CHAPTER 3: PATTERNS AND PREDICTIONS
POV: Ivyn Mikaelson
Two weeks at West Valley High, and I've found a rhythm that feels almost sustainable. Wake up at five AM when my body screams that it's still night. Daily Quest until I can't feel my arms. Shower in water that never gets quite hot enough. School. Library lunches with Sam that are becoming the best part of my day. Home. More training. Sleep. Repeat.
The System tracks everything with the enthusiasm of a sadistic fitness instructor.
[CURRENT STATS:]
[Strength (Upper Body): 14/100]
[Endurance (Cardio): 18/100]
[Charisma: 43/100]
[Focus: 51/100]
[Daily Quest Streak: 14 Days]
Progress. Measurable, quantifiable progress. My pushups are up to thirty before failure. I can run two miles without wanting to die. Small victories that add up to something that might eventually matter.
But stats don't capture the real changes. Like how Sam LaRusso has claimed the corner table in the library as "ours," arriving five minutes before lunch with books she wants to discuss. Yesterday it was Sartre. Today she's brought Kierkegaard, and I can already see the debate forming behind her eyes.
"Comfort is dangerous when you're trying to change fate," the System reminds me in text I dismiss without reading. It's not wrong. I'm getting too settled, too reactive. Time to be proactive.
Third period AP Literature, and Mrs. Caldwell is mid-lecture about Sartre's "No Exit" when I raise my hand.
"Yes, Mr. Mikaelson?"
"Can I use the bathroom? And maybe grab my jacket from my locker? I'm feeling cold."
Sam turns in her seat, eyebrows raised. It's seventy-five degrees outside, visible through the windows where October sun beats down on the parking lot. Mrs. Caldwell's expression flickers between annoyance and concern.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Just cold. Won't be long."
She waves permission, already turning back to her lecture about hell being other people. I take my time at my locker, counting seconds. The maintenance crew was checking fire alarm systems yesterday during lunch—I watched them test three panels, saw the administrator marking something on a clipboard. Schools always schedule drills for third period. And the weather forecast predicted a cold front moving in around ten AM.
Seven minutes after I leave the classroom, the fire alarm shrieks through the building.
Students pour into hallways, that particular mix of annoyance and relief that comes with unexpected class interruption. I'm already walking toward the exit, jacket on, looking unbothered while everyone else huddles in short sleeves against wind that cuts through the Valley like a knife.
Outside, the crowd clusters by building assignments. I end up near Demetri and Eli, who are complaining about the timing.
"Third period. Always third period," Demetri mutters. Then he notices me standing there comfortable while he's shivering. "Wait. How did you—"
His eyes go wide. Eli's head turns, hair falling across his face, but I can see him staring too.
"You knew."
"I guessed," I say, offering the smile I practiced in my bathroom mirror. Enigmatic without being smug. "Maintenance crew was checking alarm systems yesterday. Administration loves third period drills. And the weather report said cold front at ten."
"That's..." Demetri's mouth works. "That's either really smart or really weird."
"Can't it be both?"
Eli laughs, a small sound quickly swallowed. But Demetri's still looking at me like I just pulled a quarter from behind his ear.
Good, I think. Let them wonder. Let the reputation build.
[SOCIAL PATTERN RECOGNITION: +15 XP]
[REPUTATION (SCHOOL): -5 → +15]
[NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: SOCIAL PATTERN RECOGNITION 0/1000 XP]
[Note: Subjects are beginning to notice your "intuition." Maintain plausible deniability.]
The all-clear sounds. We file back inside. Sam catches up to me in the hallway, walking backward so she can look at my face while moving.
"That was either incredibly observant or you're secretly psychic."
"Just patterns. You notice them if you pay attention."
"Most people don't pay attention like that." She's studying me now, the same analytical look she gets when working through a tough philosophical problem. "You're different, Ivyn. Not bad different. Just... you see things."
If you only knew.
"Foster care teaches you to read people. Survival skill."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was."
We reach her classroom—Chemistry, which I don't have until tomorrow. She hesitates at the door.
"Is."
"What?"
"You said 'it was.' But you're still alone, aren't you?"
The observation hits harder than it should. Because she's right. I have her number and Miguel's now, but I'm fundamentally isolated by the secret eating through my chest. Knowledge no one can share. A system no one can see. A whole past life I can never mention.
"Sometimes," I admit. Then, because I need to change this trajectory: "But less than before."
Her smile is sunlight. "Good. That's... good."
The bell rings. She disappears into Chemistry and I head to Physics, where my adult brain makes classical mechanics almost trivial. The teacher calls on me for the third time this week, probably because I'm one of five students who actually does the reading.
This is working, I tell myself. The reputation's building. The connections are forming. Everything's going according to plan.
Then lunch period arrives and destroys my comfortable delusion.
I'm at our usual library table, reviewing calculus homework, when movement through the window catches my eye. The cafeteria. Miguel Diaz sitting alone at a table, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear into his own chest. He's small—smaller than he looked on TV, more fragile somehow. First day energy has worn off into the reality of being the new kid with no allies.
And Kyler Brooks is circling.
I can see it from here. The predatory swagger. Two friends flanking him. Miguel's eyes tracking them, that prey-animal awareness of threat approaching.
In the show, this is where Johnny saves him. Weeks from now. After Miguel's been beaten, humiliated, pushed to his absolute limit.
"Quest Available: Alter Canon Event—Prevent or Witness?"
I close the System notification without reading the rest.
Fuck the canon.
The cafeteria smells like industrial cleaning solution and reheated pizza. Noise hits me like a wave—hundreds of conversations bleeding together, silverware on plastic trays, chairs scraping linoleum. I navigate through the social geography until I reach Miguel's table and slide into the seat across from him.
He jumps. Dark eyes wide, suspicious.
"You're new too, right? Saw you in the office first day."
"Yeah." His voice is quiet, uncertain. "Miguel."
"Ivyn." I glance over my shoulder. Kyler's maybe fifteen feet away, watching. "Word of advice—Kyler Brooks, the guy who looks like he's hunting you? Not worth your stress. There are better people here."
Miguel's jaw tightens. "I wasn't—"
"I know. But he was."
Before Miguel can respond, Kyler arrives. All swagger and manufactured dominance, the kind of bully who peaked in sophomore year and is desperately trying to maintain relevance.
"Who's your friend, Rhea?"
The slur makes Miguel flinch. I stand slowly, not aggressive but not backing down either. I'm still working on my physical stats—Strength (Upper) 14 isn't impressive by any standard—but there's something about meeting someone's eyes without fear that changes the dynamic.
"Nobody important. We were just leaving."
Kyler's smirk falters. He's used to fear, to compliance. The lack of reaction confuses him. One of his friends—Jason? Justin?—tugs his arm.
"Come on, man. Not worth it."
They leave. Probably just delaying the inevitable, but it's something.
In the hallway, Miguel exhales like he's been holding his breath underwater.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did."
"Why?"
Because I watched you get beaten until you could barely stand. Because Johnny saves you, but not yet, and you shouldn't have to suffer alone until then. Because changing fate means making different choices, even small ones.
"Because bullies like him thrive when everyone watches and does nothing. Breaking the pattern is its own reward."
Miguel studies me for a long moment. Then he pulls out his phone—newer than mine, which isn't hard.
"Can I get your number? In case... I don't know. In case I need someone who actually gives a shit?"
We exchange numbers. His contact photo is him smiling with an older woman—grandmother, probably. Mine is blank because I don't have anyone to photograph.
"Thanks," he says again. "Really."
"Don't mention it. And Miguel? Find something to train in. Martial arts, boxing, whatever. Guys like Kyler only respect strength or allies. Get one or both."
He nods, something shifting in his expression. Determination maybe. Or the first seed of what will eventually become Cobra Kai's champion.
I watch him walk away and feel the weight of intervention. Butterfly effect in motion. Small change rippling outward into consequences I can't predict.
[CONNECTION ESTABLISHED: MIGUEL DIAZ]
[Relationship Status: Acquaintance (Grateful)]
[WARNING: Timeline divergence initiated. Canon reliability decreasing.]
Good, I think. Let it diverge. That's the whole point.
Sam finds me at my locker end of day. She's been watching me—I felt her eyes during lunch when I walked into the cafeteria, during gym class when Coach Barker had me running laps. Now she's here, books against her chest, that look on her face that means she's worked through something and arrived at a conclusion.
"You're different."
"You mentioned that earlier."
"No, I mean..." She searches for words. "You notice things other people miss. The fire drill. Helping that new kid before anything actually happened. The way you answer questions in class like you're thinking three steps ahead. It's like you're reading from a script everyone else forgot to memorize."
My heart rate spikes. Too close. She's getting too close.
"I spent a lot of time observing people in foster care," I say carefully. Truth wrapped in misdirection, my favorite weapon. "You learn to read patterns. Predict behavior. See trouble before it arrives. It's not mystical—it's survival."
Sam's empathy is a physical thing. I can see it in how her expression softens, how she steps closer like proximity can ease old wounds.
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." I pause. "Is, sometimes."
She shifts her weight, decision made.
"Have lunch with me tomorrow. Not in the library—actual cafeteria, with my friends. You shouldn't have to observe from the outside anymore."
The invitation terrifies me. Because her friends include Yasmine, who I've been actively avoiding. Because integrating into social circles means more people watching, more chances to slip up. Because every connection is another lie I have to maintain.
But isolation isn't the answer. And Sam's extending trust I don't deserve but desperately want.
"I'd like that."
Her smile could rewrite gravity. "Good. Fair warning though—Yasmine can be... a lot. And Moon asks personal questions. But they're good people under the Valley High performance."
"I'll manage."
"I know you will." She adjusts her backpack. "You manage everything. That's what I'm starting to notice."
She leaves before I can unpack that observation. The hallway empties around me, just another Thursday afternoon, but it feels like something shifted. Tectonic plates moving under the surface.
Walking home, I replay every interaction. Demetri's wide eyes at the fire drill. Miguel's gratitude in the cafeteria. Sam's invitation cutting through my carefully maintained distance. The System tracks it all, quantifying human connection into stats and experience points.
[PROGRESS SUMMARY:]
[Charisma: 43 → 48 (+5)]
[Social Pattern Recognition: 15/1000 XP]
[Empathy: 54 → 56 (+2)]
[Reputation (School): +15 (Interesting mysterious new kid)]
[Quest Completed: Make First Connection]
[Quest Updated: Deepen Bonds (1/5 meaningful relationships established)]
My apartment looks more lived-in now. Books from the library. Notes from classes covering the desk. Calendar with X's marking each day of training. Evidence of existence.
I complete my Daily Quest—fifty pushups in sets of fifteen now, squats until my legs shake, two-mile run through Reseda as the sun sets. The System logs everything. Numbers tick upward.
Tomorrow I'll have lunch with Sam and her friends. In two months, I need to meet Daniel LaRusso without him immediately hating me. In three months, Johnny opens Cobra Kai and everything accelerates.
But tonight, I have Miguel's number in my phone. Sam's invitation echoing in my head. The beginning of something that might actually work.
I fall asleep thinking about patterns and predictions, about the reputation I'm building brick by brick. About the fact that they're not characters anymore—they're people, and people can surprise you.
The System has one final message before I sleep:
[REMEMBER: THEY'RE NOT NPCS. EVERY CHOICE HAS CONSEQUENCES YOU CAN'T PREDICT.]
For once, I don't dismiss it. Because it's right.
And that's exactly what makes this terrifying.
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