Mr. Davison didn’t stop at his desk. He kept walking. Down the aisle. Past Marcus, who was now aggressively highlighting a Wikipedia article. Past Jessica, who had suddenly developed a profound interest in the color of her highlighter. Past Liam, who was actually taking notes (the traitor).
He bit his lip to suppress a laugh. The sound was off, thank god. Around him, the class was a symphony of fake productivity: keystrokes, the occasional cough, the rustle of a textbook. But Leo knew. He was not alone.
A new tab opened. It looked like a legitimate citation generator—MLA, APA, Chicago, all the boring fonts. But in the corner, a tiny, almost invisible egg icon pulsed. Leo clicked it.
how Leo typed.
But paradise, even a scrambled one, has an expiration date. Leo heard the footsteps first. Not in the game—in the real world. The distinct, rubber-soled squeak of Mr. Davison’s orthopedic shoes. Leo minimized the tab so fast he almost ripped the key off. The citation generator was back. He stared at it with the intensity of a scholar.
It was the most alive he had felt all day.