Samuel moved through the hallway with his earbuds in and his thoughts miles away. The morning had already shifted everything. The call with Michael replayed in pieces—his voice, the tone, the name.
Peter Burke.
It sounded familiar. Not personal, but like background noise from a show he half-watched years ago. He tried to place it and immediately started mentally flipping through all the fictional agents he'd ever seen. Not The Mentalist. Not Dexter. Not Psych. Not Criminal Minds. The name didn't belong to any of them—but it still rang a bell, like a half-heard ringtone from another life.
God, he thought, why did so many cops shows exist?
At times like this, he wished he'd either watched a lot more TV or a lot less—never that frustrating in-between where everything blurred just enough to be useless.
Still, someone serious had flown in. Not because Samuel was special. Because he'd noticed something most people didn't. A flaw in a painting. A fracture. And now, for whatever reason, the FBI wanted to talk to him.
He should've been nervous. Maybe he was. But the feeling didn't rise to the surface. It just sat in the back of his head like a stone. Heavy, but quiet.
And as he passed the cafeteria, he could already feel more eyes on him—just not the kind that wore badges.
Bryce Walker leaned against the lockers near the cafeteria, arms folded across his chest, barely pretending to listen to the guy next to him. His eyes were locked on one person—Samuel.
The freshman who had the nerve to walk out of football practice mid-training and apparently went to hang out with Vincent Chase. Bryce had heard it three times already that week—in the gym, in the locker room, even from a sub who thought it was cool. And every time, it hit wrong.
No apology. No consequences. Just walked out. And now people were acting like that was normal.
"I'm gonna say something," Bryce muttered.
His friend gave a lazy shrug. "Whatever."
Bryce pushed off the locker and stepped into the flow of students.
Samuel pov
I noticed him before he opened his mouth.
Bryce Walker. That face wasn't hard to place.Not from school — from a screen.Thirteen Reasons Why.
Oh right. Bryce. The 13th reason.The rich one. The smug one. The reason the story got darker every time he smiled.
I hadn't seen anyone else from that world. Just Bryce. One more familiar face in a setting that was starting to feel less like a school and more like a network crossover special. Dunphys. Pirates. D-listers. Now high school villains.
I didn't stop.
"Yo, Chase Jr.—wait up," Bryce called, his voice slick with casual mockery.
I let it roll off.
"I said wait up, man! Don't ignore me. I'm talking to you."
Still nothing. The earbuds weren't playing anything, but they made ignoring people easier.
"You ditched the team to hang out with some washed-up actors, right? Big moves, man."
That one landed. I felt the hallway begin to shift. Footsteps slowed. Voices dropped. The kind of hush that usually came right before a storm.
Then he grabbed my arm.
I stopped.
Turned.
He was already smiling like he'd caught something. "What, that piss you off?"
I looked him dead in the eye. "No. Your sweaty hand just left a stain on my shirt."
Someone behind us laughed. A second voice joined in, softer. The energy changed. Pressure in the air thickened like humidity.
Tori stood nearby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and watching like she knew how this would go. Alex stood farther down the hall, still and focused. Dylan had the same half-smirk he wore every time someone lit a fuse near gasoline.
No one looked shocked.
Bryce didn't care. He stepped closer.
"You think you're better than us?" he asked, voice lowered just enough to pull the crowd in. "Too good for the team? You walk out, coach lets it slide, and now you're partying with D-listers like you're some kind of big deal?"
I stayed quiet. He didn't like that.The shove came a second later—sharper than it needed to be.
My body moved on instinct. One step to the side, fluid and clean. The shove missed. Bryce stumbled forward, confused and trying to catch himself.
He turned again, ready to reset. But by then, the hallway had shifted completely.
Phones were up. Someone shouted, "Fight!" The circle around us had fully formed.
Bryce lifted his fists, all performative motion and no structure. His weight was wrong. His stance was stiff. I could tell instantly—he'd never been trained. He moved like someone who won fights by being louder, not better.
I could've dodged every punch. Slipped each one until he tired himself out or got embarrassed. But that wouldn't have ended it—not for someone like Bryce.
Guys like him didn't stop until you gave them a line they couldn't cross.
He came at me wild, swinging without form. I shifted sideways. Smooth. Easy. His fist cut through air.
He swore under his breath and came again, quicker this time. Still reckless. Still wide open.
I exhaled through my nose, stepped in, and dipped my head forward.
His knuckles slammed into the top of my skull with a crack that echoed like it belonged to someone else.
Then the screaming started.
Bryce stumbled back, clutching his hand like it had caught fire. "Shit—shit—I think I broke my hand!"
Everything stopped.
The crowd froze. No more chanting. Phones lowered. The hallway fell into a silence that felt too clean to be real—like someone had hit pause on the world.
I didn't move.
My hands were still at my sides. My weight was balanced, my breath steady.
Bryce stumbled back, cradling his wrist, face twisted in pain and disbelief. He looked at me like I'd cheated.
I didn't look angry. Just mildly annoyed.
"You should put some ice on that," I said quietly.
Then I walked past him. The hallway opened for me, and I didn't look back.
Samuel didn't slow his pace as he left the hallway, stepping past the last murmurs and lingering stares. The fight was over, but the energy still clung to the walls behind him, sticky and persistent. People cleared a path as he walked, more from uncertainty than respect.
Outside, the sunlight cut across the sidewalk in long, familiar bands. The air felt clearer out here, cooler. He walked straight ahead, earbuds still in, though no music played.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Alex, Tori, and Dylan caught up just before he reached the curb. They didn't say anything at first—just matched his pace, like it was understood that they were coming with him.
Alex spoke first. "You didn't even raise your hands. No stance. No blocks. You just moved. Where'd you learn that?"
Samuel didn't look at her. "I didn't need to raise them."
"Right," she said. "Because you let him punch your head instead."
Tori cut in, her voice edged with concern. "Are you sure you're okay? That sound was awful. You could have a concussion."
"I'm fine," Samuel said. "No symptoms. No stars. Just a sore neck and a slightly improved reputation."
"That's not funny," she muttered.
"I wasn't joking," he replied. Then, after a pause, "Alright—maybe a little."
Alex folded her arms. "Still doesn't explain why you let him hit your head."
Samuel gave a small sigh. "I had thirteen reasons to use it."
Tori blinked, confused. "What?"
"Never mind," Samuel said. "Best way to end it clean. If I hit him, it's a suspension. If he hits himself, it's natural selection."
Dylan, trailing slightly behind, chimed in with sudden inspiration. "I think I can do that. Just lean in and—bam—let the punch bounce off my forehead."
Samuel didn't break stride. "You don't catch punches with your head, Dylan. You just get punched in the face."
"That explains a lot," Alex muttered.
Tori stifled a laugh. Dylan didn't seem to notice.
Up ahead, Michael's truck pulled to the curb with its usual quiet timing, the engine already idling.
Samuel didn't pause.
"That's me," he said as he stepped off the curb.
Tori gave him a lingering glance but stayed quiet. Whatever she was holding back, she decided not to say it.
Dylan leaned in, eyebrows raised like he was about to share a secret. "Bro. You think if I headbutt Bryce too, I'll get famous?"
Samuel didn't miss a step. "You'll get medical bills."
He opened the door, climbed in, and shut it without looking back.
Michael's truck had just pulled up, engine humming low. The window rolled down halfway.
"You good?" Michael asked, scanning Samuel's face.
Samuel gave a tired nod. "Yeah. Just… done with today."
Michael didn't press. He waited until Samuel was buckled in, then eased the truck into gear. They pulled away from the curb in silence, the noise of the school fading behind them.
It wasn't until they'd turned the corner that Michael finally spoke.
"So… what's this I hear about an artistic curriculum?"
Samuel kept his eyes on the window. "Yeah. That happened this morning. Principal pulled me aside, said I might be a fit for some kind of creative track. Writing, design, electives like that."
Michael glanced over. "And what? You're actually thinking about it?"
Samuel nodded once. "Yeah. I mean… it's not a bad offer. Gets me out of regular P.E. and football. Might even give me room to breathe."He hesitated. "But… some people didn't take the whole football thing well."."
"Who?" Michael asked. "Staff?"
"No. Students. One in particular." Samuel rubbed the back of his neck. "You ever meet someone who thinks being ignored is the worst insult in the world?"
Michael snorted. "A few."
"Well, I didn't even say anything to the guy. Just walked past him. But he followed me. Called me out in the middle of the hallway."
Michael's brows furrowed. "And?"
"He grabbed my arm," Samuel said. "Then shoved me. Twice. Then threw a punch."
Michael blinked, surprised. "You're okay?"
"I'm fine," Samuel said quickly. "Didn't throw a punch back."
Michael paused, trying to process that. "Then how'd it end?"
Samuel glanced over. "I let him punch the top of my head."
Michael made a face. "You what?"
"I didn't want to get suspended," Samuel said. "I figured if I hit him, even once, I'd be the one in trouble. So I angled my head down a little. He broke his hand."
Michael stared at the road, then exhaled. "You're lucky it landed where it did. If he'd clipped the wrong spot, we might be heading to the ER."
Samuel kept his voice level. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I angled for the hardest part of the body on purpose."
Michael didn't speak for a few seconds. Then: "You've got good instincts. But don't make a habit out of it."
"I'll try not to weaponize my forehead again this week."
They drove in silence for a few moments before Samuel asked, "So… FBI agents. Are they as dramatic as TV makes them look?"
Michael huffed. "Some. Most just wear suits and try to act like they know everything."
"Do they?" Samuel asked.
Michael smirked. "Depends on the agent."
Samuel leaned back, muttering, "Guess I'll find out."
Inside, the station was busy—phones ringing, chatter layered under clipped radio traffic, officers moving between desks without much eye contact. It felt like walking into a machine already in motion. No one stopped. No one stared. But some definitely noticed.
Samuel followed Michael through the main entrance, his backpack still slung over one shoulder. He saw Chen before she saw him—standing near the hallway, glancing toward the bullpen like she was waiting for clearance to jump in.
When she spotted him, her shoulders eased slightly.
"Hey," she said, stepping over. "Glad you came in."
"Didn't exactly feel optional," Samuel said, voice dry.
Chen offered a nervous smile. "No—it wasn't. But still."
She looked like she wanted to say more, but her eyes flicked toward the glass office at the far end of the room. Through it, a sharply dressed man in a dark suit stood beside Captain Andersen, posture relaxed but observant. He didn't need to announce who he was. The whole room adjusted just slightly around him.
Peter Burke.
The name clicked the second Samuel saw him. Trim suit. Calm posture. The kind of presence that didn't need a badge to be noticed.
White Collar.Right. That's where it came from.
Then a quieter thought, just beneath it: fuck did I just catch Neal Caffrey?
Chen followed his line of sight. "Yeah. He got in about an hour ago. I still have to talk to him too."
"First case?" Samuel asked.
She nodded, quick. "First real one."
Before he could respond, Captain Andersen stepped out from the office across the room. She scanned the room once, spotted them, and walked over without pause.
"Officer Chen, we'll speak with you after," she said.
Chen gave Samuel a quick pat on the arm before peeling off toward the bullpen.
Andersen's focus shifted smoothly. "Mr. Shore. Glad you could make it."
Samuel adjusted the strap on his backpack. "Still not sure why I'm here, but okay."
She gestured toward the open office behind her. "Agent Burke's reviewed the report. I told him you were the one who spotted the inconsistency."
Michael, a step behind, gave a short nod but said nothing.
"We'll just be a few minutes, Micheal" Andersen added.
"Take your time," Michael said.
As they walked, Samuel spotted Bradford lingering near a nearby desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He didn't say anything, didn't even nod. Just clocked Samuel like he was logging a detail in his head and moved on.
Andersen led Samuel toward the office. As they approached, Peter Burke finally looked up, eyes scanning him like he was already trying to figure out the angle.
Samuel met the gaze for half a second, then dropped it—more from habit than nerves.
He didn't know what kind of conversation this would be.
But it was no longer just a fluke.
It was a case.
Peter Burke didn't say much when Samuel entered the office. He just offered a firm nod and gestured to the seat across from him.
Captain Andersen stood off to the side, hands loosely clasped behind her back. She didn't speak—just watched.
Samuel sat slowly, bag at his feet. His posture calm, eyes level. But the air in the room had changed. Peter Burke wasn't like the others. There was weight behind the way he observed, a calm that could cut through noise if it needed to.
"Thanks for coming in," Peter said first. "I'll be honest—I was surprised when I heard a high school student flagged that forgery."
Samuel gave a small shrug. "It wasn't on purpose. I was just... bored."
Peter gave a short nod. "Well, bored or not, you noticed something important."
He opened a folder and laid it flat.
"That painting lines up with several others we've had flagged over the years. Same signature traits. Same false provenance. We think they're from the same hand."
From beside the desk, he unzipped a flat case and pulled out ten more paintings, each protected and sleeved. He began placing them in two rows across the desk.
"Nothing confirmed yet. But they're all suspected forgeries. We wanted to see if anything jumps out to you. No pressure. Just take your time."
Samuel leaned forward.
His eyes moved slowly, one by one.
It didn't take long.
He could spot them.
Seven—maybe eight—were clearly fake. They had the same invisible fingerprint: too confident, too precise. Like someone painting from memory, not feeling. The emotional texture was missing. Not technically—but instinctually.
And then something shifted.
He paused over one of them.
You know what this is. You could help them nail it down right now.
But the thought that followed was louder:
You liked him. When he was fictional. When he was charming and untouchable.
Now he lived here. In this world. With real consequences. And Samuel didn't want to be the reason he ended up in a federal prison with no windows and no doors to pick open.
Not Neal Caffrey.
Not like this.
He glanced toward Burke, who was watching him—but not pressing. Not yet.
Does he know? The thought crept in. Did he see something on my face?
His hand hovered above the canvases, then retracted.
"I don't feel it," Samuel said softly.
Burke raised an eyebrow. "Feel what?"
Samuel sat back. "The same thing I felt yesterday. That tension. The fake had this… message under it. Like someone trying to speak but not sure anyone would listen. These don't have that. They're sharp. They're confident. But they're empty."
He paused.
"They're probably fake," he added. "But I don't get the same feeling."
Burke nodded slowly and closed the portfolio.
Behind him, Michael shifted. Arms folded. Quiet.
Samuel didn't need to turn around to feel it—Michael thought he was disappointed. Thought he'd tried and failed to find something. Thought he was embarrassed.
He wasn't. He was lying. But not out of guilt."
Burke stood. "That still helps. Sometimes instinct gets us closer than science."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't question it. Maybe he thought Samuel had just gotten lucky the first time. Maybe he didn't expect anything else from a teenager.
"Thanks again for coming in, Mr. Shore."
Samuel stood. "Sure."
He grabbed his bag, turned toward the door.
Michael opened it for him.
They stepped out in silence.
The forgery had been perfect. Just not honest.And maybe, right now, neither was he.