Monkey Business shifts his stance, weight rolling lazily from one foot to the other like he's got all the time in the world. His voice is smooth, casual, almost amused - like he's explaining something simple, something obvious, something we should have figured out already.

"If you haven't heard of us, that's okay," He spreads his arms, slow, deliberate. "We're here to make an impact."

The silence in the cafeteria isn't just quiet anymore. It's crushed. Pressurized. Like nobody wants to move, like shifting even a little might make something snap. I see people white-knuckling their phones, eyes locked on the screen, shoulders tight, breathing shallow. Someone near the front of the room lets out a tiny, panicked hiccup and immediately slaps a hand over their mouth.

Monkey Business keeps talking. "We have forced NBC10 to play this video, and used another operative to commandeer the emergency alert system. That's why you're all here with us right now. It's a group activity. Our suicide bombers are under the effect of my power, which creates a psychologically and physiologically compelling contract between me and the guy on the other end. You can call it a "geas". Don't feel too bad for them, they knew what they were signing up for."

I don't move. I don't blink. My blood sense is screaming, but it's useless. I can feel the tension running through the cafeteria, the uneven rhythms of panicked heartbeats, but there's no focus to it, no direction, just a mass of fear sitting like a stone in my chest.

The goth sitting next to Alex - Max, maybe? - makes a soft, strangled sound. Someone across the room whispers something frantic, voice trembling. A chair scrapes against the tile as one of the teachers - Mr. Nunez - steps forward, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't move toward the front of the room, just looks at his phone like he's expecting it to give him an out that isn't coming.

Jordan exhales through their nose, quiet, controlled. "Dude really knows how to work a room."

I glance at them. They aren't smiling.

Monkey Business continues, voice calm, level, and completely detached from the chaos he's causing. "You might find this to be needlessly brutal, but we believe our actions are in the best interest of a society that has become sclerotic, arthritic, unable to adapt to a world where the best and worst among us possess the ability to do miracles on a daily basis."

His head tilts just slightly, like he's waiting for someone to argue with him. Nobody does.

Someone at the far end of the cafeteria is shaking too hard to hold their phone steady, their hand half-covering the screen, but they don't look away. Nobody looks away.

Jordan shifts in their seat, lowering their voice. "He's enjoying this too much."

I nod, barely.

Monkey Business steps back just enough to gesture grandly to the people behind him. "We reject this order of mediocrity. This is our manifesto - we will destroy society as it stands and ensure a true meritocracy, where all people have access to the superpowers they deserve, and the rules are made by those with the expertise and willpower to forge those rules into being. No more bureaucrats. No more paperwork. Only miracles and those that know what to do with them. This is our world."

A sharp inhale from someone a few tables over. A muttered curse. Someone else whispering what the hell does that even mean?

He keeps going.

"We currently have 30,000 contracted individuals in Philadelphia alone, as you can see from this huge stack of papers next to me. This doesn't even account for our operatives in every other city in the eastern seaboard. Rogue Wave numbers 60,000 strong, with cells in every city and town from Maine to Florida."

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Jordan doesn't even hesitate. "Lie."

I exhale. "Obviously. But who's it for? Us, or the cops?" I whisper, too quiet.

Jordan's fingers tap a quick rhythm against their knee, too controlled to be nerves, more like calculating. "No way they have sixty thousand. Not even close. But he wants people to think they do."

"Scare tactic."

"Yeah, but a good one. Who's gonna call your bluff when you have two remote suicide bombers set up?"

The cafeteria is so quiet, I can hear the sound of someone's fingernails tapping against the back of their phone, fast, erratic, barely keeping still. Teachers are still frozen, still waiting, like they don't know if trying to calm people down will just make it worse. People are whispering, just enough that I know they're whispering, but not what they're saying.

I glance back at the screen.

Monkey Business is still standing center frame, still completely at ease, still acting like he's telling us something inevitable. My ribs ache. He claps his hands together again, his favorite motion in the world, the sound loud and sharp in the suffocating silence of the cafeteria. His voice is still bright, pleasant, almost casual, like he's just giving a morning briefing at a tech startup.

"If you are one of those contracted individuals, you will now receive additional instructions."

The room shifts, subtle but unmistakable. People glance around, scanning faces, searching for some kind of reaction, but nobody moves. Nobody would. Not if they were smart. I hear someone mutter what the fuck?. I see people scrutinizing the faces of their friends. Do you have a contract? Do you?

"You will do your best to undermine the influence of the organization known as 'the Kingdom of Keys' without revealing your nature as one of our contractors, through any means available to you."

A ripple of confusion across the room, barely audible - someone whispers holy shit, another person swears under their breath. My blood sense pulses uncomfortably, the cafeteria still a mess of elevated heart rates, rising tension, fear curling under people's skin like it's settling in for the long haul.

Jordan lets out a slow breath through their nose. "Oh, this is new. Well, that obviates one piece of intel."

"If an individual you trust expresses interest in Rogue Wave's ideology," Monkey Business continues, voice smooth as ever, "get them to sign their legal name on a piece of paper and bring it with you the next time we are in touch. Rush Order will get in contact with them and welcome them to the fold."

I don't like the way he says it. I grip my fork just a little too tight, the dull ache in my ribs grounding me. "Decentralized recruiting. How do you even handle this?" I ask Jordan, who stares at me with the most haunted look I've ever seen in their face. This isn't fun anymore, not to them. A shiver rolls through me. My stomach turns.

Jordan mutters, "God, it's that easy. Just a signature, and bam. New cult member."

I swallow. "They don't even have to know what they're signing up for."

Monkey Business spreads his arms, palms open, expression hidden but undeniably smug. "With your help, we can create a better, fairer world. One free of despots and tyrants, where the words 'Democrat' and 'Republican' have no meaning, and where we can use our miracles productively, to produce abundance for anyone willing to reach out and take it."

Nobody in the cafeteria moves.

A kid across the room is staring at the screen so hard it looks like he's trying to disappear into his chair. A group near the back is huddled together, their phones held up at slightly different angles, the overlapping stream delay making an eerie echo of Monkey Business's words.

Monkey Business gestures off-screen, rolling his shoulders like he's wrapping things up. "Now, NBC10 guys and emergency alert system guys, our hostage will stand still and allow you to pull out the blue wire from their bomb, followed by the green wire, which will disable it. I may be a horrendous terrorist and threat to the social order, but one thing you'll come to understand as we have more of these little chats is that I am not a liar."

There's a pause. A beat where the entire cafeteria is still holding its breath.

"After you've disabled their bombs," he continues, grinning, "you can throw them to the cops or do whatever, I don't give a shit. They'll be paralyzed until the top of the hour anyway."

His gloved fingers snap together.

"Peace out."

And then the stream cuts to black.

The cafeteria doesn't move. Nobody speaks, nobody breathes.

Phones stay lit up, glowing in the dimness, the silence so complete that I can hear the buzz of the cafeteria lights overhead, hear the slow, unsteady inhales of at least three people nearby. Then, somewhere to my left, a phone drops onto a tray, and everyone begins talking at once.