They’re terrible at first. No coordination. All fingers and frustration.
But then it happens—Ben, standing in the beamlight, hands twisted into an awkward shape—and suddenly, a near-perfect shadow dragon spreads its wings across the back wall.
Silent.
Majestic.
Recognizable.
The class goes still.
“That’s the one I draw,” he whispers. “The one from my dreams.”
My heart thunders.
Kairo told me once that he never asked about his father. Never pushed.
But now, with no prompt, he’s showing the shape of what he’s always known.
And he doesn’t even realize it.
I swallow hard.
“Nice job,” I say, clapping lightly.
The other kids join in. It breaks the moment. But inside, something’s cracked open and pouring out, hot and unstoppable.
After class, the PTA rep—a sharp-eyed woman named Vellia with the posture of a military commander and the personality of a stingray—pulls me aside.
“I heard about the… games,” she says flatly.
“Educational simulations,” I correct.
She eyes me.
Then glances at the shadow-puppet setup still smoldering faintly with fusion heat.
“The kids like you,” she says finally. “They’re calmer. Less biting. That’s not nothing.”
I nod. “Appreciate the vote of reluctant confidence.”
“You’re still on watch,” she adds.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”
She walks off without saying goodbye.
Progress.
I’m still cleaning up when the classroom door hisses open again.
“Tell me you didn’t use black-market tubes in a kindergarten lesson.”
Garkin.
Of course.
I turn and see him, standing there with a box under one arm and a look on his face that says I’m about to hate everything he’s about to say.
