Samuel opened one eye.
No yacht. No script pages being shoved into his face. No Ari yelling at someone over speakerphone.
Just the ceiling.
"Right," he muttered, voice scratchy. "School still exists."
He lay there for a moment, one arm flung over his face like the universe had personally offended him. He had gotten used to the idea of days that didn't start with bells or lockers. Yesterday was quiet, fun, weirdly productive. But today?
Today came with hallways and whispers.
His phone buzzed.
Dylan [7:02 AM]
Mr. Hollywood returns. Should I bring a pen for autographs?
Samuel stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
"…What?"
He dropped the phone face-down on the blanket and sighed. "Never should've left that field."
Downstairs, the house was already awake. The smell of strong coffee drifted out from the kitchen—Michael's usual brew, the kind Samuel wouldn't touch unless it was the apocalypse.
Boots hit tile. Radio voices mumbled about weather and traffic.
Michael stood in uniform by the counter, finishing his drink and checking something on his phone.
He looked up as Samuel padded into the room, barefoot and still half-asleep.
"You heading back to school, or solving another art case with your imaginary British accent?"
Samuel rubbed his face. "Was that jealousy?"
Michael smirked. "Just saying. You cracked a cold case before most rookies. Might have to start calling you Junior Holmes."
Samuel grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and leaned back against the counter. "If I solve two in a row, I want an LAPD badge and a trench coat."
"I'll get you a magnifying glass and a skateboard," Michael said, tipping his thermos. "Budget cutbacks."
Samuel took a sip. "Catch at least one art thief today. Make me proud."
Michael gave him a dry look. "That your official request?"
"I figured time travel was too ambitious."
Michael chuckled and gave a mock salute. "One art thief. No promises on the DeLorean."
Outside, the air was crisp—morning-slick and cool against his skin. Samuel laced up his shoes at the curb, stretched out his legs, and tapped play on a silent track. Earbuds in. Music off.
The run helped. It always did.
It shook off the film of sleep, burned through the leftover tension. Every footfall reminded him he was still in control—of something, at least.
He cut through streets and loops he knew by heart, his pace steady, his thoughts wandering. As he passed a pair of students walking toward school, he caught the faintest whisper:
"That's him, right?"
He didn't slow down. Just kept going.
By the time he got back, the sarcasm had softened. His lungs were warm, his mind clear. The rhythm returned.
He dropped the hoodie, rolled his shoulders, and stepped into the backyard.
The bow was already waiting for him by the wall, polished and silent. A stack of tennis balls sat beside it, each one marked with a faint "X" in Sharpie — his morning targets.
He clipped one to the string, stepped back, and drew.
Thwip.
Dead center.
He didn't rush. He didn't speak.
Another ball. Another step back. Another shot.
Thwip.
It flew smooth and split just off the mark — still clean. He nodded to himself. Adjusted slightly.
He went again.
Thwip.
Perfect.
He shifted angles now, tested from different ranges, different heights. He wasn't just hitting — he was dialed in. Every draw felt lighter. Every release felt right. He let the silence wrap around him.
Three more arrows, three perfect flights.
He lowered the bow, breathing steady.
His lips barely moved, but the thought came clear as day:Yeah. It's gonna be a good one.
Back inside, he washed up quickly and pulled out the supplies. The kitchen was bright now, the light cutting in over the counter. His hands moved without hesitation — clean, confident.
He laid out three sets: wax paper, lunch boxes, folded napkins, a pair of black markers for labeling.
First sandwich: toasted sourdough, turkey, provolone, pepper spread. A touch of mustard. He cut it on a bias and wrapped it tight.
Second: veggie wrap — hummus base, cucumber, roasted peppers, spinach, feta. He added a note to the side:"Don't complain. It's good for you."He wasn't sure if it was for Alex or Tori — it applied to both.
Third: leftover grilled chicken, sliced thin, stuffed into a ciabatta roll with arugula and a thin smear of aioli. His own.
He filled the rest of the boxes with sliced apple, trail mix, and a cookie he definitely didn't bake. Labeled them in fat letters:
S. A. T.
It looked… professional. Like something he would've paid for in his old life.
He snapped the lids shut and lined them up on the counter. Three perfect hits, just like the arrows.
He checked his phone again.
Still no clue what Dylan's message meant.Still didn't care.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, lunches packed, hair still slightly damp from the shower — he stepped outside.
School wasn't a studio. And he wasn't a celebrity.
But today, he felt like showing up anyway.
The school came into view slowly, like it was waiting for him.
Samuel took his time locking up his bike. There was no rush — not today. He stretched once, then slung his bag over his shoulder and strolled toward the entrance like it was just another Thursday.
It wasn't.
As he stepped into the hallway, the sound of conversation dropped a few degrees. Not silent, just… warped. Like someone had turned down the volume but left the tension.
He walked past the vending machines. Two juniors glanced up. One nudged the other, but said nothing.
A few steps later, someone muttered something. He didn't catch the words, but he didn't have to.
Samuel kept walking. Same stride. Same expression. He scratched his neck and glanced casually to the side.
More stares. More not-quite-whispers. No one brave enough to ask anything directly.
Further down the hall, Tori leaned against her locker, mid-conversation with someone he didn't recognize. She looked up when he passed and gave him a short, unreadable look — part surprise, part… something else. Her smile wasn't mocking. But it wasn't normal either.
Then came Alex.
She was standing near the door of their shared class, a book tucked under one arm and her hair pulled back. As soon as she saw him, her gaze tracked him silently.
No wave. No greeting.
Just a knowing expression — like she'd been waiting to see what he would do.
He stepped into class five minutes late. First period — history. Normally, that meant a half-annoyed glare from Mr. Fields, a sarcastic "Nice of you to join us," followed by a trip to the front desk for a late slip.
Today?
Mr. Fields paused, blinked once, then just gestured toward the back. "Just grab a seat."
Samuel hesitated for half a second, then walked to his usual spot. No slip. No comment. No attention.
He unpacked his notebook and leaned back in his chair.
The weird thing?
No one else laughed. No one clapped. But heads turned. Two students near the window whispered fast, then looked away when he glanced up.
He squinted slightly.
Okay.
That was new.
Halfway through the lesson, he leaned sideways and whispered to Alex, "Is there something on my face?"
Alex didn't look up from her notes. "Nope."
"Then why is everyone acting like I just walked in with a film crew?"
Now she looked at him — just enough to raise an eyebrow. "You really don't get it, do you?"
He frowned. "Get what?"
She shook her head, turned a page, and said, "Don't worry. You'll catch up."
Samuel sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing just a little.
Huh.
Weird morning.
The bell rang, but no one moved like it mattered.
The hallway was already full — not chaotic, but dense, like a hallway right before a storm. Samuel stepped out of class, backpack slung over one shoulder, and felt it instantly.
The glances.
They weren't subtle anymore.
A girl from math class brushed past and turned her head a second too late. A senior he barely knew said something under his breath to his friend and glanced back twice.
Samuel adjusted the strap on his bag, walked steady, calm.
But inside? He was starting to feel it.
He spotted Alex first — already walking ahead like she didn't want to get swept up in anything. He caught up to her with a few quick steps.
"What did I miss?" he asked.
She didn't break stride. "Everything."
Before he could ask more, Tori and Dylan appeared from the side, half-laughing about something. Tori spotted Samuel and lit up. "Hey, there he is."
Dylan leaned in, grinning. "Big day, Mr. Chase."
Samuel squinted. "Okay. No. What's going on?"
Dylan raised both brows. "You serious?"
"I've been serious since everyone started looking at me like I kicked a puppy."
Tori grinned. "You really thought no one would notice you walked off the field?"
"I thought," Samuel said flatly, "that no one cared."
Dylan laughed. "Right. No one cared… until Cassie told the coach you left with Vincent Chase."
Samuel stopped walking. "She what?"
"Oh yeah," Tori said, eyes wide. "Coach asked where you went. She said you left with some guy, then just casually dropped Vinny's name."
"She said it like it was no big deal," Dylan added, "and everyone thought she was lying — until she pulled out that picture."
"What picture?" Samuel asked, already annoyed by the answer.
"The one of you, Vinny, Turtle, Ari, Drama, E… You at the boat. Looking like you belonged there."
Samuel groaned. "You're kidding."
"Nope," Tori said, popping the p. "Then Haley, being Haley, told people you didn't show up yesterday because you had a meeting with Ari Gold."
Samuel ran a hand down his face. "Great."
He took a breath, trying to keep his voice even. "So now what, everyone thinks I'm... what? Famous?"
"No," Dylan said, grinning. "Worse."
Samuel raised an eyebrow. "What's worse than famous?"
Dylan leaned in. "Interesting."
They kept walking, but slower now.
Samuel could hear the conversations around them more clearly. Names floated around. "Vincent Chase,""Ari,""Is he really in a movie?"
He heard someone say his name, followed by a confident, "Yeah, he's working on a script. My cousin's in film school. He's probably gonna direct it."
Another student actually stopped him.
"Hey, uh… can I get a picture? My sister doesn't believe we go to school together."
Samuel blinked. "I'm not a tourist attraction."
"Oh," the guy muttered, backing off. "Right. Sorry."
Two girls passed by, one of them whispering, "I heard he's friends with Chris Pine."
Samuel turned to Alex. "I don't even like Chris Pine."
Alex shrugged. "Rumors don't ask for your opinion."
Tori nudged him. "You really didn't think this would happen?"
"I thought I walked away quiet," he said. "I thought no one saw me."
Alex slowed just enough to glance over. "They saw you."
Samuel exhaled, eyes scanning the hallway — every whisper, every glance, every story being built on top of half a truth.
"…Yeah," he said. "I get that now."
The next class had barely started when a soft knock came at the door.
Samuel was settling into his seat, flipping through his notes, when the teacher looked toward the hallway and then turned to him.
"Samuel? The principal would like to see you."
A few students looked up.
Dylan leaned in with a grin. "Oof. They don't call the big guy unless it's serious."
Samuel blinked. "Seriously?"
The teacher just nodded politely. "Please bring your things."
Dylan didn't stop. "Hey — if this is about your movie rights, let me play the best friend."
Samuel ignored him, slung his bag over one shoulder, and walked out without a word — calm on the outside, but already trying to figure out how far this was going to go.
The front office was too bright, too neat. The chairs looked like they belonged in a dentist's waiting room. One of the posters on the wall said "Make Today Count!" in Comic Sans.
He stepped inside, and the secretary looked up with a practiced smile.
"You can go right in, Samuel. He's expecting you."
Of course he was.
Principal Lawrence stood by the window — clean-pressed shirt, thoughtful posture, that default grown-up smile that said we're all friends here even when they weren't.
"Samuel," he said, turning with open hands. "Come in. Please — have a seat."
Samuel sat, posture relaxed, expression neutral.
The principal moved to his desk, sat down, and laced his fingers like this was just a routine chat.
"I like to check in with some of our freshmen early in the year," he began, tone light. "See how things are going. First impressions, adjustment, that sort of thing."
Samuel nodded once. Sure. Just a friendly check-in — scheduled five minutes after rumors peaked.
Principal Lawrence continued. "And when I heard you left football training midway through — and weren't at school the next day — I figured it might be worth a quick conversation."
There it was. Dressed up nicely.
Samuel had been in school before. Real school. He knew the signs. Principals didn't 'check in' unless there was something in it for them.
He kept his voice even. "I gave it a shot. Some people really wanted me to join. But I don't think it's for me."
The principal nodded thoughtfully. "That's fair. It's not for everyone."
He leaned back, casual on the surface, but still very clearly tuned in.
"We all find our paths differently. Some students connect through sports. Others through performance. Or writing. Or… media."
That pause was too precise to be random.
Samuel let the silence hang. He knew this wasn't really about football.
The principal pressed on. "If I'm being honest, I also wanted to ask how you're feeling about school overall. Any parts you're struggling with? Anything you'd change?"
That part wasn't fake. The man was actually listening now. Focused.
So Samuel answered.
"I don't like how most of it's built on pretending. We memorize, repeat, forget. We don't build anything. It's like they're preparing us for nothing."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't look for effect.
Just said it.
The principal sat still for a moment. Then he gave a small nod, like he'd expected that answer and respected it anyway.
"Well said."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a slim folder.
"We have an artistic curriculum — film, writing, performance, design. Not advertised widely. It's invitation-only. But I'd like to offer you a place in it."
Samuel looked at him carefully. "Why?"
Principal Lawrence's answer came without hesitation. "Because you clearly have something to say. And the school would rather support that than be caught off guard by it."
There it was again — soft pressure in polite wrapping.
Samuel nodded slowly. "I'll think about it."
"Take your time," the principal said with that same calm smile. "And if anything else comes up — anything you need — don't hesitate to reach out."
Samuel stood. "Appreciate it."
He walked out without glancing back.
Samuel walked the hallway alone, footsteps soft against the floor, head just slightly lowered—not in shame, just thinking.
Artistic curriculum.
He almost laughed aloud. What a joke.
"He hadn't written a single original song. His 'TV script'? Just repackaged memory. Theft with formatting."
But the principal had looked at him differently. Like he was someone worth betting on. Like he mattered.
Not just because he could maybe be something.
But because people were already watching.
Samuel had never been treated that way by a school before — not unless they wanted to punish him or move him along.
So maybe this artistic curriculum thing wasn't about "being special."
Maybe it was just space. A chance to be left alone. To work, to think, to breathe. Hell, it beat getting tossed around by Thad Castle every other afternoon.
And he'd definitely need to talk to Michael. After what happened with Vinny and Ari... he wasn't doing secrets anymore.
He slipped back into class just before the bell, sliding into his seat like nothing happened.
But Alex, Tori, and Dylan were already turned toward him — like a panel of judges waiting for a confession.
Dylan leaned in, smirking. "Well?"
Samuel raised an eyebrow. "Well what?"
Tori tilted her head. "The principal called you in."
Alex gave him a long look, quiet but sharp. "It wasn't just about football, was it?"
Samuel exhaled through his nose and shrugged. "Just a principal check-in."
Dylan made a face. "Right. He does that. With the one kid half the school's gossiping about."
Samuel leaned back in his chair. "He probably heard the same rumor as everyone else. Thought it'd be smart to act like he's involved before someone higher up starts asking questions."
Tori blinked. "Rumor? You mean the Vinny Chase thing?"
Samuel nodded once, tone flat. "Yeah. Now he wants to throw me into the artistic curriculum."
Tori sat up straighter. "Wait — are you serious?"
Alex didn't say anything. She was watching him closely.
"You're kidding," Tori said. "That's invite-only. They don't just... offer that."
Samuel didn't answer right away. He noticed how Tori's expression shifted — not angry, but edged with something quieter.
"You okay?" he asked her.
She smiled quickly. "Yeah. I just— I've been trying to get into Hollywood Art School since, like, forever. My sister had a showcase there last year, and now she's getting auditions. It's kind of… the goal."
Samuel nodded slowly, but something inside him tugged.
Tori's already got one foot out of this school, he realized.Probably won't be here much longer.
She kept going, voice lighter now. "It's different there. Real. Just music and film and acting — no filler, no busywork."
He gave a small laugh. "Sounds like your place, not mine."
She raised an eyebrow. "You literally got invited to the art track."
"I don't have the talent for that school," he said. "You'd survive. I'd sink."
She didn't argue. Just smiled a little and looked away.
The bell rang, and students poured into the hallway again, all noise and motion.
Samuel stayed seated for a second longer, pulling out his phone. He hovered over Michael's name in his contacts.
He hadn't said anything yet.
But this?
This was one of those things you didn't drop on someone after the fact.
He deserved to hear it first.
The hallway had emptied. Samuel stood near the stairwell, phone in hand, still thinking about the offer from Principal Lawrence. He hadn't moved. The buzz of earlier chatter was gone, but his mind was louder than ever.
He opened his contacts.
Hovered for a second.
Then tapped: Michael.
The line rang twice.
"Yo," Michael answered, alert but casual. "Everything alright?"
Samuel hesitated. "Yeah. Just… calling."
A pause.
"You called?" Michael said, genuine surprise in his voice. "What happened, did school catch fire?"
Samuel rolled his eyes, though Michael couldn't see it. "You're hilarious."
"You never call during school."
"I know. Thought you'd be proud."
Michael laughed quietly. "Alright, now I'm worried. Talk to me."
Samuel leaned back against the wall, voice low. "Got pulled into the principal's office. He offered me a spot in some kind of artistic curriculum. Writing, design, that sort of thing."
"Huh. They just hand those out?"
"No," Samuel said. "Apparently it's invite-only."
"You want it?"
"I'm thinking about it," Samuel replied. "Feels like a trap. But also? Beats getting body-checked by Thad Castle three times a week."
Michael didn't hesitate. "If it gives you room to breathe, do it. You don't need my permission for that. I just want you to survive high school with something left."
Samuel almost smiled. "Look at you. Getting all supportive."
"I'll cut it out. Promise."
There was a pause.
Then Michael added, "Weird timing, though. I was about to call you too."
"Oh?"
"Someone came by the station this morning. FBI."
Samuel stood up a little straighter.
Michael continued, voice steady. "They looked into that painting you flagged yesterday — the one at the gallery."
Samuel's chest tightened just a little. "And?"
"It wasn't just a random forgery," Michael said. "Turns out it's connected to one of the biggest art forgers on record. Cold case from years back. They didn't think this guy was still active."
"…Seriously?" Samuel said, voice soft but sharp.
"Yeah. Real deal. Guy flew in from New York the moment they confirmed it. Says he wants to meet the person who caught the flaw."
Samuel didn't speak.
Michael filled the space. "He asked specifically. Said it didn't make sense how anyone spotted it — let alone a kid."
Samuel let out a slow breath. "You get a name?"
"Peter Burke."
That landed.
Michael went on, "He's upstairs now, talking with Captain Andersen. I told her we'd come in together after school."
"Alright."
"Bring your notes if you've got 'em. Or just your brain."
Samuel nodded, even though no one could see it. "Got it."
"And hey," Michael added, "whether this turns into nothing or not—good catch. Seriously. Not every day the FBI shows up because of a high schooler."
Samuel let out a quiet snort. "Great. Another rumor for tomorrow."
"I'll start printing T-shirts," Michael said. Then, softer, "Proud of you."
Samuel didn't say anything for a second. Then: "Thanks."
They hung up.
He stood there for a moment longer, phone still in hand, feeling the quiet press in again — but different this time. Not the silence of being alone.
The silence before something new.
He looked down at the screen.
Then finally slid the phone into his pocket and turned back toward class.