They don’t know what that means yet. But the tone? That they understand.
The loudest boy in the back—human, maybe five, mop of dark curls and green eyes sharp enough to cut alloy—leans forward.
“You got games?” he asks.
“Depends,” I say. “You know numbers?”
“I knowallthe numbers.”
“Prove it.”
He hops off his little hover-chair and marches to the front.
“What’s your name?” I ask, rolling the dice again.
“Ben.”
The sound of it lands harder than it should. Ben. Green eyes. Sharp. Bold. The resemblance slams into me like a gut punch. Could be coincidence.
Or not.
I keep my face impassive.
“Well, Ben,” I say, “this game’s called Two-Twenty-One. You get close to twenty-one, you win. Go over? You lose.”
“Like blackjack,” he says smugly.
I arch a brow. “You been gambling already?”
He shrugs. “My mom says I’m good at probability.”
“Your mom’s not wrong.”
He grins and rolls. “Nine and a three!”
“Hit or stay?”
He thinks. “Hit.”
He rolls again. “Seven. Nineteen.”
“Gutsy.”
The rest of the class starts to drift forward, circling like mini-sharks. They want in. They smell something new. Structured chaos. Just enough danger to be fun.
I keep them circling with bait—dice games, quick math, color-coded scoreboards. Nothing illegal. Nothing obvious. Just the sense of control, of focus.
Ben’s the sharpest. Picks up on patterns fast. His posture’s confident. His instincts, uncanny.
But I keep it all locked down inside. No hints. No tells.
Because I don’t know.
Because Ican’t know.
And if I show my hand too soon, I’ll lose the only shot I’ve got.
So I smile, keep the dice rolling, and let the class fall into rhythm.
