You never expected to find someone in the astronomy tower. It’s the farthest part of the old observatory, where the stairs creak with age and the dome roof hisses when the wind hits it just right. The last time someone used this place was probably for a forgotten science fair, the walls still lined with sun-bleached posters about asteroid belts and Van Allen radiation. You liked that. Quiet. Ghostly. Forgotten.

It made hiding easier.

So when the rustle of feet echoes behind you, your heart lurches into your throat. You spin around fast, hand already tensing near the inside of your sleeve where the reinforced fiber lives, hidden in case things go sideways.

But it’s not an attacker or a drone. Or even someone from the school.

It’s him. The boy with the universe in his eyes. Nate Richards. The transfer no one remembers transferring. The one who never wears the same tech twice. The one who answered a question in AP History like he’d been there.

You’re frozen in place.

“I’m not here to out you,” he says, tone careful. “I’m here because I want to talk.”

You try not to react. You try not to move. You try not to breathe too obviously.

“Don’t bother denying it,” he adds, with a half-smile that’s almost apologetic. “I know what it looks like when someone’s hiding. I did it too.”

Your mind scrambles. You were careful. No public displays. No signature. No traceable gear. You’ve stayed under the radar for months. Just little acts. A fire contained here. A runaway caught there. Your own private rebellion against helplessness.

How did he find you?

“I ran a neural anomaly scan through a time-folded pattern recognition field. Your aura blipped weird after the—okay, that probably doesn’t help.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m bad at not sounding like a walking quantum thesis.”

You blink.

He softens.

“What I’m trying to say is: I know what you’re doing. I know you’re doing good. And I’m not here to ruin that. I want to offer you something better.”