It was true. When Mare was mad, she pyed to her name—Nightmare. She was also tech-savvy, so Jet had no doubt if she pooled time and resources into it, she could find a pic of Ceptor floating somewhere online and potentially use that to Dream-jack him.

  [VIEWFINDER] No sweat. Avoid the B-word with Mare, not even as a joke

  [INTERCEPTOR] Yeah, I’m sorry. I got carried away

  [VIEWFINDER] She’ll be okay in a few hours. Anyway, I’ve gotta hit the hay. Night time over here. Talk ter, kid

  [INTERCEPTOR] Alright. Peace, man

  Jet turned off his phone screen and slipped the device into his pocket. He picked up his gss of milk, drinking it in a few slow gulps before biting into his apple. As he chewed, his mind wandered. It had been just over a year since he accepted the invitation to join Second Space, the group chat composed of other Dreamers and jackers. Before Jet, Second Space had only four individuals. Jet became the fifth, but by the time Jet joined, he was already leagues above what the group knew about viewership and dream-jacking. He has pyed a fool, however, subtly guiding the group toward 'discovering' more about their abilities. His guidance earned him the respect of the others, and he quickly became the defacto leader of the group chat.

  Jet finished the apple, tossed the core into the trash, and grabbed his school bag. Without another gnce at his phone, he stepped out the door, heading into the morning.

  ***

  Jet pulled up to school on his electric scooter, weaving smoothly through the footpaths that curved like veins across the vast, manicured campus. Stately oak and maple trees lined the main road leading into the school, their leaves casting shifting shadows on the pavement. The morning sun bathed the expansive wns in a golden hue, illuminating flower beds carefully arranged by the school’s groundskeepers. Wide, paved walkways branched off toward different buildings, their edges lined with neatly trimmed hedges. The air smelled crisp, fresh, with a faint tinge of earthiness from the damp grass.

  As he cruised along, students acknowledged him with casual nods or murmured greetings. A few waved; others, too engaged in their own conversations, simply gnced his way in silent recognition. Jet returned the greetings with brief nods, maintaining his usual composed demeanor. Only a select few students—those ranked at the top academically or the captains of their respective grades—had the privilege of riding electric scooters or bikes on school grounds. The rest had to leave their bicycles at the designated bike shed near the entrance, a rule that ensured the school remained orderly and that movement across campus stayed unobstructed.

  Jet, however, as the captain of his grade, had a reserved scooter parking spot much deeper into the campus, close to the main academic buildings. He didn’t have to make the long walk from the entrance like the others. It was a small privilege, but one that set him apart.

  As he rode through the campus, campaign posters sprouted up along the walkways. They were everywhere, vibrant and colorful, each one proudly dispying the names of the two main contenders for school captain—Jet Ragnarsson and Wade Thomson.

  On the pikes staked into the ground, Jet’s face stared back at him with a bold, confident smile. The slogan printed beneath his image read: For Leadership That Knows No Limits. Vote Jet Ragnarsson.

  The words were strong, assertive, every inch crafted for impact. His image was carefully selected, a portrait of Jet standing in front of the school’s main building, his arms crossed in a gesture of quiet confidence. His sharp green eyes were focused on the viewer as though speaking directly to them, while his neatly styled hair and pristine uniform spoke volumes about his meticulous attention to detail.

  Further down the path, other posters showed Wade Thomson’s face, equally as striking but in a different way. Wade’s expression was warm and approachable, his soft blonde hair tousled in a way that made him look effortlessly cool. His eyes, a deep blue, held a certain intensity—friendly, but with an underlying determination. Beneath his face, his slogan was printed in bold letters: Together We Grow. Vote Wade Thomson for a Stronger Future.

  Wade’s poster had a candid feel to them, with Wade's natural smile radiating charisma and optimism.

  Jet’s eyes flicked over the posters as he arrived at his designated spot, easing his scooter into pce and powering it down before stepping off. The steel pole that marked his spot had his name carved on a small pque. He secured his scooter with a sleek, automated lock, the mechanism clicking shut with a faint beep. He then pulled off his helmet, shaking out his dark brown hair briefly before tying the helmet securely to the side of his bag. He gnced at the other designated spot next to his, designed for a second scooter or bike. The name carved on that spot was Wade Thomson.

  From here, Jet headed up a short flight of polished stone stairs, the building ahead looming with its modern architecture—rge gss-paneled windows framed by dark steel beams, blending contemporary design with the academic prestige of an elite institution. Other students entered alongside him, the murmur of morning conversations filling the corridor.

  “Morning, Jet,” a student greeted as they walked past.

  “Morning,” he replied smoothly.

  Another student, a taller boy adjusting his bag strap, caught up to him. “Yo, Jet, elections are in two weeks, right? You ready for it?”

  Jet gnced at him, recognizing him as one of the more studious kids from his year. “Yeah,” he said, tone calm. “Shouldn’t be too bad. We’ll be campaigning extra hard this next few days, you can count on that.”

  The boy grinned. “Man, it’ll be epic! You got my vote, though. Anyway, see you around.”

  Jet gave a small nod as the boy peeled off into a different cssroom.

  A girl leaning against a locker, sipping on an iced coffee, gave him a smirk as he passed. “Surprised you didn’t ride in with your fan club today.”

  Jet chuckled faintly. “Figured I’d give them a day off.”

  She rolled her eyes pyfully before returning to her conversation with a friend.

  Reaching his cssroom, Jet stepped inside. The geography room was bright, with rge windows allowing the morning light to stream in. It was one of the better rooms—spacious, with a clear view of the school courtyard outside.

  Without hesitation, Jet crossed to his usual seat near the window in the first row. His gaze flickered briefly to the opposite end of the row. The seat there, usually occupied, was empty. His expression remained neutral as he settled into his chair, pcing his bag neatly under the desk.

  He retrieved his textbook, exercise book, and a pen, setting them neatly on the desk in front of him. As the rest of the css slowly filtered in, the faint hum of pre-lesson chatter filled the air. Jet leaned back slightly, gaze shifting to the window, taking in the peaceful view outside as he waited for the lesson to begin.

  Outside, the school courtyard stretched beneath the morning sun, the trimmed hedges and flower beds casting neat, symmetrical shadows against the pavement. A group of students crossed the wn, ughing as they tossed a soccer ball back and forth. The golden light filtered through the trees, dappling the cobblestone paths in flickering patterns. To anyone watching him, it seemed as though Jet was lost in the peaceful scenery, soaking in the crisp morning air wafting in. But he wasn’t watching the courtyard. He was listening.

  A hushed conversation drifted from behind him, just a few rows back.

  “Yo, the school captain election is coming up. Who are you going to vote for?”

  “Jet, obviously.”

  “Yeah, same.”

  “Wade is popur with the juniors, though. Gonna be a tough one.”

  “It’s pretty crazy they’re even campaigning against each other. It’s rare for a captain and vice-captain of the same grade to do that.”

  “Wade never wanted to be just vice-captain. He was always aiming for captain. Dude was always ambitious, but he was also pretty transparent. He was never snaky about it.”

  “Yeah, true. I like the guy, honestly, but Jet’s still got my vote.”

  “Yeah, same—”

  The conversation cut off abruptly as the cssroom door opened.

  Ms. Decroix stepped inside, the usual click of her heels against the floor oddly subdued. She was young, te twenties, with warm brown eyes and a naturally expressive face. Her hair—chestnut brown, often worn loose in soft waves—was pinned back today in a low, neat ponytail. Normally, she entered with an energy that filled the room, her love for geography radiating in the brightness of her voice, the enthusiasm in her gestures.

  Today was different.

  Her complexion looked paler than usual, as if she hadn’t slept well. Her lips, usually curved in an easy smile, were pressed into a firm, uneasy line. The light in her eyes had dimmed, repced by something strained, something unsettled.

  Behind her, a tall man followed—a presence rarely seen in cssroom settings.

  Mr. Rowman, the school principal.

  He was a man in his early fifties but looked older, the years having carved deep lines into his face. His graying hair, neatly combed back, did little to soften the sharp angles of his expression. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, the fabric crisp, the pels perfectly pressed, but even his meticulous attire couldn’t mask the weight he carried in his demeanor. A pair of rectangur gsses rested on the bridge of his nose, and though his expression was composed—stoic, unreadable—there was something in his eyes. A heaviness.

  The cssroom fell into silence, all attention snapping to the front. Confusion flickered across students’ faces, some exchanging uncertain gnces, others sitting straighter.

  Jet remained perfectly still, his expression unchanged. His green eyes held no trace of surprise. No hint of unease.

  Ms. Decroix took a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the edges of the folder she held. When she spoke, her voice was softer than usual, careful. “Css,” she began, gncing briefly at Mr. Rowman before continuing, “we received some tragic news this morning."

  A pause.

  Some students shifted in their seats, a few already looking tense.

  Ms. Decroix swallowed, then spoke the words that sent a ripple of shock through the room.

  “Wade Thomson passed away st night.”