Chicago, 2005. Kai and Mark are now 7 years old.
The school smelled of old paint, crayons, and disinfectant. It was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower, with clocks dragging minutes along as if they were tired. Recess was loud, full of sharp voices and hurried steps, but Kai, as always, walked in silence. He observed more than he interacted.
He still clung to the idea of not getting involved. He wanted to be just a discreet piece in the background — a background actor on the stage of childhood.
But the world had other plans.
It was on the third day of school that the small incident happened.
Mark, full of energy, was playing soccer with a large group when, in an overly aggressive move, Connor — a big kid for his age, with a rough voice and a dominant presence — pushed him roughly during a scramble for the ball. Mark fell on the grass, confused, blinking fast as if he didn't understand what had happened.
The laughter came right after. Those quick, awkward giggles that didn't come from cruelty, but from collective conformity.
Before any reaction could come, a figure cut through the group.
— "Are you stupid, or just look like it?" — said July, staring Connor down with narrowed eyes. Straight dark hair, wearing a Mystic Dog T-shirt. Her voice wasn't aggressive, but it carried the authority of someone who doesn't tolerate injustice.
Connor hesitated. He looked for support among the others but found none. And that's when Kai stepped in.
With calm steps, straight posture, and that dense silence that made everyone else's words seem unnecessary.
— "We just want to play," he said, without raising his voice.
Connor's eyes met his. No glow, no explicit threat. But something there... something deep in those ordinary irises — not blue at that moment — carried an invisible weight. The kind of look that makes predators back down.
Connor looked away, muttered something, and walked off kicking the ground.
— "Thanks, bro," Mark said as he got up with a smile, already having forgotten the push.
Kai just touched his shoulder. — "Always."
The girl watched. She stepped a bit closer.
— "My name's July. You two brothers?"
— "Twins," Mark answered, cheerful.
July nodded, as if that explained a lot, and returned to her drawing table.
Kai stood there a few more seconds. Watching.
July was interesting. Just.
But he didn't want to get involved.
Still, he noticed Mark would spend the next few days trying to play near her, even without talking much.
One of those quiet bonds that, over the course of childhood, shape character without anyone noticing.
It was then that two other classmates approached.
— "Hey! That was awesome," said Derick, a skinny boy walking up to Kai.
— "Connor's a jerk," added Becky, with a small grin. — "He only does that when the teacher's not looking."
— "Or when she pretends not to see," commented Derick, making a face.
Kai looked at them and nodded, without saying anything.
But the connection was made.
Little by little, the small circle around the brothers was growing.
Connor? A mix of poorly hidden insecurity and inherited arrogance. He wasn't constantly cruel, but had lapses of brutality that went unnoticed by adults. A shove here. A harsh comment there. Always when no one was watching.
The teacher in question was Ms. Lorraine. Dyed dark red hair, heavily painted lips, and a permanently bored expression. Her voice was too sweet to be genuine, and her tight smile only appeared when she needed to show authority.
To some students, she was just "that strict teacher."
But to Kai... there was something more.
He noticed from the first day. A slight misalignment in her gaze when it met his. An involuntary stiffness.
And then Connor — with whom she shared a last name.
He discovered it in a casual conversation. Lorraine was his aunt.
At first, he tried to keep his distance. He observed. Measured.
When Connor tried to push Mark again during another game, Kai, from a distance, turned his eyes on him with that look that seemed to swallow him.
Connor backed off immediately.
A seven-year-old doesn't know what an abyss is. But Connor… he surely felt he had looked into one.
Kai said nothing. Drew no attention.
But that was enough to attract Lorraine's watchful eye in the following days.
She said nothing. But her tone with Mark grew colder. She started correcting him for the smallest things. Interrupted him during class. Praised other students who made the same mistakes she scolded Mark for.
There was no exaggeration.
Nothing that screamed favoritism.
But there was a pattern.
Kai saw it.
At first, he tried to rationalize. "She's tired. It's just a personality clash."
But then came the notes in the planner with disproportionate scoldings. Complaints sent to Debbie, who came home with a furrowed brow, trying to understand what was happening.
Mark began to withdraw a little.
He no longer recounted his day's events with the same excitement.
And that, for Kai, was the limit.
"If she messes with Mark, how will he become the hero that gives me a peaceful life?"
"Better cut this problem at the root."
In the following days, Lorraine intensified her small cruelties with surgical precision.
Nothing gross enough to warrant a report — but enough to leave marks.
During science class, she often singled Mark out to answer complex questions, sometimes not even covered in class. When he got it wrong, she smiled with a condescending tone:
— "Maybe next time you'll pay more attention, sweetie."
The muffled laughs from classmates weren't meant to be cruel — they were the nervous kind kids use when they don't know how to react. But they still hurt.
Mark started walking the halls more quietly.
Kai observed, quiet, always on the sidelines, but inside, the quicksand of indignation had begun to swallow his promise of neutrality.
That's when he started testing the environment.
During a group activity on animals, which they would present in the auditorium to other classes, Lorraine divided the students based on affinity — or, as was clear to Kai, based on convenience. He, Mark, Becky, Derick, and July were separated. Connor, interestingly, was placed with the calmer students.
Kai didn't complain. But when it came time to present the work, he used words that no seven-year-old would normally use — with clarity, articulation, and control. He paused dramatically at the end, something he'd learned during corporate meetings in his previous life.
Lorraine blinked. And for the first time, had no response...
Still in the auditorium, when it was Mark's turn to present, Lorraine corrected him for "too much emotion" in his reading and for "rushing through the interpretation." Later, she said he didn't know how to work in a group because he was "impulsive."
Kai, silent until then, raised his hand.
— "Miss, what were the criteria for evaluating the activity?"
She paused, surprised by the question, and all eyes turned to her and Kai — even the other teachers at the back of the auditorium, who had been chatting, took notice.
— "Why do you ask?"
— "Because if it was cooperation, Mark let everyone speak. And he had the coolest idea, too. If it was clarity, he read more fluently than anyone. I just wanted to understand what criteria you use... to evaluate seven-year-old students." — he finished with a subtle smile.
She pressed her lips, feigning a return smile.
— "Let's move on, children."
But that day, Lorraine left the auditorium with fire in her eyes.
The other students started to notice something was off. Rumors began circulating in the hallways. "Kai's kind of weird, right?" some said. "Doesn't talk much, but knows everything," others added. "But he's cool," they'd finish, remembering how he helped others quietly when he could.
July was the first to say it out loud, one day in the cafeteria:
— "You don't like drawing attention, but it gets hard to ignore you when you act like that," she said, chewing slowly on a peanut butter sandwich.
Kai just raised an eyebrow, pretending not to understand.
Kai knew he had won the first battle.
But Kai went further…
In the days that followed, he began manipulating small situations. He planted doubts, asked questions too technical for a child — questions that Lorraine often couldn't answer. He whispered the correct response to Jordan or Derick at the right moment, just so Lorraine would contradict herself later. He began constructing her collapse in silence — as any good older brother would.
During a materials handoff in the principal's office, he watched carefully. Lorraine was carrying a stack of papers — lesson plans, drawings, activities. In a seemingly casual moment, he bumped "accidentally" into the principal, who was holding a cup of coffee near the teacher. The liquid spilled, soaking everything. The result? Material rendered useless. And in the principal's eyes, it looked like an unfortunate accident. Lorraine couldn't prove otherwise, nor complain without seeming paranoid.
A day later, a small student presentation took place — something routine at the school. Kai, seated among classmates, raised his hand during the teacher's speech, while she was on stage next to other staff members.
— "Ms. Lorraine, if the narrative time breaks in the second paragraph of the story, doesn't that mean it's a rupture of traditional linearity?"
The silence that followed was awkward.
Lorraine blinked a few times, as if trying to process what she had just heard. The question was far too refined, with terms no seven-year-old should even be familiar with. A few giggles echoed in the audience. Teachers exchanged looks.
— "Ah… well… that's… a bit advanced," she replied, flustered.
Kai frowned, as if realizing his mistake, and apologized with a slight smile:
— "Ah, sorry, Ms. Lorraine. I just thought the idea was cool... I guess I made it too complicated for you."
It was a perfect apology. Polite, innocent, and absolutely venomous. The seed of discredit had been planted. And it would grow quickly.
Moments later, Lorraine tried to regain her authority by making a comment about textual interpretation but slipped on a term. She used the wrong word in the middle of an improvised explanation. Kai, politely, raised his hand again.
— "I think you meant 'ambiguity,' not 'ambivalence,' right?"
Her face paled. She tried to cover it up, but the audience — students and teachers — was already murmuring. It wasn't just a mistake. It was humiliation. And it came from a kid in elementary school.
And after that, the following week... came the math test.
A simple test — after all, an elementary school test was easy for someone who had lived over 20 years in another life.
Kai solved everything quickly in under 10 minutes. But he also knew that scores that were too high attracted attention. He intentionally got two questions wrong. He wanted to look like a normal kid after all the recent events — to lower suspicions.
He handed in the test calmly.
But as he left the room, he saw it.
Lorraine, alone, opened one of the drawers in the cabinet — the one with the lock. She took his test, looked at it for a moment… and stored it at the bottom, under a pile of old papers. She locked it again. Thought she was alone.
But she couldn't see with the eyes Kai had.
The void between spaces — the energy that allowed him to see beyond physical barriers — showed him everything. With the Six Eyes activated for just a few seconds, he could even read the scribbled name on the folder where she hid the "tests to review."
She wanted him exposed. Expelled from school.
Days later…
Debbie and Nolan were called to the school. The principal welcomed them with a smile, while Lorraine said, with staged regret:
— "Your son turned in a blank test, and when I questioned him, he said he lost it. His behavior has also been concerning. We have to consider that maybe he's experiencing some kind of block. I think your son doesn't align with this school..."
Kai looked at his parents. Then at Lorraine. Then at the principal.
— "I can show you where the test is," he said, his voice clear.
The principal frowned.
— "It's locked in the second drawer of the metal cabinet in Room 3, under a green folder with torn labels. The key is in the teacher's bag, in the pocket with the broken zipper."
Lorraine turned pale.
That was enough — the description was too detailed for him to be making it up.
Minutes later, with everyone in the room, the principal found exactly what Kai had described. The test — filled out, graded, and with two wrong answers.
— "This is unacceptable. Please step out so I can speak with the Graysons in private," said the principal, her voice firm and eyes locked on Lorraine.
The principal's office fell silent once Lorraine left without saying a word.
Debbie clutched her purse strap too tightly, knuckles white.
Nolan just watched, arms crossed, neutral expression — but his eyes... his eyes said something else.
The principal cleared her throat.
— "I apologize for what happened. We'll ensure situations like this never happen again. The school failed you," she said, looking especially at Debbie, who gave a brief nod.
As they left the office, Debbie spoke first:
— "I… I don't know how I didn't see it before. You wouldn't even be in this school if the one I'd picked had room for both of you." — Her voice trembled slightly.
She stopped, knelt to be eye-level with Mark, thinking about all the times she'd scolded him over notes from that teacher.
— "I'm sorry, son. I should've believed you from the start."
Mark blinked, surprised. Then gave a small smile.
— "It's okay, Mom."
She hugged him tightly. Too tightly.
Kai just watched, a faint discomfort in his chest. Not pain — but… something he didn't yet know how to name. Maybe envy of an innocence he no longer had. Maybe relief that Mark still did.
Nolan said nothing for long seconds. He just stared at Kai, as if analyzing him. His eyes were sharp like scalpels, searching for something behind that artificial calm.
— "That was impressive," he finally said, voice low, restrained. It wasn't exactly a compliment. It sounded more like an observation.
Kai held his father's gaze. Not defiant, but steady. He knew he'd crossed a line — not just the line of omission, but the line of exposure. And Nolan had noticed.
— "How did you know about the drawer?" he asked, already in the parking lot.
— "Part I saw. Part was intuition," Kai replied with a half-smile.
Nolan raised an eyebrow. The answer was a little too good. And that, curiously, seemed to reassure him.
— "You're smart. Too smart for your age."
Kai shrugged.
— "I just pay attention."
Nolan stared at him for another second. Then nodded slowly and said:
— "Keep it that way."
But the phrase came loaded. Like a warning disguised as approval. There was pride in it.
When they got in the car, Debbie was still wiping her eyes. Nolan started the engine without saying another word.
Mark, in the back seat, smiled at his brother. And unexpectedly, from the front seat…
— "Who wants ice cream?" said Nolan, still proud of what had happened.
By the end of the day, Lorraine had been dismissed "for inappropriate conduct."
Connor didn't return to school in the following weeks.