“Yeah?” I manage a smile. “Let’s make ‘em even better this time.”
As I lower myself to the floor, pain lances through my side. I grit my teeth and focus on the kids’ laughter instead. Their energy fills the room—bright, unfiltered, alive.
Maliek lingers in the hallway for a moment before leaving. I see his reflection in the glass—just long enough to catch the smug tilt of his mouth.
I’ll let him have his moment.
For now.
Because I know the truth.
And sooner or later, so will Kairo.
When the day ends,I stay late. Clean up the chalk. Sweep the glitter that never really leaves. The sunset bleeds through the windows, painting the classroom gold.
For a moment, I let myself breathe.
Then my ribs remind me of what I am.
My comm buzzes once—Garkin’s code.
Just one line of text:
The Nine are moving.
I close my eyes.
The peace I was pretending to have collapses like paper in rain.
CHAPTER 29
KAIRO
Ihit the door of the school hallway like I’m slamming a warning into every locker, every linoleum tile, every kid’s sneakers echoing in the corridor. The morning bell is still humming the last note of its toll when I stride in, compad clipped to my hip, boots clicking down the wide hall with purpose. The smell of cafeteria hash and freshly polished tile greets me, but it’s like background noise to the anger that's lighting up inside my chest.
I stop at the classroom door before the kids arrive, inhale the faint scent of chalk dust and colored markers leaking out under the gap, and I wait. I don’t knock. I don’t politely peek. I just step inside.
Jav’s sitting at his teacher’s desk, collecting papers. His coat is off, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that look less like arms and more like road maps of every fight, every near-miss, every burst of adrenaline. He looks up when I push the door closed behind me and the hollow click echoes louder than I expected.
“Morning,” he says, voice smooth. The fluorescent light overhead washes his face pale, but there’s something in his eyes—guarded. Waiting.
“Kairo,” he says — not a greeting, an acknowledgement. I take it.
I cross to stand in front of him. The kids stream past behind me, chattering, backpacks slung, the usual chaos of a mid-morning shift change. But here—between us—the noise turns muted, like someone turned the volume down so I can hear the fast pulse of my own worries.
“I want to talk. Now. Private.”
He nods, stands. “Where?”
“Here.” I motion to the empty Part-Time teacher’s office behind his classroom. “We’ll use your office. Please.”
He gives me a tight grin. “Fine.”
I lead the way, boots dragging slightly. I can taste the cold edge of fear in the air, metallic and sharp. In the office, the window blinds are half-closed, so beams of early sunlight slice in at odd angles and paint the dust motes gold. The room smells like old paper and eraser shavings.
I shut the door behind us. I lean against the teacher’s desk, arms crossed. My compad buzzes lightly in my pocket but I ignore it.
“Yesterday,” I say, eyes locked on his, “I saw him.”
