fork vanished from the table.
The players' hands were less than ten centimeters from Joren's sleeves.
Thompson's fingertips were about to touch the brim.
"Ding."
A faint metallic sound — nearly swallowed by cafeteria noise.
The fork shot upward in a sharp, unnatural arc.
It struck the ceiling control switch.
Click.
The ventilation fans surged to maximum speed.
"WHOOSH—!"
A sudden gust blasted across the cafeteria, sending napkins and loose papers airborne.
One napkin plastered itself across a football player's face.
"What the—?!"
His vision vanished.
He staggered backward.
His heel landed squarely in the spilled cola.
His foot slid out from under him.
"Ah—!"
The 1.9-meter player crashed backward, arms flailing.
He grabbed a teammate for balance.
The teammate lurched sideways into a student behind him —
who was carrying a fresh plate of creamy bacon pasta.
"Crash—!"
The plate launched into the air.
Pasta and thick cream sauce descended like slow-motion rain.
Thompson felt warmth splash onto his scalp.
White sauce coated his blond hair.
It dripped over his eyebrows and into his eyes.
Strands of pasta dangled from his ears and the tip of his nose.
Silence.
The cafeteria stared.
Before Joren lay two football players tangled together in a human heap.
Thompson stood frozen, crowned in creamy pasta like a tragic clown.
Joren remained still, hands in his pockets.
Behind the pile, Peter Parker had witnessed everything.
His eyes fixed on the fork lying on the floor.
The trajectory was wrong.
Not a normal parabola.
Not a ricochet.
It was as if something had launched it with perfect precision at an impossible angle.
Peter's pulse quickened.
Physics had not merely failed.
It had been outperformed.