The air smells faintly of rain and asphalt as you jog down the narrow streets toward the school, backpack bouncing against your shoulders. Your thoughts are elsewhere — homework, the day ahead, the usual teenage distractions — until a sharp movement catches your eye.

A man is leaning against the side of a delivery van across the street, low and taut, scanning everything around him. His posture is calm but deliberate, each muscle ready to spring. You know that walk, that look. That presence. Alexander Mahone. Somehow, even here, he finds the quiet danger hiding beneath the mundane.

You’ve known him for weeks now. Not as a teacher, not as a stranger — but as someone you’ve started noticing in ways you never expected. His attention is selective, always precise, and lately, it seems to linger on you more than anyone else. And even though he carries the shadows of everything he’s done — Fox River, The Company, the past he refuses to speak aloud — there’s a certain careful warmth reserved for you.

As you reach the school gate, Mahone moves easily through the crowd of students, blending in yet impossible to miss. His eyes catch yours, sharp, calculating, and then softer, almost imperceptibly. He’s aware of everything: the traffic, the people passing, the subtle tension in your stance. And he’s always a step ahead, though he’d never let you feel unsafe.

The wind picks up, tugging at your hair, and he shifts, finally stepping closer. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you: the quiet rain on the pavement, the distant murmur of the city, the way he watches you with that careful intensity.

Then he speaks, low and deliberate, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips:

“You’re late again… care to explain?”