The light that crept into Dominic Manon's room that morning was a sterile, amber hue—burnt sunlight filtered through institutionally thin blinds. It cast long bars across the concrete floor, breaking across his bed in even segments like prison bars. He opened his eyes not with a gasp or groan, but with a stillness that could have been mistaken for peace.
But peace had long fled him.
His eyes didn't dart. They focused.
His breath didn't quicken. It held.
His limbs didn't stretch. They prepared.
He sat up in a single, fluid motion. His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress, and the silence of the room returned. No alarms. No blaring notifications. But in the far corner—camouflaged in a wall socket—a tiny, homemade device blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Dominic stared at it, still. The blinking was rhythmic. Morse code.
He'd waited three days for it.
Sliding off the bed, he crossed the room in three smooth strides. His fingers removed the false panel covering the transmitter—built from scrap metal, hidden antennae, and a power tap from the room's circuitry.
On the screen of his tablet, the pulses became letters.
Then numbers.
Then coordinates.
And one number more: 19:45.
A time.
No name.
No identifier.
Just a place.
An abandoned greenhouse outside the school's eastern perimeter, past the old maintenance trail no longer used since the meteorite survey zones expanded.
He exhaled through his nose, cold and controlled. A part of him—some ember buried beneath tragedy—already knew who this message had come from.
If it was real.
If it wasn't a trap.
Still. He had to go. But first... he had to disappear—and to do that he has to build something.
The storm had been brewing since morning.
Dark clouds gathered just past the mountains, creeping like bruises across the sky, swallowing sunlight in slow gulps. The temperature dropped steadily, but inside the school, the hum of learning continued—artificial light, recycled air, and scripted optimism plastered over reality.
Dominic moved through it all like a wraith.
He sat through Advanced Systems Theory, where Teacher Adrana droned on about quantum entanglement theory. Dominic's fingers scribbled just enough notes to mimic interest, his other hand subtly guiding a low-voltage pulse from the cuff under his sleeve into his datapad's sync port.
A timer began. T-minus 6 hours.
The buffer would activate automatically. Twenty minutes of telemetry distortion. But it needed a subtle mask—something plausible to explain the growing static. Luckily, nature obliged.
The first rumble of thunder cracked the sky during Behavioral Dynamics, around noon. It was soft at first, distant, but enough to give him cover. He slouched slightly, blinked twice too long, yawned like a boy on the edge of depression.
The watchers saw it. Not the buffer. Not the pulse.
Just the slump.
Just the weariness.
A small memo was flagged:
SUBJECT 019-D: Signs of instability increasing.
Isolation risk: High.
Counseling session recommended.
Escalation unnecessary. Maintain passive surveillance.
The handler who read it sighed. He had been monitoring Dominic for ten days now. Each file, each update read the same:
The boy is spiraling.
Just another prodigy broken by grief.
"Waste of time," he muttered. "He's cracked. Let him crack. Why are we babysitting a suicidal rich kid?"
No one answered.
They never did.
Inside Dominic's Mind
Dominic moved through corridors like they weren't real. He timed everything to the second—the class bells, the security drones' sweeps, the window when most of the cameras looped into refresh mode.
The buffer would only work once.
It would throw his ping off by exactly 20 minutes, with the illusion of normal dorm activity continuing.
He'd mimicked his vitals and movements by patching into the maintenance drone under his bunk.
It would simulate his sleep pattern.
It would blink. Shift. Turn. Breathe.
It was crude, but plausible.
The only risk was the initial disconnect—the moment when the system went blind.
But with the storm? The flickers in network strength? The watchers would likely blame the weather.
He'd spent days ensuring they would.
Theresa's POV –
Theresa watched Dominic from across the library during the mid-afternoon downpour. His hoodie was up. His fingers traced meaningless loops on a datapad he didn't even look at. He hadn't spoken to her since the funeral.
He really hadn't spoken to anyone.
Part of her wanted to go to him—she knew loss, too. Her uncle had been on the meteorite research team, missing since the initial crash. But Dominic's silence wasn't grief. It was… surgical.
Cold. Removed. Calculating.
She felt it like a tremor in her gut.
He didn't look suicidal. She believe he doesn't .
But that made no sense, did it?
I'm probably just thinking too much.
Jorren's POV –
Dominic was the kind of guy who walked into a room and shifted the energy. Jorren never said that aloud—it sounded like the kind of thing girls whispered behind cafeteria cups—but it was true. Dominic had charm, not the loud kind, but the type people leaned into. People liked him because he never needed them to.
They met in year two. Dominic helped Jorren hack together a project an hour before the deadline. No lecture. No judgment. Just a smirk and:
"You owe me caffeine and silence."
From then, they were friends.
Jorren always suspected Dominic came from money, but Dominic never flaunted it. What made him hard to read was that he could joke around, play dumb in class, and still ace everything. A golden boy—polished but not fake.
And yet, Jorren always sensed… something underneath. Something sharp.
The day the news broke, Jorren didn't cry. He just sat at his desk, stunned. The whole Manon estate—gone. Parents. Siblings. Even staff.
Dominic didn't return his calls for days.
When he came to school, he was... off. Not broken, but changed. His movements were quieter. His gaze lingered longer. Like he was scanning everyone—calculating.
Jorren tried reaching out, casually at first. "You wanna get lunch?" "Need a break?" Dominic brushed him off every time, always politely, never cruelly. Still, the distance grew.
Now Jorren made a plan: stay close. Not out of pity, but loyalty. He didn't care if Dominic wanted space. He'd wait. Because Dominic had been there when Jorren was flunking. This was just repayment.
And if Dominic ever whispered, "I need help,"
Jorren would answer: "Name it."
John's POV –
John Orel had taught thousands of students. Most were forgettable. A few sparked interest. But Dominic Manon? That boy had a spark and the patience to sharpen it into a blade.
He never submitted basic assignments. Every project was restructured—refined, original, modular, layered with encryption. Dominic didn't just want to pass. He wanted to out-think the system.
John respected that.
He also worried about it.
Because sometimes, brilliance shadows other things—paranoia, obsession, secrets. There were moments when John saw a flicker of something dangerous in Dominic's eyes, something not even the brightest code could mask.
Still, he considered pulling him into a mentorship role. Thought about suggesting Dominic for the Omega Track—an elite internal program. But something always stopped him.
When news spread of the Manon massacre, John's first thought wasn't grief.
It was: "He'll either break… or become something else entirely."
And when Dominic returned—tight-lipped, dry-eyed, and silent—John knew the choice had been made.
Now, he watched Dominic's progress more carefully. He never confronted him. But he quietly logged every late-night lab entry, every bypassed firewall, every anomaly around Dominic's access patterns.
John didn't reach out—not yet.
But if Dominic ever showed signs of becoming a weapon,
John would either sharpen him… or shut him down—till he found something more—shocking.
Elena's POV –
He was beautiful in the way shadows were beautiful—mysterious, untouched, always on the edge of light.
She didn't even know his name until their second year—Dominic Manon. The kind of name you whispered like a secret. He sat diagonally across from her in two different classes, never made eye contact, never looked bored, never flinched.
Once, he laughed at a joke the professor made that no one else caught. She laughed too. For a second, he looked her way. That moment replayed in her head for days.
She daydreamed sometimes. About bumping into him in the hallway. About starting a conversation that led somewhere unexpected. He was untouchable—but maybe, just maybe, she could be the one exception.
When the news hit, it shattered something inside her. Not because she knew him—but because she wanted to.
She watched him at the funeral, composed beyond reason. No tears. No falter in his walk. She knew that kind of silence—it wasn't numbness. It was rage with nowhere to go.
Now she made plans: bring him notes if he misses class, offer to help him with group work, maybe sit closer. She didn't want to pry, just… be there. Supportive. Available. Maybe he'd notice.
Maybe in grief, he'd finally see her.
Lennox's POV –
Dominic was the kind of guy who pissed off the average student just by existing. Smart, fast, polished. Never needed tutors. Never asked questions. And still got top marks.
Lennox used to tell his friends that Dominic was overrated. "Pretty boy with a rich dad and a silver spoon."
But deep down, he knew it wasn't true. The guy was terrifyingly competent.
Worse? He was likable. Teachers praised him. Girls looked at him. Even people who hated him didn't hate him enough. There was no scandal. No slip-ups.
It drove Lennox mad.
Then the Manon family was wiped out, and Dominic became untouchable in a different way.
You couldn't talk trash anymore. Not about someone who'd buried his entire bloodline.
When Dominic came back, Lennox tried to keep his distance. But he watched—carefully. Dominic still aced tests. Still moved with that eerie calm.
But now, there was something unspoken around him. A tension. A silence.
Lennox's plan? Stay invisible, stay respectful, and stay the hell out of his crosshairs.
Because he didn't know what Dominic was becoming.
But he knew one thing for sure:
You don't provoke a ghost that hasn't figured out what kind of monster it wants to be.
Kael's POV –
Kael stood on the upper deck of the administration tower, sipping from a gray mug and pretending to admire the storm.
In reality, he was watching. Listening. Waiting.
"Still in the broken boy phase," he said to no one. "That's good. We can use that."
He didn't trust the other handlers. They relied too much on tech—on trackers and telemetry. Kael had read Dominic's grandfather's old files. He knew the boy's blood ran thick with legacy.
But even he underestimated what Dominic was building.
He thought the boy might bolt eventually.
He didn't know he already had.
Counselor's POV – summary note
Session 1 Summary:
High-functioning grief masking deeper psychological rigidity.
Patient exhibits performative behavior—emotionally restrained, selectively expressive.
Appetite suppression, detachment from peers, disinterest in future cues (friends, schoolwork, direction).
Possible indicators of latent suicidal ideation—masked by strategic social responses.
Recommending increased observation.
Suggest informal wellness checks.
Flag for psychiatric evaluation if patterns continue.
Session 2 Summary:
Emotional deterioration observed.
Patient no longer maintaining social mask; apparent withdrawal and possible depressive apathy.
Explicit statement indicating passive suicidal ideation ("I don't think I care if I do or not").
Recommending immediate informal surveillance (non-confrontational).
Priority flag—risk may escalate unpredictably.
Suggest indirect contact strategy via trusted peer if available (none identified so far).
Advise administrative coordination with internal safety officers for discreet response protocol.
Post-Session Summary:
Confirmed escalation of suicidal ideation.
Subject observed on rooftop during thunderstorm—possible high-risk behavior.
Statement: "Would it matter if I did?" interpreted as cry for help or passive resignation.
Eyes showed presence—fleeting—but overall demeanor aligned with internal collapse.
Urgent recommendation: Activate full internal watch list. Secure rooftop access.
Suggest silent monitoring—subject may resist overt intervention.
Recommend liaison with School Security and Internal Surveillance.
Note: Subject may be concealing greater emotional depth —unlikely, but keep as contingency.
The Principal's Absence
Principal Amara wasn't on campus.
She hadn't been for weeks, not consistently. The meteorite crash changed everything. Her dual role—as an academic administrator and a consultant on the mineral investigation—had her moving between meetings and deep labs far from the public eye.
A new update flashed on her restricted console at 16:12:
Antium samples exhibiting abnormal resonance behavior. Increased volatility in magnetic response. Recommend classified containment.
She frowned. The Antium core had been stable until now. But something—or someone—had triggered a spike in activity.
She tapped a note to herself:
Check proximity logs near Eastern Perimeter.
News Broadcast – For Authorized Eyes Only
A private channel ran beneath the school's surface feed. It wasn't for students or faculty. Just for the Watchers and government liaisons:
METEORITE NEWS UPDATE:
Researchers at Site-3 report increased instability in mineral samples. A temporary blackout has been imposed on public findings until the Defense Commission completes review. Potential resonance anomalies to be investigated further.
Surveillance teams are advised to flag irregular power spikes near academic installations.
And yet… no one flagged the buffer Dominic built.
19:42
The rain thickened into a curtain.
Dominic left his dorm through the sub-maintenance shaft below the east wing, dragging a janitor's coat over his frame. The power delay had begun. His false vitals blinked from the sleeping drone on his bed.
His real body was already outside.
He moved fast, crossing the perimeter into the wooded fringe. His boots kicked up wet leaves as he bypassed the gate sensor using an old manual route his grandfather once showed him on a hike—before the man had disappeared. Before everything had turned to ash.
He reached the greenhouse.
It was overgrown and choked with ivy, the glass broken in places. Inside, the ground was slick with moss and fallen tools. A single stool remained untouched, dustless.
Dominic crouched low behind a stack of overturned crates.
He watched.
He waited.
The wind howled through broken panes.
And somewhere far behind him, on campus… a scream rang out.
Back at Campus —
19:59 – ALERT: SUBJECT 019-D — LOCATION UNAVAILABLE
The alert came late.
A network reset due to the thunderstorm delayed all signals by thirty seconds. A handler glanced up from his console, muttering a curse.
"Damned weather's interfering with the pings."
"Try reacquisition," Kael ordered.
"Already doing it, sir. He's… wait… he's in the pool—this late?"
The monitor blinked.
There he was.
Face down. Lifeless. Floating.
"Send medics!" someone yelled.
"Lock down exits!"
The storm masked the panic. Drones deployed silently, sweeping the grounds. Students were corralled. No one knew what had happened yet.
No one… except the watchers.
And they assumed only one thing:
Dominic Manon had drowned himself.
At 20:07, two agents pulled him from the water.
He was cold. Unmoving.
Eyes closed. Limbs slack.
They laid him on the tile in silence.
One muttered, "He looked so normal earlier…"
Another replied, "They all do—wait....normal?"
The other just shrugged
Behind them, the lights flickered again. The storm still raged.
What none of them saw—what not even Kael could detect—was the faint trace of ivy pressed against Dominic's shirt collar.
Greenhouse dust.
Fresh.
Minutes old.
The boy—his thoughts, his consciousness, his war—was now in the pool.
Was it all lost?