Rachel approaches you to talk to you.

You’re still by the doorway when she approaches.

Rachel. Close enough that her perfume cuts through the gym’s eucalyptus haze. It's sharp, bright, too expensive for someone who “just answers emails.” It makes you want to take another step closer just to see if it smells the same on her skin.

“You know him?” she asks.

No hello. No warm‑up. Just straight to it.

You follow her gaze toward the door where Mr. Dead‑Eyes disappeared. “The guy in the back?”

She nods.

You shrug noncommitally.

“I don't know. Just figured I'd say hi, seeing as we appear to be the only two guys in this whole class. I’m Ryan, by the way.”

“Rachel.” She says it like she’s tasting the name. “So what did you two talk about?”

“Deeply personal things. We bonded over our shared love of stretchy pants,” you deadpan.

That gets a soft laugh, the kind people give when they’re deciding if they like you.

“First class?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Her gaze drifts down your chest, then back up, slow enough that you catch it. “You don’t move like it.”

“I had no idea what I was doing,” you say. “Spent half the class praying I wouldn’t fall on my face.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she says. “Or you’re one of those people who’s secretly good at everything.”

“Not everything. Some things. Things I find interesting. I find you interesting?”

That earns you a real smile. “That was a good line. Do you have more?”

“Depends on the audience.”

Her lips twitch. You almost a real smile. “And what am I?”

You hold her gaze. “The kind of audience worth performing for.”

That gets you a look. One that is measured, appraising. Like she’s trying to decide if you’re trouble or if she wants you to be.

“See you around?” she says finally.

“Count on it,” you reply.

She doesn’t break eye contact as she walks past you, brushing just close enough for you to feel it.

She doesn't look back. She knows she doesn't need to.

The street outside smells like oil and heat.

You step out into the daylight, gym bag slung over your shoulder and stop.

Across the street, leaning against a lamp is Mr. Dead‑Eyes.

No gym bag. No car keys in hand. Just standing there. Watching.

It’s the kind of stillness that feels deliberate.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than polite. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend to look away.

You keep walking, casual, like you didn’t just clock the human equivalent of a landmine across the street.

At the garage, you take the long way around. Check your mirrors. Nothing. No footsteps behind you. When you reach your car, he’s still across the street, still watching.

You don’t like it.

Driving feels pointless when every few blocks you’re still checking your mirrors, still looking for a shadow that isn’t there. So you swing back toward the office instead.

The agency lobby smells like burnt coffee and old carpet. The front desk is unmanned, as usual.

You jack your PocketWatch into one of the wall ports and wait for the little green indicator to blink. Then you dial.

Yvette picks up on the third ring. “Tell me you got something good.”

“Define good.”

Her exhale hisses static into your ear. “Gallagher.”

“Ran into Rachel. She talked. Might have a lead.” You pause. “And I think she’s got a shadow.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s a guy. Ex‑military, by the look of him. Big. Knows how to move. Been in her classes all week, apparently. Watched her the whole time.”

Yvette hums, low and thoughtful. “You make contact?”

“Barely. He wasn’t chatty. Saw me leave. Followed me out.” You glance toward the office door, scanning reflexively, even here. “Still watching when I got to the garage.”

"Did you..."

"Yeah. I made sure I wasn't tailed on my way back here. I'm not stupid. Well... not that stupid."

"Good. But that complicates things,” she says finally.

“No kidding.”

“Back off for now. If he’s what you think, poking the bear won’t do us any favors. I’ll put out some feelers. See if anyone recognizes the description.”

“Got it,” you say.

“Where are you headed?”

“Tutoring. Stats class kid. I’m clocking out for the day.”

There’s a pause on the other end, then: “Tutoring? You? Since when?”

“Professor set it up. Said I could skip the attendance requirements if I help one of his students.”

Yvette’s laugh crackles through the line, low and amused. “Look at you. Mentor material. Should I be worried? You’re starting to sound like a functioning adult.”

“I can legally drink now. Totally a grown-up. I'm trying to get used to it,” you say.

“Right, I'll believe it when I see it.” she fires back, still grinning in her voice. “Go play teacher. But keep your eyes on a swivel. I wouldn't want my favorite employee getting hurt.”

She hangs up before you can reply.

You sit there for a beat, staring at your reflection in the blank lobby screen, counting your pulse down.

Then you pull the cable, slide the Watch back on your wrist, and leave.

No tail.

Not yet.

---

She’s ten minutes late.

Not “stuck in traffic” late. Not “oops I forgot the time” late. Just late.

When she finally shows, she drops into the chair across from you with all the effort of someone collapsing into bed after a long day.

“Hey,” she says, breathless but smiling. “Sorry. Important phone call.”

You glance up from your notes. Hoodie. Short skirt. The kind of outfit that says I didn’t dress up for you, while absolutely dressing up for you.

“Mm,” you say. “Some phone call. Must’ve been worth making me wait.”

She leans in on her elbows and exhales. “You betcha.”

You nod. She smells like a department store cosmetics counter. Her eyeliner’s still tacky. Fresh makeup.

But you don’t push. Not yet.

“Alright,” you say, dragging her notebook closer. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Turns out: nothing.

It takes about five minutes to figure out she doesn’t just suck at math. She doesn’t have the foundation for it. Times tables, fractions, even basic algebra. You’re not teaching her the homework. You’re rebuilding the damn road.

So you start her on drills. Memorization. Flashcards. Repetition. “This is supposed to be boring. You're missing the basic building blocks for math. Trying to teach you stats right now would be like trying to give you a lecture on Shakespeare to someone who hasn't even finished memorizing the alphabet yet.” you tell her.

She groans. “This is cruel.”

“Yeah, welcome to learning math the proper way,” you deadpan.

An hour later, you’re both alive but only barely. She’s done the bare minimum of progress, staring at you like a dog who’s been taught exactly one new trick and expects applause for it.

“Alright,” she says, pushing her books aside. “You promised.”

You sigh. “VR.”

“VR,” she repeats, all fake sweetness.

You’ve known the campus library has VR pods, but growing up where entertainment meant dirt bikes and throwing rocks at each other, you’ve never actually used one. And by the time you moved to Austin, life didn’t leave much room for video games.

The VR room glows dim blue.

The pods line the walls like sleeping coffins, each one humming faintly. Irene swipes her ID with all the authority of someone who owns the place.

“This is my spot,” she says, swiping her ID.

“Your spot,” you echo.

She grins. “Where I destroy people.”

“Comforting,” you mutter.

Inside, the headset molds itself to your head, calibrating to your eyes, pulse, thoughts. Twenty years of innovation, and it still smells faintly like the last guy’s hair gel.

Then the game starts.

Concrete streets. Neon signs. Digital spectators looping canned jeers and applause. Your avatar’s arms are yours. Its legs are yours. The haptic vest bites when you flex your hands.

Not bad.

“Ready?” Irene’s voice chirps through the comm, warped slightly by the filter.

“As I’ll ever be.”

She’s across the ring, smaller than you but radiating the kind of confidence that says she’s done this a thousand times.

The bell dings.

She’s on you in a blink.

It’s not boxing. It’s not even close. VR fighting doesn’t have the same rules. She moves like her joints don’t care about physics, snapping from stance to stance in impossible angles. One second she’s a foot away, the next her heel’s connecting with your ribs, the vest sparking with simulated pain.

“Cute guard,” she teases.

You raise it higher. Settle into what you know. Jabs, hooks, clean footwork. It works for maybe two seconds.

Then she ducks, sweeps your leg, and drops you like a sandbag.

The crowd roars.

“Come onnn,” her voice lilts through the comm, sugar-sweet. “You’re not that slow in real life, are you?”

You push up, shake it off. Okay. Play it like a real fight. Let her come to you.

She doesn’t.

She blitzes.

Every time you find an opening, she’s already countered. Every time you think you’ve cornered her, she’s behind you. No fear, no hesitation, just clean, surgical ****.

She plays the game like someone who’s died in it a thousand times and learned how to make sure it never happens again.

You catch one lucky shot. A clean cross that lands with a satisfying crunch, and it barely slows her down.

“Nice,” she chirps. “Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

You grit your teeth and dive back in.

Minutes blur. You adjust. Improve. Stop thinking, start moving. For a while, you almost keep up.

Almost.

Then she feints, spins, and her heel cracks your temple with a flash of white light.

KO.

The ring fades. The crowd roars.

Game over.

You rip off the headset, breathing harder than you expected. Across from you, Irene’s already leaning back in her pod, smirking like a cat that caught something slow and stupid.

“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re terrible.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, because it’s easier than admitting you got obliterated.

She steps closer, bends slightly, like she’s about to whisper in your ear. “Mmm. I like seeing you lose.”

You huff a laugh, still trying to get your bearings. “I thought you needed me to teach you math.”

“Oh, you’re teaching me plenty,” she purrs, backing up just enough to make you follow her with your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

You blink. “You just murdered me.”

“Yeah,” she says sweetly. “But you’re a quick learner.”

There’s a challenge in it. You don’t bother hiding your smirk.

“Fine.”

Back in the pod. The world blinks alive again: concrete, neon, that canned crowd roar.

This time you don’t wait for the bell.

You move first.

Her eyes widen. It's just a flicker, but it’s there. You close the gap fast, throw a sharp combo. She deflects with that same impossible looseness, flowing out of range like water.

But you’re watching now. Really watching.

Every whip of her body, every snap of her limbs. She doesn’t fight like a person. She fights like a weapon pretending to be one.

You start copying.

Your shoulders loosen. You let the joints go slack, flicking punches and kicks like a bullwhip instead of a sledgehammer. Speed over ****. You feel the game respond. The haptic sensors biting differently, your avatar moving with a flexibility your real body could never survive.

Irene notices. Her eyes narrow.

“Oh,” she says through the comm. “Now you’re trying.”

“Thought I’d give you a challenge.”

“You think you’re close to that?”

“Closer than last time.”

She comes in fast, and this time you’re ready. You meet her strikes with matching rhythm, slip into her timing, throw feints she actually bites on.

It’s different now. She still dominates the space, but you’re in it with her, forcing her to adjust instead of just play with her food.

You land a solid knee to her gut. The vest kicks back with that satisfying thud of simulated impact.

“Oooh,” she laughs. “Someone’s improving.”

“Scared?”

She snorts. “Please.”

She spins low, sweeps for your leg. You leap it, just barely, and snap a heel toward her temple. Your own stolen version of her finishing move.

She blocks. Barely.

Her voice is different now. It's lighter, but sharp at the edges. “You’re learning my tricks.”

“Quick study.”

She grins through the comm. “Still not enough.”

And then she shows you what enough looks like.

Her feint pulls you off guard, her counter hits before you can even think to defend, and a second later her heel cracks your jaw.

White flash.

KO.

The ring fades again.

You rip off the headset, gasping, sweat running cold despite the fake city heat. Irene peels hers off slower, hair sticking to her face, grin wolfish.

“Closer,” she says, leaning on the pod wall. “But still mine.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Getting cocky?”

“Always.”

Irene’s leaning against her pod. Eyes bright, flushed and grinning like she just got away with something.

“You’re getting better,” she says.

“Still lost.”

“True, but most people wouldn't have be able to push me that hard, so you should be proud of yourself.”

You shake your head, fighting a smirk. “Alright, back to the real world.”

She groans like you just asked her to scrub toilets. “Ugh. Math.”

“Yep. Math.”

Back at the table, you pull her notes out, flipping to the page she’d been butchering earlier. “Look,” you say, tapping at her work. “You don’t have a foundation at all. It’s like trying to build on sand.”

She crosses her arms. “That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate. I can get you through stats, probably, but you’re always going to hit the same wall until you fix this.”

She flops forward on the table, cheek squished against her arm. “I’m not doing homework.”

“That’s up to you.” You shrug, gathering your stuff. “It’s your life.”

Her head pops up. “That’s it? No lecture?”

“Not my job to push you.” You sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for the game.”

You’re halfway out the library before she jogs up behind you. “Wait.”

You glance back.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a little softer now. “I’ll do the work. Just...” She kicks at the tile, suddenly shy in a way that doesn’t fit her usual sharp edges. “Can we keep playing after? I haven’t had that much fun in a while.”

You raise a brow. “You this competitive with all your tutors?”

Her smirk comes back. “Just the ones who don’t totally suck. Besides—” she leans in a little, conspiratorial “—you know you’re playing one of the best in the country, right?”

You bark a laugh. “That explains a lot.”

“Mm-hm.” She straightens up. “So. Deal?”

You think it over, then nod. “Fine. But you’re putting in a fair amount of homework before we touch a headset again.”

Her eyes gleam. “Can we make it interesting?”

You narrow yours. “Define interesting.”

“A bet,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at her. “What kind of bet?”

Her smile’s all teeth. “Nothing too far out of line.”

You sigh, already regretting it. “Fine. But if this ends with me in handcuffs—”

She grins wider. “You’ll survive.”