Chase POV

By the time lunch rolls around, I'm half-running on caffeine and the hope that the day's halfway over. I grab my tray and head toward our usual table — same spot near the windows, same noise, same group.

Except not exactly the same.

Brett's sitting there, eating fries like he's always been part of this crowd.

It's still weird seeing him here. My older brother — the guy who used to drive me to school and tease me for being a "kid" — now sitting with my friends, repeating senior year.

He glances up when I drop my tray down beside him. "Took you long enough," he says with that familiar smirk.

"Lunch line's a nightmare," I mumble, sliding in next to him. "You remember that, right?"

He snorts. "Barely."

Across the table, Zuma and Ella are laughing about something — she's glowing today, lighter somehow, probably because Tuck's back. He's sitting quietly beside her, eating slow, taking everything in like he's still trying to get used to it all again.

Brett looks between them, then at me. "It's kinda weird, you know?"

"What is?"

He gestures vaguely. "Being here. With you guys. All my friends are gone. Feels like I missed a whole chapter."

I open my mouth to say something, but Skye jumps in, setting her tray down. "You didn't miss much. Same cafeteria food, same teachers, same chaos."

Rocky grins. "Yeah, and now you get to hang with the cool kids."

"Right," Brett mutters, "lucky me."

We all laugh, but the air's different. I can tell he's trying — trying to fit, to blend, to pretend it doesn't sting that he's stuck doing this all over again. I want to say I'm glad he's here. I want to say I'm just glad he's alive. But I don't. Not in front of everyone.

The noise dips for a second — that kind of quiet that means everyone's attention has shifted somewhere else.

Zuma notices first. "They're here again."

We all turn.

The new kids.

They'd shown up this morning — two of them, walking through the hallway like they didn't care who stared. The girl with the purple hair had her earbuds in and never looked up. The guy beside her — tall, dressed in all black, expression unreadable — had scanned the hallway like he was memorizing every face.

But now, at lunch, something about them feels different.

He's sitting at the far table, eyes moving slowly around the room. Not in a "lost" way. In a "watching" way. The kind that makes you feel it before you see it.

The girl's beside him, not eating, doodling something in a notebook. Her leg bounces restlessly under the table.

Skye leans closer. "Okay, it's not just me, right? They're... weird."

Rocky whispers, "Like serial killer weird, or just socially anxious weird?"

"I don't know," Zuma says quietly, eyes narrowing. "Something's different now. He didn't look at anyone this morning. Now he's—"

"Looking right at us," Brett finishes, his voice low.

I glance over — and yeah. He is.

The guy's eyes lock onto ours, sharp and still. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. It's not anger exactly, but it's not curiosity either. It's something colder.

For a few seconds, no one moves. Then, just like that, he turns back to his food, like nothing happened.

Tuck shifts beside Ella. "What's his deal?" he murmurs.

"No idea," I say. "But I don't like it."

The bell rings, breaking the tension. Everyone stands, voices overlapping again, trays clattering. But that look — the one he gave us — lingers in my head even as we head toward the doors.

Something about him changed between this morning and now.

And I can't shake the feeling that whatever it is...

it's not over.

Lunch feels like it always does — noisy, crowded, half the school yelling over the sound of trays and chair legs. But having Brett here makes everything feel slightly tilted, like someone moved a piece of my life around and forgot to tell me.

He's sitting across from me, crutches resting against the table, picking at the edges of his sandwich. The guys are mid-argument about whether Zuma actually got taller over the summer (he didn't), and Ella's laughing so hard she nearly chokes on her drink.

Then Brett looks up. "So," he says casually, "you thinking about trying out for basketball this year?"

I blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you."

I snort. "I've never even tried out before."

"Exactly." He shrugs. "You can now. Mom and Dad are already talking about it."

I groan. "Of course they are."

Zuma raises an eyebrow. "Wait, you play?"

"Not really," I admit. "I shoot around sometimes, that's it."

Brett smirks. "He's better than I was at his age. They just never wanted him stealing my spotlight."

I glance at him. "Yeah. Don't remind me."

The mood shifts — quiet, but not uncomfortable. I can tell he feels bad for even bringing it up.

He clears his throat. "Look, you don't owe anyone anything, okay? Not Mom and Dad, not me. If you wanna try out, do it for yourself."

I nod slowly. "Maybe."

Skye leans over with a grin. "You'd look good in the jersey, Chase."

"Yeah," Rocky adds. "If you don't trip over your own ego first."

The table bursts into laughter, and for a few minutes it's all easy again — fries flying, bad jokes, and Ella smacking Zuma with a napkin when he steals her cookie.

Then the noise dips, just for a second.

Zuma glances past me. "Okay... is he staring at Chase, or is it just me?"

I follow his eyes toward the back of the cafeteria. The new guy — the one we noticed this morning — sits there, same blank expression, eyes locked straight ahead.

Right at me.

He doesn't look away, even when our table starts whispering.

Brett frowns. "Maybe he just recognizes you from somewhere."

"I doubt it," I mutter. "Pretty sure I'd remember that face."

The bell rings before anyone can say more. Chairs scrape, trays clatter, the crowd surges toward the doors.

"Chemistry 10 next," Skye groans.

"Lucky us," I say, standing up.

Brett grabs his crutches and pushes to his feet, steady but slow. "I'll see you after. Don't blow up the lab."

"No promises."

He grins, then heads down the opposite hall toward his senior classes. I watch him go for a second — my brother, older, slower, but still trying.

Then I turn to my friends. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

As we head out, I feel that same prickling sensation again — the kind you can't explain, but you know it means you're being watched.

I don't turn around this time.

I just keep walking.

By the time we make it to Chemistry, the hallways are already buzzing. Everyone's talking over each other, trading stories, showing off new shoes or schedules. First day chaos.

Inside the classroom, I grab a middle row seat. Zuma drops into the chair beside me, Skye sits on my other side, and Ella claims the one next to her. Behind us, Rocky, Roxy, and Everest are already comparing electives. Rubble's at the back snacking on something he's definitely not supposed to have, and Liberty's chatting with Tracker and Rex near the window.

It's loud. Comfortable. Like we never left.

Then Ryder walks in — calm as always, lab coat over his arm, that look that somehow says I'm not mad, just preparing for the disaster you're about to cause.

"Alright," he says, dropping his clipboard on the desk, "let's get through day one without any explosions, arguments, or spontaneous fires. Think we can manage that this year?"

"Maybe," Rocky says.

"Probably not," Zuma adds.

The class laughs.

Ryder sighs, but he's smiling. "Welcome back, everyone. For anyone who hasn't met me, I'm Mr. Ryder. This is Chemistry 10. Yes, you will be using real chemicals. No, I do not trust any of you yet."

Another ripple of laughter moves through the room.

He starts calling attendance — all the familiar names roll off easily — then pauses when he reaches the last one.

"Sparky?"

A quiet "here" comes from the corner. The new kid. Hoodie up, hands folded on the desk. He doesn't look nervous, just... distant.

"Good," Ryder says, marking the sheet. "Full house. Let's see how long that lasts."

He turns to the board and starts writing the outline — safety, labs, projects, exams — the usual first-day rundown. "No experiments this week. We'll start with safety contracts and basic theory. Once I'm sure everyone can handle glassware responsibly, then we'll get into real reactions."

A loud clatter echoes from the next row.

Everyone turns.

Marshall's staring at a tipped-over pencil cup, pens scattered across the floor. "Uh... I was just reaching for my notebook."

Zuma snickers. "Classic."

Ryder exhales slowly. "It's day one, Marshall."

"I know," Marshall says, ducking to pick everything up. "But at least nothing exploded?"

"That's a low bar," Ryder mutters, earning another wave of laughter.

Rocky leans over and says just loud enough for us to hear, "You realize it's not even the end of day one yet, right?"

Marshall groans. "Don't start."

Ryder waits until the laughter dies down before continuing. "Anyway... since we're all together again, I expect a productive year. Chemistry is about understanding reactions — how things change when they mix. Sometimes it's predictable, sometimes not. That's life, and that's science."

Skye leans toward me, whispering, "Did he just compare us to a chemical reaction?"

"Yeah," I whisper back. "He's not wrong."

The rest of the class goes by fast. Ryder explains grading, homework, and how no one's touching a single piece of lab equipment until he's sure we all remember safety procedures.

When the bell finally rings, Ryder calls out, "Don't forget your safety forms! No form, no lab!"

Chairs scrape, backpacks zip, everyone stands at once. Zuma stretches like he just ran a marathon. "We survived. That's a record."

Skye laughs. "Give it a week."

I grab my notebook, waiting for the crowd to clear. Marshall's still picking up pens, Everest's helping him, Roxy's rolling her eyes, and Rubble's finishing his snack before the next bell. Liberty waves for us to hurry up, Tracker and Rex already heading toward the door.

Then, as I sling my bag over my shoulder, I glance toward the back.

Sparky's still sitting there. Same quiet calm, same unreadable stare — like he's taking everything in but not part of it yet.

For a moment, our eyes meet.

He doesn't look away.

He just nods once.

I nod back before following my friends out of the room.

Something about him sticks with me, though.

Not in a bad way. Just... like he's someone I should keep an eye on.