Chapter Text
“Good morning, Max,” Ryan says, lifting his coffee. The mug is chipped at the rim—one of those tiny domestic wounds he keeps meaning to fix—and steam coils upward in slow, ghostly ribbons. It fogs his glasses, softening the world for a heartbeat before he wipes them clear with the heel of his hand. His thumb scrolls headlines on his phone, the blue‑white glow painting the underside of his jaw. Every few seconds his gaze flicks up, checking the girl across the table as if she might change when he isn’t looking.
“Greetings, Father.”
Her tone is flat enough to be a dial tone. She sits with posture so straight it looks punitive, shoulders squared, chin level. Even the way she folds her hands—fingers aligned, thumbs mirrored—feels like choreography. Not a habit. A protocol.
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a humor he hopes will land. “Excited for your first day of school?”
The words are light, tossed casually across the table like a paper airplane. But she hears the weight in them. The assessment. The hope. The fear.
Max tilts her head with a mechanical grace, as though her neck is following a pre‑calculated arc. “It’s just another day. Teenagers gathering to absorb outdated information that won’t serve them in adulthood. Instead of learning anything useful.”
Ryan chuckles, though the sound is thinner than he intends. He sets his phone down with exaggerated care, palms open, as if demonstrating that she has his full attention. “Cynical today, are we?”
She shrugs. The movement is sharp, economical, like she’s conserving energy for something more important. “You asked. I answered.”
The laugh dies in his throat. She’s not being dramatic—she’s being accurate. She is sharper than anyone at Blackwell. Sharper than the teachers. Sharper than him. He doubts she’ll learn anything there except how to hide the fact that she’s already outgrown the place.
He drains the last of his coffee. The warmth leaves the mug quickly, as if retreating from him. When he sets it down, the ceramic clinks against the counter—a small, hollow sound that somehow amplifies the silence between them. A flicker of guilt cuts through him: he built her to thrive, but what if thriving means standing apart? What if brilliance is just another kind of isolation? What if he’s sending her into a world that can’t meet her where she is?
He forces a smile, the kind that feels like stretching a mask over a bruise. He scoops up his keys. The metal jingles—bright, ordinary, almost cheerful in a way that feels out of place against the heaviness in his chest. “Time to depart.”
Max rises instantly, chair legs whispering against the floor. She moves with the precision of someone who has already calculated the next ten steps. Ryan watches her, a knot tightening beneath his ribs.
He wanted a daughter who could take on the world.
He didn’t expect she’d make the world look so small.
One month ago.
The lab was quiet in the way abandoned places are quiet—soundless, but full of pressure, as if the air itself were holding its breath. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their sterile hum the only sign the world hadn’t stopped with her.
Ryan stood alone, shoulders slumped, staring at the hollow shell of the prototype. A frame of brushed metal and polymer joints, empty as a ribcage. Once, it had been nothing more than a distraction—scribbled equations on napkins, sketches in the margins of old notebooks, a thought experiment to keep grief from swallowing him whole. Never meant to breathe. Never meant to matter.
But theory was all he had left now.
On the workbench, a photo leaned against the schematics. His daughter—the daughter. The real one. Her smile caught mid‑laughter, sunlight turning her hair into something golden and alive. A smile Max would never wear. Not naturally. Not yet.
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face, dragging his fingers across the ache that lived behind his eyes. Grief had hollowed him out, carved him into something brittle and desperate. He clung to the project the way a drowning man clings to driftwood—not because it could save him, but because it was the only thing left to hold.
“We can build her,” he’d whispered weeks ago, voice shaking as he stood in the kitchen doorway. “Not her exactly. But something close. Smarter. Safer. We’ll never lose her again.”
His wife hadn’t answered. She’d stared past him, eyes glassy, knuckles white against the table’s edge. As if the wood were the last thing anchoring her to the world. As if answering would make the loss real.
Now, in the cold glow of the lab, Ryan looked back at the blueprint. Not a daughter. Not truly. But maybe a vessel. A memory given shape. A chance—however artificial—to stitch their broken lives into something that resembled whole.
He reached for the console. The screen flickered awake, washing the room in a harsh blue light that made the shadows look deeper. His pulse quickened, a drumbeat against the silence.
“Begin sequence,” he said.
The words came out steady.
His hands did not.
Present time
Ryan pulls up in front of Blackwell Academy, the morning sun stretching long, blade‑thin shadows across the pavement. The campus is already alive—students spilling through the gates in loose, chaotic currents, voices overlapping in laughter, arguments, half‑awake greetings. Backpacks thud against hips, lockers slam, sneakers squeal against concrete. The air itself feels charged, humming with adolescent energy, the kind of restless vitality Max never quite imitates.
He forces a smile, though it feels brittle at the edges. “Good luck today, Max.” She opens the door without looking at him. “Luck doesn’t factor into it, Father.” The door shuts with a soft, final click—quiet, but somehow definitive.
Ryan watches her walk away. Her movements are precise, almost metronomic, each step measured as if she’s calculating the optimal distance between strides. She threads through the crowd without brushing a single shoulder, untouched and untouchable. Students glance at her, then glance away, unsure what they’ve seen. Already out of place. Already alone.
He exhales slowly. *I should’ve listened to Vanessa when she said we couldn’t build a soul.*
The thought lands heavy, settling in the hollow behind his ribs. Max disappears into the tide of students, swallowed by a world she was engineered to navigate but never truly belong to. The sun glints off her hair—too uniform, too perfect—and then she’s gone.
Ryan sits there a moment longer, engine idling, the morning noise of the campus muffled behind the closed windows. The ache in his chest pulses once, sharp and familiar.
He built her to survive anything.
He didn’t consider what it would mean if nothing could reach her.
Max steps through the front gates of Blackwell Academy.
The air hits her first—thick with noise, movement, heat. Shouts ricochet across the courtyard, laughter spikes unpredictably, sneakers screech against concrete in chaotic bursts. Her sensors adjust in less than a second, filtering the overload into clean, ordered streams: decibel levels, heat signatures, movement trajectories, emotional tone approximations. What feels like chaos to everyone else becomes a sortable grid in her mind.
A boy clips her shoulder as he passes. “Watch it,” he mutters, already swallowed by the crowd.
*No apology. No eye contact. Irritated tone. Likely insecure.*
She doesn’t respond.
Clusters of students form and dissolve around her—loose constellations shifting according to invisible rules. Some groups radiate confidence, others cling together like organisms under threat. Max tracks the micro‑behaviors automatically: who leans in, who steps back, who laughs too loudly, who watches without speaking. Touches, glances, micro‑expressions. Every flicker of movement carries meaning. Nothing is random.
A girl stands near the fountain, crying into her phone.
*Emotional distress. Public vulnerability. High risk of social isolation.*
Another girl, a few feet away, laughs with her friends.
*Mockery. Reinforcement of dominance. Social hierarchy stabilized.*
Max keeps walking.
She knows the schedule. Room 2B. History.
She knows the syllabus, the teacher’s credentials, the average test scores for the past five years.
She knows the building layout, the emergency exits, the optimal path to each classroom.
She knows everything—except how to be one of them.
Her footsteps fall in perfect rhythm, too even, too controlled. Students part around her without realizing why, sensing something off in the way animals sense a storm before it breaks. She moves through the courtyard like a foreign object introduced into a living system—observing, analyzing, never integrating.
Belonging is not a concept she can compute.
Max steps into the classroom, fluorescent lights humming overhead like a low, persistent warning. The air smells faintly of pencil shavings, floor polish, and the nervous sweat of teenagers pretending not to care. She chooses the seat furthest from the window—optimal vantage point, minimal glare, maximum control.
A boy leans over, his chair groaning under the shift of weight. “You new?” She turns her head with precise economy. “Yes.” He waits, expecting elaboration. A name. A smile. A breadcrumb of humanity.
She offers none. He shrugs, lips quirking. “Cool.”
Max watches him rejoin his friends. Their laughter erupts in jagged bursts, overlapping rhythms, shared glances, synchronized gestures. She parses the data automatically.
*Humor. Bonding ritual. Inaccessible.*
She opens her notebook. The page is blank, crisp beneath her fingertips, the fibers whispering as she smooths the edge.
*Begin data collection.*
She’s halfway through cataloguing the room—desk spacing, sightlines, potential exits—when the door slams open hard enough to rattle the glass.
Chloe Price strides in like she’s been summoned by her own theme music.
Electric‑blue hair catches the light, a streak of rebellion slicing through the beige monotony. Headphones hang loose around her neck, music still faintly bleeding from them. Her jacket is slung over one shoulder, her boots scuffed, her expression carved from pure defiance. She moves like gravity bends for her convenience.
A ripple passes through the room. Heads turn. Eyes track her. Admiration. Envy. Curiosity. Fear. Chloe doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Or she does and simply refuses to care.
Max observes. *Confident gait. Relaxed shoulders. Unapologetic posture. High social value.*
Chloe drops her bag with a thud that vibrates through the floor, then leans back in her chair as if daring the world to object.
The teacher begins roll call, voice clipped and precise. Chloe ignores it until the third repetition. “Here,” she says, lazy and unbothered, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles like they’re more interesting than authority. The room reacts. *Laughter. Approval. Reinforcement of status.*
Then, without warning, Chloe glances across the room. Just a flick of her eyes. But they land on Max. Max holds the stare. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t perform the expected social script.
Chloe’s lips curl into a smirk—small, sharp, full of implications Max can’t yet categorize. *Unclear intent. Possible provocation. Possible interest. Possible threat.* Max lowers her gaze to the notebook and writes a new line in neat, deliberate script: *Subject: Chloe Price. Requires further observation.*
The teacher turns from the board, marker still in hand. His voice carries across the room, casual but expectant.
“Who knows what the Manhattan Project was?”
Silence spreads like a slow fog. Papers shuffle. Someone coughs. A few students sink lower in their seats, eyes dropping to their desks as if the answer might be hiding in the grain of the wood.
He inhales, ready to launch into the explanation—
“It was a top-secret research initiative conducted by the United States during World War II,” Max says. Her voice is clear, clipped, stripped of inflection. “Its goal was to develop the first nuclear weapons. The project ran from 1942 to 1946 and involved over 130,000 personnel. The first successful test occurred on July 16, 1945, in New Mexico.”
The words hit the room like dropped weights.
Stillness.
A few students exchange looks, eyebrows raised. One snorts, the sound sharp and uncomfortable, a laugh used as a shield. Another mutters, “Okay, robot,” just loud enough for the nearest desks to hear.
The teacher blinks, caught mid-thought, marker hovering uselessly in the air. “Uh… yes. That’s correct.” His tone wavers, caught between impressed and unsettled.
Max resumes her note-taking without hesitation. Pen to paper. Steady. Mechanical. The scratch of ink is the only sound she contributes to the room.
Across the aisle, Chloe leans back in her chair, arms folded loosely, eyes narrowed—not in mockery, not in boredom. Something sharper. More deliberate. A kind of attention Max hasn’t encountered before. Interest.
The teacher recovers, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrays him. He turns back to the board, marker squeaking faintly as he writes, trying to reclaim authority through motion alone.
“Do you know who was behind the making of the first atomic bomb?”
Max answers before the question fully settles.
“Julius Robert Oppenheimer,” she says. “An American theoretical physicist. He served as director of the Los Alamos Laboratory during the Manhattan Project and is widely regarded as the ‘father of the atomic bomb.’”
Each word lands with surgical precision—clean, exact, devoid of hesitation or warmth. The room absorbs the information in stunned silence.
The teacher blinks. His smile twitches, unsure whether to be impressed or threatened. “Do you want to teach this class?” he asks, half‑joking, half‑defensive, the marker dangling uselessly from his fingers.
Max doesn’t look up. Her pen moves across the page in a steady, unbroken rhythm. “If I ever feel compelled to explain a mind‑numbing topic to a room full of cognitively stagnant adolescents, I’ll let you know.”
Silence drops like a curtain.
A few students gasp—sharp, involuntary. One laughs, brittle and nervous. Another mutters, “Damn,” under his breath, equal parts awe and fear.
The teacher clears his throat, the sound rough in the stillness. He shifts his weight, trying to reassemble his authority. “Right. Well. Let’s move on.”
Max continues writing, unbothered. The scratch of her pen is the only sound she contributes.
Across the room, chairs creak as students shift, recalibrating their understanding of the strange new girl. Someone whispers, “She’s like a walking Wikipedia.”
Max hears it. She files it away. She does not react.
Chloe, however, reacts.
Her eyebrow lifts, slow and deliberate. The smirk she wore earlier softens into something more focused, more alive. She leans toward the girl beside her, voice low and amused. “Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m officially intrigued.”
Max scans the room.
Twenty‑three students. One teacher.
Ambient temperature: 21.3°C.
Humidity: 48%.
Noise level: fluctuating between 62 and 78 decibels.
She catalogues everything.
A girl twirls her hair while whispering to a friend, strands catching the fluorescent light.
*Bonding behavior. Likely discussing social hierarchy or appearance.*
A boy taps his pencil in a syncopated rhythm, the sound sharp against the hum of the lights.
*Anxiety. Possibly masking boredom or insecurity.*
Two students exchange glances and laugh, shoulders leaning closer, voices pitched low.
*Shared humor. Strengthens group cohesion. Excludes outsiders.*
Max watches it all like a scientist observing a foreign species.
She understands the mechanics.
But not the meaning.
The teacher drones on, tone steady but uninspired. Students respond with half‑interest—some distracted, some performative, their answers shaped more by peer influence than curiosity. A girl raises her hand only after her friend nudges her. A boy answers confidently and incorrectly, rewarded with laughter instead of correction.
Max notes the patterns.
Engagement levels vary based on perceived relevance and social reinforcement.
Emotional responses often override logic.
She doesn’t understand why someone would laugh at a wrong answer.
Or why silence feels heavier after she speaks.
Her earlier interruption shifted the room.
Eyes on her.
Not admiration. Not curiosity.
Discomfort.
She writes in her notebook:
Social deviation triggers unease. Precision is not valued.
Across the room, Chloe Price leans back in her chair, one arm draped over the backrest, posture loose but alert. Her gaze cuts across the classroom, steady, unbroken.
Max notes the angle of her stare.
Not dismissive. Not mocking.
Prolonged. Intentional.
She adds a new line:
Subject: Chloe Price. Exhibits unpredictable behavior. Possible anomaly.
Max closes her notebook. The crisp snap of paper against cover echoes faintly, swallowed by the classroom noise.
She has all the data.
The bell hasn’t even finished ringing when the confrontation begins.
A boy from the back row—tall, broad‑shouldered, the kind who builds his identity on volume and intimidation—scrapes his chair back hard enough to make a few students flinch. He strides toward Max’s desk with the swagger of someone who’s never been challenged in a way that mattered. His friends watch with half‑amused grins, leaning forward, hungry for spectacle.
“You think you’re better than us?” His voice is low but sharp, calibrated to draw attention without looking desperate for it.
Max looks up. Her expression is neutral, gaze steady, posture unchanged. “Statistically, yes. Academically, physically, cognitively.”
A ripple of snickers moves through the room. The boy doesn’t laugh.
“You’re not even human,” he mutters, jaw tightening. “Just a freak with a hard drive.”
Max tilts her head, the motion precise, almost delicate. “Insults based on perceived difference. Primitive defense mechanism. Suggests insecurity.”
His jaw clenches harder, muscles twitching along the hinge. “Say that again.”
“I already did.”
The room holds its breath. The silence stretches thin, vibrating with the anticipation of violence or humiliation—either would satisfy the crowd.
Then Chloe stands.
Slowly.
Her chair scrapes back with a deliberate, dragging sound that slices through the tension. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t posture. She simply rises, and the room shifts around her.
“Hey,” she says, voice casual but firm, carrying a lazy confidence that makes the boy falter mid‑breath. “She’s not wrong. You are insecure. You’ve been trying to prove you’re tough since middle school and still haven’t figured out how to be interesting.”
The boy turns, stunned. His friends straighten, their amusement curdling into discomfort.
Chloe smiles—sweet, almost gentle, but edged like broken glass. “Sit down, Nathan.”
He hesitates. Pride flares, then sputters under the weight of her stare. Finally, he retreats, muttering something incoherent, the swagger gone from his stride.
Max watches Chloe.
*Unexpected intervention. Motivations unclear.*
She opens her notebook and writes a new line in neat, deliberate script: Subject: Chloe Price. Exhibits protective behavior. Possible ally.
Chloe catches the movement, her eyes flicking to the notebook, then back to Max’s face.
Her smirk returns—smaller this time, more curious than mocking.
Max closes the notebook.
Data collected.
New variables emerging.
The hallway is quieter now, but the quiet feels deceptive—like the pause between lightning and thunder.
Lockers slam shut in staggered rhythms. Sneakers squeak against linoleum. Voices fade into distant echoes as students scatter toward their next classes. Max walks through it all with calculated precision—steps measured, posture exact, backpack straps perfectly parallel across her shoulders.
Whispers trail behind her like debris in a wake.
“Freak.”
“Robot.”
“Ice queen.”
Sharp-edged. Juvenile. Predictable. She filters them out. Irrelevant data. She walks on. “Hey! Freak! We aren’t done yet!”
Nathan’s voice cracks through the hallway, brittle and loud, the sound of someone trying to reclaim dignity he never had.
Max doesn’t turn.
Footsteps thunder behind her, heavy and uneven. She calculates trajectory, speed, intent. Probability of physical contact: 94%.
He reaches for her arm—
Max moves first.
She pivots, sidesteps, and catches his wrist mid‑motion. Not forceful. Just precise. Enough to stop him without escalation.
Nathan stumbles, thrown off balance by the ease of it. His eyes widen, confusion flickering into anger. Max meets his gaze—calm, unblinking, unthreatened.
“Physical aggression is a poor substitute for emotional regulation,” she says, tone clinical, as if diagnosing a malfunction.
Students nearby freeze mid‑step, mid‑whisper, mid‑breath. The hallway becomes a held note.
Nathan yanks his arm back, face flushing a deep, furious red. “You think you’re better than me?”
Max tilts her head, the gesture exact. “I don’t think. I know.”
The words slice through the air, clean and sharp.
He opens his mouth—rage, humiliation, something messy gathering behind his teeth—
And Chloe steps in.
Her boots hit the floor with deliberate weight as she closes the distance, each step radiating a confidence that bends the hallway’s attention toward her.
“Seriously, Nathan?” she says, voice cool and lazy, but edged with authority. “You lost the argument and the reflex test. Maybe sit this one out.”
Nathan turns, stunned by the casual precision of the hit. His friends hover behind him, suddenly less eager for entertainment.
Chloe’s smile is sweet in the way a knife is shiny. “Sit. Down.”
Nathan hesitates. Pride flares, then collapses under the weight of her stare. He backs off, muttering, retreating into the crowd with none of his earlier swagger.
Max watches him go.
*Threat neutralized. Social tension unresolved.*
She turns to Chloe. “You intervened again.”
Chloe shrugs, smirk tugging at her lips. “You keep making it interesting.”
Max nods once, crisp and exact. “Your interventions are not necessary. Now, excuse me. I have a meeting with the principal.”
Chloe watches her go, brows furrowed.
Max’s words hit her in a way she didn’t expect—clean, clinical, like a scalpel slicing through any illusion that Chloe’s involvement mattered. Most people flinched around Chloe. Some admired her. Some feared her. But nobody dismissed her. Nobody treated her like background noise.
Except this girl who moved like a machine and talked like a thesis paper.
Chloe pushes off the locker, calling after her, voice low but edged with challenge. “You know, most people say ‘thanks’ when someone’s got their back.”
Max pauses mid‑stride. Students flow around her like water around a stone—glancing, whispering, avoiding. She stands perfectly still, perfectly centered, as if calculating the exact weight of Chloe’s words.
She doesn’t turn.
“I’m not most people,” she says.
Then she steps back into motion, disappearing into the tide of bodies with a precision that feels intentional, almost elegant. The hallway swallows her up, leaving only the faint echo of her footsteps.
Chloe stays where she is, headphones dangling from one hand, jacket slipping off her shoulder. The smirk she wore earlier softens into something quieter, something she doesn’t show often.
Curiosity.
Respect.
Maybe even the spark of a challenge she actually wants to take.
*Not most people,* she thinks. *No kidding.*
She leans back against the locker, watching the space Max left behind. The hallway hums around her—lockers slamming, laughter bouncing off tile, the usual chaos—but it all feels a little sharper now. A little emptier. Like something just shifted, and Chloe Price is the only one who noticed.
Max steps into the principal’s office, posture straight, expression unreadable.
The room smells faintly of coffee and old paper—the scent of institutions that have existed too long to question themselves. Diplomas line the wall behind the desk, framed like trophies, their glass catching the warm glow of the desk lamp. Principal Wells looks up from his computer, startled by how silently she entered.
“Ah. Max Caulfield,” he says, standing a little too quickly. He smooths his tie, a reflexive attempt at composure. “Welcome to Blackwell.”
Max nods once. “Thank you.”
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”
She sits with mechanical precision, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her posture is rigid, her gaze steady, her presence unsettling in its stillness.
Wells clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet. “I’ve read your file. Impressive academic record. Very impressive. But I wanted to meet you personally. Transitions can be… challenging.”
Max tilts her head, the movement exact. “I am fully prepared for the curriculum and schedule. I do not anticipate difficulty.”
Wells smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s good to hear. Still, high school isn’t just about academics. It’s about social development. Friendships. Emotional growth.”
Max blinks once. “Those are not quantifiable metrics.”
He hesitates, shifting in his chair. “No, but they matter.”
She studies him, gaze unblinking. “Is this meeting intended to assess my emotional readiness?”
Wells shifts again, fingers drumming lightly against the desk. “Not assess. Just… support.”
Max nods slowly. “Support is often offered when deficiency is assumed.”
Wells exhales, shoulders sagging. “Max, I just want you to know that if you ever need anything—guidance, help navigating things—you can come to me.”
She stands, movements precise and deliberate. “Understood.”
He watches her walk to the door, her steps measured, the soft thud of her shoes muted by the carpet. “Max,” he says before she leaves. She turns, gaze steady. “I hope you find something here worth staying for.” She doesn’t answer. She nods once and exits, the door closing with a muted click.
Wells sits back down slowly, staring at the empty doorway.
He isn’t sure whether he just welcomed a student…
or something else entirely.
Max walks the perimeter of the school grounds, avoiding the main paths. Grass crunches softly beneath her shoes, each step measured, deliberate. Her meeting with Principal Wells replays in fragments—tone, phrasing, posture, the subtle tremor in his voice when he tried to bridge a gap he couldn’t define.
“Transitions can be… challenging.”
“Friendships. Emotional growth.”
“I hope you find something here worth staying for.”
She replays the words like data points, but they refuse to align into a coherent pattern. They resist categorization. They behave like variables without values.
She knows what he meant. She understands the social expectation.
But understanding is not the same as feeling.
She pauses near the edge of the courtyard. A group of students laugh over something trivial—someone tripping, someone exaggerating a story, someone teasing a friend. Their voices rise and fall like waves, overlapping in ways that feel chaotic but are, in fact, deeply structured.
One student drops a notebook. Another bends quickly, scooping it up without being asked.
*Unprompted assistance. Empathy. Bonding behavior.*
Max notes it.
But something inside her stirs—something faint, unmeasurable, like static beneath the hum of her calculations. A flicker she cannot quantify.
She opens her notebook, pen poised with mechanical precision.
Principal Wells: Concerned.
Motivated by perceived emotional deficiency.
Suggested pursuit of intangible value.
Implication: I am incomplete.
The words sit stark on the page, too sharp, too honest.
She hesitates—an infinitesimal pause, but a pause nonetheless.
Then she writes beneath it:
Hypothesis: Emotional connection may enhance functionality.
Variable: Chloe Price.
Status: Unresolved.
She closes the notebook with a crisp snap, the sound swallowed by the courtyard noise.
“Ready. Set. Go!”
The teacher’s whistle hadn’t even cooled in the air before the rest of the class surged forward, sneakers pounding against the grass, laughter and breath trailing behind them like streamers. The field vibrated with energy—shouts, the slap of shoes, the rhythm of bodies in motion.
Max remained motionless. Arms at her sides. Eyes tracking each runner with quiet precision.
Some students glanced back mid-sprint, confusion flickering across their faces. Was she hesitating? Showing off?
But Max didn’t move until the first runner reached the far end of the field and turned.
Then, without a sound, she launched forward.
It wasn’t a sprint—it was something else. A blur. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground, each stride perfectly measured, each breath controlled. Within seconds, she passed the entire class, her body a study in flawless biomechanics. No wasted motion. No fatigue. Just velocity.
By the time the others reached the halfway mark on their return leg, Max was already standing at the finish line. Waiting. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… waiting.
The teacher blinked, whistle dangling loosely from his fingers. “Max, why did you wait?”
Max tilted her head, gaze steady. “I wanted to let them think they had a chance.”
The rest of the students stagger across the finish line, breath hitching, sweat glistening on foreheads and arms. Laughter mixes with groans, sneakers scuffing against the grass. Someone collapses onto the ground, triumphant in exhaustion, chest heaving.
Max’s stride remains steady, her face serene. Not a hair out of place. Not a single bead of sweat.
Chloe frowns, brushing damp bangs from her forehead, her breath still uneven. “You’re not sweating. Or exhausted. After all that?”
Max turns to her, voice even, eyes unblinking. “I am unable to sweat or run out of breath.”
The words hang in the air, heavy, strange.
Chloe blinks, caught between disbelief and curiosity. “Wait—what?”
Max turns away, unfazed. “Just how I was born.”
The class murmurs, whispers rippling like static. Chloe watches her, brows furrowed, the unease sharpening into intrigue.
The last class of the day is science. Max completes the assignments with mechanical precision—notes immaculate, answers exact, no hesitation. The teacher nods approvingly, but the approval feels perfunctory, routine. For Max, it is simply another dataset processed, another task completed.
Ryan is already waiting in the parking lot when she exits the building. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the asphalt, voices of other students drifting in fragments—laughter, gossip, the clatter of lockers shutting. Max hears them but filters them out, irrelevant noise.
She approaches the car, opens the door, and slides in with practiced grace. “Hello, Father,” she greets, tone clipped, precise.
“Good afternoon, Max. Enjoy your day?” Ryan asks, pulling out of the lot, his voice carrying a hopeful lilt.
Max shrugs, gaze fixed ahead. “A day like any other.”
Ryan’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. He forces a smile, but the silence between them feels heavier than the hum of the engine.