The conversation with Professor Hughes stayed with Victor as he made his way toward the front of the school, where Nate and Rhea were waiting. Nate leaned casually against the low stone wall near the gate, a soda can balanced on two fingers as if he were testing gravity’s patience. Rhea, perched on the edge of the wall with her project notebook open, didn’t look up until Victor was only a few steps away.

“Finally,” Nate said, shaking his head. “You disappeared like you were on a secret mission or something. Hughes make you scrub chalkboards or something?”

“Not quite,” Victor replied, forcing a small smile.

Rhea tilted her head slightly, studying him. “What was it about?”

Victor hesitated, unsure how much to say. “Just... advice.”

Rhea’s brow furrowed, but before she could push further, Nate hopped down from the wall, clapping his hands. “Alright, enough interrogation. We’ve got important matters to attend to—like watching me obliterate you two at bowling.”

Rhea smirked, closing her notebook. “You mean like last time, when you threw three gutter balls in a row?”

“That was a fluke,” Nate protested, his grin widening. “This time, you’re witnessing the return of the Carter bowling dynasty.”

“Dynasty?” Victor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll see,” Nate said, already walking ahead. “Prepare to be humbled.”

The walk to the bowling alley was filled with Nate’s antics and Rhea’s dry retorts, the rhythm of their banter so natural it almost made Victor forget how new he was to all this. Almost. He trailed a step behind, letting their voices wash over him like background music, something familiar and comforting.

When they arrived, the bowling alley was a lively mix of laughter, music, and the satisfying crash of pins. Nate practically dragged them to a lane, immediately claiming the best ball for himself.

“Alright, first game’s on me,” Nate said, typing their names into the screen. “You can pay me back by acknowledging my greatness.”

Rhea rolled her eyes, grabbing a lighter ball. “You’re lucky we even let you pick the teams.”

Victor chuckled, loosening up slightly as they settled in. It was surprisingly easy to let the tension from school fade—until Nate’s phone buzzed mid-game. He glanced at the screen, his smile faltering for just a moment before he masked it with a shrug.

“What’s up?” Rhea asked, noticing his reaction.

“Just Zeke being Zeke,” Nate said, though his tone was a touch more serious. “Apparently, there’s a rumor going around. Something about a few kids from school disappearing.”

“Disappearing?” Victor repeated, his stomach tightening.

“Yeah,” Nate said, scrolling through the message. “Three students. All from our year. They left for school one morning and never made it home. Cops are involved, but... no one’s saying much.”

“That’s... unsettling,” Rhea said, setting her ball back on the rack. “Do we know them?”

“Not personally,” Nate said, his usual grin absent. “Zeke’s just stirring the pot, probably. He’s acting like it’s a big conspiracy or something.”

Victor’s mind raced. Missing students? It didn’t feel like something to dismiss, even if Zeke had a flair for drama. “Do the police think they ran away?”

“Who knows?” Nate said, shrugging again. “But it’s weird, right? Three kids, all at the same time?”

“Weird and dangerous,” Rhea muttered, crossing her arms. “It’s not exactly normal to just vanish.”

The thought weighed on them, the usual buzz of the alley feeling muted for a moment. Nate broke the silence with a loud clap. “Alright, enough of that. We’re here to bowl, not solve mysteries. Your turn, genius,” he said, nudging Victor toward the lane.

Victor hesitated, but he let the banter pull him back into the moment. For the rest of the game, they kept the conversation light, though the edges of unease lingered like a shadow neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

The sky had deepened into an inky black by the time Victor and Rhea left the bowling alley. The streets of Hawthorn were quiet, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows that flickered as cars passed intermittently. Victor walked beside Rhea, her presence a calming contrast to the faint unease that had settled over him since Nate’s comment about the missing students.

“Good game,” Rhea said, breaking the silence. She looked up at him, her ponytail swaying with each step. “Even if Nate is delusional about being a bowling legend.”

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Victor chuckled softly. “I think he just likes the theatrics.”

“You think?” she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Anyway, thanks for tagging along. It was fun having you there.”

“Yeah,” Victor said, his smile faint but genuine. “It was.”

They reached Rhea’s street, a quiet row of houses with neatly kept lawns and the occasional porch light glowing warmly. Her house was at the end of the block, its yellow-lit windows standing out against the darkness. She stopped at the gate, turning to face him.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah. See you,” Victor replied, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Rhea hesitated, her eyes flicking over his face as if she wanted to say something else. But instead, she just smiled, giving him a small wave as she turned toward the house. Victor watched her until she disappeared inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

The street felt eerily quiet as he turned back toward his route home. The stillness wasn’t unusual—Hawthorn wasn’t a bustling city—but tonight it carried a strange weight. His footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement, and the stretch of road ahead seemed darker than it should have been.

Victor quickened his pace, his hands tightening in his jacket pockets. He tried to shake off the feeling, telling himself it was just the rumors from earlier, the kind of thing that preyed on your mind when you were alone in the dark.

But then he heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible rustling. He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The sound came from behind him, near the edge of the sidewalk where the shadows of a tall oak tree stretched across the ground.

He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the area. Nothing moved. The wind stirred the branches above, making them sway slightly, but the street was empty. No cars. No people. Just the faint hum of a distant streetlamp.

Victor exhaled, forcing himself to keep walking. But as he rounded the next corner, the unease returned, sharper this time. It felt as though something—or someone—was watching him. He glanced over his shoulder, but the street behind him was empty, the faint glow of Rhea’s street far behind.

“Just my imagination,” he muttered to himself, though his voice sounded small in the quiet.

The rustling came again, louder now, and this time it was accompanied by the faintest hint of movement. Victor’s heart pounded as he turned sharply, his eyes locking onto the darkened alley he’d just passed.

At first, it seemed empty, just a narrow gap between two buildings. But then, at the far end, he saw it—a shadow that didn’t belong to the walls or the flickering light overhead. It moved unnaturally, almost liquid, shifting and rippling as though it were alive.

Victor’s stomach dropped. He took a step back, his pulse roaring in his ears. The shadow seemed to stretch toward him, its edges curling like tendrils. He stumbled, nearly tripping over the curb as he backed away.

Suddenly, the sound of tires on gravel broke the silence. A car turned onto the street, its headlights flooding the alley and momentarily blinding him. When the light passed, the shadow was gone.

Victor didn’t wait to see if it would return. He broke into a sprint, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he darted down the street. By the time he reached his house, his hands were trembling, and his mind was racing with questions he couldn’t begin to answer.

What was that? And why did it feel like it was watching him?

Victor slammed the door shut behind him, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he leaned against the cool wood. The quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft tick of the wall clock were the only sounds that greeted him, grounding him after the panic of the walk home. The house was dark, save for the faint glow of a single lamp in the living room, its weak light casting long shadows across the floor.

“Home,” he muttered to himself, though the word felt hollow tonight.

His father’s voice, thick with drunken slurs, drifted from the living room. “That you, boy?”

Victor stiffened, the sharp edge of his anxiety cutting into something colder—resentment. He didn’t answer, hoping his silence would be enough to let him slip upstairs unnoticed.

But the creak of the floorboards betrayed him.

“Get in here,” his father barked, his tone harsh, though it lacked the usual venom. The sound of a bottle clinking against the table followed his words.

Victor considered ignoring him, but the effort of pretending he wasn’t home felt like too much. He stepped into the living room, his expression carefully neutral. His father was slouched on the couch, a half-empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His once-proud military bearing was now a shadow of itself, reduced to this: unkempt hair, a face lined with bitterness, and the faint odor of stale alcohol.

“Where’ve you been?” his father asked, his bloodshot eyes narrowing.

“Out,” Victor said simply.

His father snorted, tipping the bottle to his lips. “Always out, huh? Always runnin’ around. Just like your mother—thinking you’re better than this place.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “I’m not running from anything.”

His father let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No, you’re just runnin’ blind. No affinity, no future. Just a damn name. And you think that’ll carry you?”

The words hit harder than Victor wanted to admit, but he didn’t give his father the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he turned on his heel, muttering, “I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, you do that,” his father called after him, his voice dripping with mockery. “Dream of being something you’re not.”

Victor didn’t look back. He ascended the stairs two at a time, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each step. His room offered little solace—just a small, dimly lit space crammed with a desk, a twin bed, and piles of books and notebooks. But it was his, and tonight, that was enough.

He closed the door behind him and locked it, letting out a shaky breath as he leaned against the frame. The encounter in the alley replayed in his mind, sharper now that he was away from it. That thing—whatever it was—had felt alive. Malicious. And it had been watching him.

Victor moved to the desk, flipping on the lamp. The warm light pooled over his scattered notes and diagrams—plans he’d scribbled for the Etherion prosthetic project, ideas for mechanics, and the faint sketches of limbs he’d envisioned with Rhea earlier. He stared at them for a moment, his hands gripping the edges of the desk.

Then he caught sight of his reflection in the darkened window. His face looked pale, his eyes wide and tired, the faint shadows beneath them making him look older than he felt. His chest tightened as the memory of his father’s words echoed in his mind.

No affinity, no future.

Victor swallowed hard, his throat dry. He turned away from the window and sank onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. His heart still raced, the residual fear from the alley mixing with the sting of his father’s cruelty. For the first time in months, he felt the tears welling up, hot and unbidden.