I held my breath, counting the cracks in the linoleum floor of the cafeteria.
One, two, three.
If I didn’t look up, maybe they wouldn’t see me. That was the rule I lived by at Lincoln High. Be invisible. Be a ghost. Keep your head down, do your work, and get out. But today, the universe had other plans. A shadow fell over my tray, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights and casting a chill over my lukewarm pizza.
“Hey, Einstein.”
The voice was low, laced with that fake casual tone that always preceded violence. It was Tyler. Of course, it was Tyler. The captain of the varsity football team, the king of the hallways, and the guy who had decided my life was going to be a living hell since the day I transferred here three months ago. He smelled of expensive cologne and entitlement.
I didn’t answer. I just gripped the edges of my AP Calculus textbook harder, my knuckles turning white against the cover. I tried to focus on the text, on the derivatives and integrals, the logic of numbers that made sense in a world that didn’t.
“I’m talking to you,” Tyler snapped, slamming his large, calloused hand down on the table.
My milk carton jumped, spilling a few drops onto the table. The cafeteria, usually a roar of noise, went quiet in our immediate vicinity. People love a spectacle, as long as they aren’t the ones in the center of it. I could feel the eyes of the cheerleaders, the gamers, and the drifters all shifting toward us.
“I’m just trying to eat, Tyler,” I whispered, finally looking up. My voice felt small, foreign in my own throat.
He smirked, looking back at his goons—Jason and Mike—who were snickering like hyenas behind him. They were carbon copies of him, just with fewer brain cells and more aggression. “Hear that? He’s trying to eat. But you know what I think? I think you’re doing too much thinking. All these books… they’re bad for your eyes.”
Before I could react, Jason snatched the book from under my hands. The paper tore slightly.
“Give it back,” I said, my voice shaking. Not from fear—though there was plenty of that—but from a suppressed rage I couldn’t let out. Not yet. I couldn’t blow my cover. I couldn’t let them see the real me.
“You want it?” Jason taunted, holding it high above his head. He danced back a few steps, playing keep-away like I was a dog. “Go get it.”
He wound up his arm and tossed it across the aisle. It spiraled through the air, a heavy projectile of knowledge, and landed with a dull, sickening thud right into the large, gray industrial trash can near the exit. The plastic liner crinkled as my future—my notes, my homework, the codes I had deciphered—sank into the garbage, resting on top of half-eaten burgers and apple cores.
Tyler leaned in close, invading my personal space. “You don’t need to study, kid. Where you’re going, nobody reads. You’re a waste of space at this school.”
The table erupted in laughter. It was a cruel, sharp sound. I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. My hands were trembling by my sides. I walked toward the trash can, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks. Humiliation was a cold sweat on my neck.
I reached for the bin. I had to get that book. It wasn’t just homework inside.
My hand was inches from the rim of the trash can when the world shattered.
CRASH.
The double doors to the cafeteria didn’t just open—they exploded inward, slamming against the magnetic stops with the force of a freight train.
“EVERYBODY DOWN! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! NOW!”
The scream was guttural, amplified by a megaphone. It wasn’t the principal with a detention slip. It wasn’t the school resource officer with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
It was a full tactical team.
Black vests. Helmets. Assault rifles raised and tucked tight against shoulders. “POLICE! STAY DOWN!”
And leading the pack was a German Shepherd, a muscle-bound beast straining against a thick leather leash, its claws scrambling for traction on the polished floor. Its bark was a deep, thunderous boom that echoed off the tiled walls.
Chaos erupted instantly. Screams filled the air as students scrambled under tables, overturning trays and chairs. The frantic squeak of sneakers on vinyl mixed with the screams.
Tyler and his crew froze. Their laughter died instantly, choking in their throats. They looked like deer in headlights, confused, terrified, their posture shifting from dominant to submissive in a fraction of a second.
“I SAID DOWN!” an officer bellowed, advancing into the room, sweeping the barrel of his rifle across the sea of students.
I dropped to my knees near the trash can, interlocking my fingers behind my head immediately. I controlled my breathing. In. Out. I knew the drill. I had practiced this in my head a thousand times, though I never thought it would happen during third-period lunch.
Tyler, however, was panicking. He raised his hands, shaking violently. “What is this? My dad is on the city council! You can’t—”
“SHUT UP AND GET ON THE GROUND!”
The K-9 unit handler released the slack on the leash. The dog didn’t bark anymore. It went into work mode. It didn’t look at the screaming students. It didn’t look at the teachers cowering by the lunch line.
It lowered its head, sniffing frantically, its nose working overdrive. It pulled the handler forward, ignoring the food on the tables, ignoring the smell of fear that permeated the room.
It dragged the officer straight toward our corner. Straight toward Tyler.
Tyler let out a high-pitched whimper, stumbling back into Mike. “I didn’t do anything! It’s just a prank on the nerd! We were just joking!”
But the dog didn’t stop at Tyler. It lunged past his varsity jacket.
It stopped directly in front of the trash can where my book had just landed.
The dog sat down.
A perfect, trained sit. Rigid. Alert. Staring at the bin.
The signal.
The handler’s eyes went wide. He looked at me, crouching five feet away. Then he looked at the trash can. Then at Tyler and his friends who were standing right next to it, their fingerprints literally fresh on the “evidence.”
“We have a positive hit!” the officer yelled into his radio, his voice cracking with urgency. “Code Red! Secure the perimeter! Nobody leaves this room! Get the Bomb Squad on standby!”
Bomb squad?
Tyler looked at the trash can, then at me. His face went pale white, the blood draining away until he looked like a ghost. “What… what did you put in there?”
I looked up from the floor, and for the first time in three months, I let the mask slip. I didn’t look like the scared transfer student anymore. I looked him dead in the eye.
“I didn’t put anything in there, Tyler,” I said, my voice steady, cutting through the chaos like a knife. “But you just tossed my book on top of exactly what they’re looking for. And thanks to your little game of catch, your scent is all over it.”

The officer grabbed Tyler by the collar of his expensive jacket and slammed him against the wall. “Cuff him! Now!”
“No! Wait! It’s his book!” Tyler screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “It’s the weird kid’s book!”
The officer looked at me. I stayed on my knees, calm, collected. I nodded toward the bin.
“Officer,” I said clearly. “Check the false bottom of the bin. Not my book. What’s under it.”
The cafeteria was evacuated in a blur of motion. Students were herd-walked out single file, hands on heads, past a gauntlet of state troopers. But not us. Not me, and not Tyler’s crew.
We were separated.
They zip-tied Tyler’s hands behind his back right there in front of the whole school. The “King of Lincoln High” was crying, actual tears streaming down his face, mixing with snot. It was pathetic. Jason and Mike were already on the ground, vomiting from nerves.
An officer hauled me up, but he didn’t cuff me. He guided me firmly by the arm toward the kitchen exit, away from the prying eyes of the student body.
“You said check the false bottom,” the officer growled in my ear as we walked. “How did you know about the false bottom?”
“Because I saw the janitor put it there during second period,” I lied smoothly. “I thought he was just fixing the liner. But he was taping something down.”
It was a half-truth. I hadn’t just seen the janitor. I had been watching the janitor for six weeks.
They shoved me into the principal’s office, which had been commandeered as a temporary command post. The blinds were drawn. Radios were chattering with static.
Five minutes later, the door opened. A man in a suit walked in. No uniform. FBI.
“Agent Miller,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He looked tired. “You’re the kid from the cafeteria. The one who stayed calm.”
“I read a lot,” I said, rubbing my wrists. “Panic doesn’t help.”
“Your friend out there, the varsity captain? He’s singing like a canary. Says the book is yours, says you’re a terrorist, says you’ve been acting weird for months.”
“He’s not my friend,” I corrected. “And yeah, the book is mine. But the two kilos of fentanyl the dog smelled? That wasn’t in my Calculus book, Agent Miller.”
Miller raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t released details on what we found yet. How do you know it was fentanyl?”
I froze. I had slipped. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I was getting sloppy. I needed to pivot.
“I… I watch a lot of crime shows,” I stammered, trying to bring the ‘nervous nerd’ persona back online. “Dogs sit for drugs or bombs. The way the guy yelled… I guessed drugs.”
Miller studied me. He didn’t buy it. He leaned forward. “Let me tell you what’s happening. We’ve been tracking a distribution ring moving product through three high schools in the district. We knew the drop was today. We didn’t know exactly where. That dog saved us a lot of time. And those boys? Their fingerprints are on the bag inside the bin because they were stupid enough to throw your book in there, jostling the package.”
He paused.
“But here’s the kicker, kid. The package wasn’t just tapped into the bottom. It was inside a hollowed-out Biology textbook. A textbook that looks a lot like the one you carry.”
My stomach dropped.
“Tyler claims he saw you with that book earlier,” Miller said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you switch them?”
I laughed. It was a dry, nervous sound. “You think I’m a drug lord? I’m seventeen. I barely have a driver’s license.”
“I think you’re smart,” Miller said. “Smarter than Tyler. Smarter than the teachers here. We ran your background check while you were sitting here. You moved here from Chicago three months ago. Orphan. Living with an uncle who travels for ‘business’ constantly. A ghost.”
I stared at him. The game was getting dangerous.
“Check the security cameras,” I said. “The hallway cameras. 8:15 AM. You’ll see who put the Biology book in the trash.”
“We can’t,” Miller said flatly. “Cameras were looped. Hacked. Whoever did this is a pro.”
“So I’m a pro hacker and a drug dealer?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re being framed. Or maybe,” Miller leaned in so close I could see the pores on his nose, “Maybe you’re working for someone else.”
Suddenly, the door to the office banged open. A uniformed officer stuck his head in. “Sir, we found the janitor. He’s in the boiler room. He’s… he’s gone. OD’d. Looks like a loose end was tied up.”
Miller cursed and stood up. “Keep this kid here. Don’t let him talk to anyone.”
As Miller rushed out, I sat back in the leather chair. I looked at the clock on the wall. 12:45 PM.
I had fifteen minutes.
I wasn’t a drug dealer. And I wasn’t just a student.
My name is Alex, and for the last two years, I’ve been a CI—a Confidential Informant—working off a juvenile record that would have put me away for ten years. My “uncle” was my handler. My mission was to infiltrate Lincoln High and find the supplier.
I knew about the drop. I was the one who tipped off the police anonymously to raid the school today.
But I didn’t expect Tyler. I didn’t expect that idiot to throw my actual school book into the drop site.
Now, the Cartel knew the drop was burned. They knew the police were here. And because Tyler had drawn so much attention to me right before the raid, everyone in that cafeteria—including the Cartel’s spotters—saw me near the bin.
They would think I was the one who intercepted the package. Or worse, they would think I was the rat.
I had to get out of this office. I had to get to my burner phone in my locker before the police found it, or before the Cartel found me.

I looked at the young officer guarding the door. He looked bored.
“Hey,” I said, clutching my stomach. “I think… I think I’m gonna be sick. Nervous stomach. Please.”
The officer sighed. “Fine. Use the staff bathroom. Right there. Door open.”
I stumbled toward the bathroom. As soon as I passed the threshold, I saw the window. It was small, high up, and led to the alleyway behind the school.
I didn’t hesitate. I locked the door, cranked the faucet to cover the noise, and climbed up on the sink.
I was done being the victim. It was time to go on the offensive.
The bathroom window was tight, a rectangular squeeze meant for ventilation, not for a seventeen-year-old boy. But I wasn’t a normal teenager. I dislocated my shoulder slightly—a trick I learned the hard way two years ago—and popped through the frame, landing in a crouch on the damp concrete of the delivery alley.
Pain shot through my arm, hot and sharp. With a grunt and a sickening pop, I shoved the joint back into the socket. I leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air, sweat stinging my eyes.
I was out. I was free. I could run.
But I couldn’t.
My burner phone was taped to the inside top of my locker, hidden behind a magnetic mirror. It contained the encrypted logs of every text, every photo, and every audio recording I had gathered on the Lincoln High distribution ring for the past ninety days. If the police found it, they’d log it as evidence, and my cover would be blown forever. If the Cartel found it—or if they realized I had it—I was a dead man.
I checked the alley. Clear.
The school was on total lockdown. Police cruisers were barricading the front. The media helicopters were already circling overhead like vultures, the thump-thump-thump of their rotors drowning out the distant sirens.
I had to go back in.
I climbed the dumpster, jumped for the lower rung of the fire escape, and hauled myself up to the roof of the gymnasium. This was my domain. I had spent my lunch breaks mapping the maintenance routes, not because I expected a raid, but because paranoia is a survival trait in my line of work.
I found the roof access hatch. It was padlocked.
I pulled a small tension wrench from the hidden seam in my belt. Three seconds later, the lock clicked. I slipped inside, descending into the dark, dusty crawlspace above the ceiling tiles of the third floor.
Below me, I could hear the heavy boots of the SWAT team sweeping the halls.
“Clear left! Clear right! Room 304 secure!”
I crawled on my elbows and knees, moving silently along the steel support beams. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light poking through the cracks. I was a ghost haunting the ceiling.
I made my way toward the East Wing, where the senior lockers were. I needed to drop down into the custodial closet near the library, wait for the patrol to pass, and make a run for my locker.
I reached the vent above the closet. I peered through the grate.
The room wasn’t empty.
Two figures were standing there in the dim light. One was wearing a police vest. The other was wearing a suit—Agent Miller.
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was terrified they’d hear it.
“The kid is gone, Miller,” the uniformed officer said. His voice was rough. “He slipped the bathroom. We have a perimeter, but he’s slippery.”
“Find him,” Miller hissed. “He knows too much. If he talks to the locals, or if he has proof on him, the whole operation goes sideways. We need to secure the package and the loose end.”
“The Cartel isn’t happy about the raid, Miller. This wasn’t the deal. You were supposed to let the shipment pass.”
My blood ran cold.
Miller wasn’t just a fed. He was on the payroll. The raid wasn’t a bust; it was a cleanup operation or a double-cross gone wrong. And I was the variable they hadn’t accounted for.
“Just find the boy,” Miller growled. “And make sure he resists arrest. I don’t want a trial.”
Make sure he resists arrest. That was code for “shoot on sight.”
They left the room. I waited ten seconds, then kicked the grate open. I dropped to the floor, silent as a cat.
I wasn’t just fighting the drug dealers anymore. I was fighting the law.
I cracked the door open. The hallway was empty, bathed in the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the lockers from the windows.
I sprinted.
I made it to locker 412. My hands were shaking, but my muscle memory took over. Right 24, Left 10, Right 32.
Click.
I swung the door open. I reached up, feeling for the phone.
My hand touched empty metal.
The phone was gone.
“Looking for this?”
I spun around, my back hitting the lockers.
Standing at the end of the hallway, holding my black burner phone in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, was Tyler.
The bully. The jock. The guy who started this whole mess.
He wasn’t crying anymore. He looked terrified, yes, but also angry. His varsity jacket was torn, and he had a cut above his eye.
“You really are a freak,” Tyler whispered, stepping closer. “I saw you come out of the ceiling. Humans don’t do that.”
“Give me the phone, Tyler,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. I stepped away from the lockers, keeping my center of gravity low. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I would if I had to. “You have no idea what you’re holding.”
Tyler scoffed, though the bat wavered in his hand. “Oh, I think I do. I saw the messages on the screen before it locked. ‘Package secured.’ ‘Agent M compromised.’ You’re a spy? A narc? Or are you with the drug dealers?”
“I’m the guy trying to keep you from getting killed,” I snapped. “Now give it to me. There are dirty cops in this building who will put a bullet in both of us if they find us.”
“Bullshit,” Tyler shouted. The sound echoed dangerously down the empty corridor.
“Lower your voice!” I hissed, lunging forward.
Tyler swung the bat. It was a clumsy, telegraphed swing. I ducked under it easily, stepping into his guard. I jammed my palm into his chest, shoving him backward. He tripped over his own feet and crashed into a row of trash cans—ironically, the same type of bin he’d tossed my book into earlier.
I snatched the phone from the floor where he dropped it.
“Listen to me,” I grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up. “Agent Miller—the FBI guy? He’s working with the Cartel. He wants me dead. And since you’ve seen this phone, he’ll want you dead too.”
Tyler’s eyes were wide. The bravado of the football captain had completely evaporated. He was just a scared kid now. “My… my dad is on the city council. He’ll fix this.”
“Your dad can’t fix a bullet to the head, Tyler. We need to move. Now.”
“Where? The exits are blocked!”
“Not all of them.”
I dragged him toward the gym. “The boiler room has a sub-basement tunnel that leads to the storm drains. It opens up near the river, a mile away.”
“The storm drains? Are you crazy? There are rats down there!”
“Better rats than feds with silencers.”
We burst into the locker room, the smell of sweat and old rubber hitting us. I needed to grab a weapon. I wasn’t carrying. I scanned the room. A hockey stick. A fire extinguisher.