Nestled between rolling hills and an old highway that almost no one uses anymore lies the quiet town of Harlowe Ridge. A postcard kind of place. Crooked wooden fences, porches with mismatched chairs, shop windows filled with hand-painted signs that rarely change. People wave when they pass each other, not out of politeness but because it feels strange not to. The diner on the east side knows everyone by face and half by history. Even the stray dogs have names.
In Harlowe Ridge, nothing stays secret for long…except Donald.
The high school sits at the very edge of town, a squat brick building with a faded mural that once tried to be inspirational. The gym smells like polished wood, old socks, and the faint chemical sting of cleaning spray. Basketball nets hang slightly torn, and the bleachers creak when someone climbs too fast.
Today's gym class is the usual chaos of half-awake teenagers: some chatting, some pretending to stretch, some outright refusing to move. The instructor, Coach Brennan, a large man with a voice that carries like a foghorn, tries to corral them into something resembling discipline.
"All right! Today we're doing partner drills!" he announces. Several students groan. One mutters something about dying before doing another burpee.
Coach Brennan's eyes narrow. "Oh, so we have volunteers?"
The students freeze, guilty. Donald stands off to the side, hands behind his back, posture too straight for a teenager. He watches them the way someone watches wildlife — amused, detached and quietly curious. Coach Brennan demonstrates the drill: basic footing, simple grappling, nothing aggressive. But a few students drag their feet or roll their eyes.
"Not negotiable," the coach barks. "Get moving!" Donald lifts one eyebrow at the display — the frustration, the reluctance, the clumsy movements. And then…
Something shifts inside him. He's no longer in a gym. He's younger, smaller. Barefoot on cold concrete. A line of children in matching gray uniforms stand rigid beside him. The room echoes with the metallic clang of reinforced doors.
HAND-TO-HAND CONDITIONING – PHASE 02
A masked instructor circles them, boots striking the ground in a predatory rhythm.
"Advance," the voice commands, neutral and cold.
Children surge forward, fists raised, movements drilled into muscle and bone. Pain is immediate. Expected and then immediately corrected. A small boy stumbles; the instructor strikes him across the face with a baton. Donald flinches. No, not Donald. Unit Nine
The memory blurs.
"DONALD!"
His head snaps up. Coach Brennan is staring at him, a frown carving a line between his eyebrows. The rest of the class watches with mild concern, or curiosity. Hard to tell which.
"You drifting off on me?" the coach asks.
Donald swallows, grounding himself. "Sorry, sir."
"Come here," the coach says. "Let's give the class a demonstration. Just a light spar, okay? Show them what this drill is supposed to look like."
A ripple goes through the room. Half excitement. Half dread. Donald steps forward, slow and measured. Every footfall is too precise, movements too balanced, like someone who learned to walk with consequences for missteps. He tries to mask it with a little stiffness, a hint of childish awkwardness. But hiding precision is like hiding breath.
Coach Brennan grins, clapping his hands. "Alright, Donald. Ready?"
Donald nods. "Yes, sir."
They take positions in the center mat, the students gather around, some hopping onto the bleachers for a better view.
"Remember," Coach says loudly, "this is just a demonstration. No need to…"
He lunges.
It's meant to be playful. Big man, big movement, slow enough for a teenager to react with some effort. Donald plans his response in a single blink. Make it messy, like a struggle. But plans are fragile things for someone built for instinct.
Coach's arm sweeps forward. Donald shifts sideways, weight low then a subtle hip turn, a step behind the coach's ankle, a palm pressed to the man's shoulder and then gravity does the rest. Coach Brennan hits the mat with a heavy thud, face-first, sliding a few inches before coming to a stop on his stomach. Silence.
Absolute silence.
"What the…?"
"Holy…"
"No way he just…"
"Coach??"
The students explode in disbelief.
Coach Brennan lifts his head, dazed, eyes wide. "What… what just happened?"
Donald stands above him, his expression carefully blank, shoulders loose and his posture relaxed. Almost bored. He forces himself to blink slowly, letting confusion touch his face.
"I...I guess I reacted too fast, sir," he says quietly.
A lie wrapped in innocence.
The bell shrilled through the gym, a metallic scream that ricocheted off the rafters and saved Donald from the instructor's barrage of questions. The man, and red-faced from being effortlessly flipped, opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but the students surged toward the exit like a tidal wave. Donald slipped away in the current.
The hallway stretched out before him like a tunnel of noise. Even when students whispered, their voices reached him crystal-clear, his enhanced hearing tuning in whether he wanted it or not.
"He dropped Coach like a sack of potatoes, did you see that?"
"No way he meant to do it..."
"That wasn't normal. He moved like...like military."
Donald kept walking, head low, the bandaged edge of his life tightening around his throat. He hated when they whispered about him. Every word felt like a spotlight.
He turned a corner, and almost bumped straight into Mara, carefully avoiding her with precise foot works. The girl was short, burningly expressive and allergic to giving up. She blinked up at him. The girl was the only unpredictable 'thing' that he had faced in the town. Her smiles weren't forced and her laughs seemed genuine. She was the only person he could not completely read.
"Donald! That was insane! Come on, come on lunch. Auditorium. You owe me details."
"I don't..."
"Please?" she said, tugging again. "If you say no, I'll just keep asking until your ears bleed."
That was possible, he thought grimly. She practically dragged him across the school grounds and into the auditorium, where a few scattered students ate under the soft hum of stage lights. Mara plopped onto a chair and patted the seat beside her until he sat.
She didn't speak again, shockingly. She simply opened her little lunch box and ate. He did the same. Silence wrapped around them like a warm cloth. For a moment, it was…peaceful.
Then it hit. A cold ripple slid down his spine. His fork froze halfway to his mouth. This wasn't like the other flashbacks, the brutal ones filled with violence, blood, doctrine, and bones breaking under someone's boot.
This memory…was soft. Almost unbearably gentle.