The morning of the county qualifiers tasted like adrenaline and dry oats. Tristain stood in front of the mirror, rotating his neck side to side. His legs felt heavy, the kind of heaviness that didn't come from soreness but from doubt.
Something's off, he thought, studying his reflection. The twists framing his face looked the same, but his eyes held a weariness that even a good night's sleep hadn't erased. System's been quiet. Too quiet. Almost like it's... waiting for something.
Coach Torres had warned him. "You're at the wall," he said the day before during acceleration drills. "Most don't see it until it's too late. You push through it too soon, you'll break. Ease up. Let the gains come to you."
But Tristain didn't have the luxury of patience. Not with the dual templates fighting for neurological real estate in his brain, not with expectations mounting from every corner.
He was up before sunrise, doing bounding drills in the parking lot outside the Sayana house. His host father, Tom, watched from the porch, coffee in hand. "You're either gonna fly or pull something."
Tristain grinned. "Gotta do both to find out."
But what if neither happens? The thought crept in despite his efforts to silence it. What if I'm plateauing already? What if Manziel and Luck is all I get, will that be enough?
Tom sipped his coffee, studying Tristain with the casual observation of someone who'd coached youth sports for years before his corporate career. The early April morning had a bite to it, the kind that makes your lungs feel cleaner somehow. A robin landed on the fence, tilted its head at their pre-dawn activity, then flew off toward the brightening horizon.
"Your form looks good, but you're overthinking. See it in your face," Tom said, the steam from his coffee curling upward in the cool air.
"Just working on my starts," Tristain replied, careful not to reveal too much. The Sayanas had been nothing but welcoming, but they couldn't know about the System. No one could.
"Start's in your mind before it's in your body," Tom said. "Remember that."
He nodded toward the house, where lights had just come on in the kitchen. "Ayana's up. Her mom's making breakfast before the meet. Don't push too hard now—save it for when it counts."
Tristain nodded, taking another bound. He felt the stretch in his hamstrings, the power loading through his quads. But something was missing—that electric connection, that supercharged neural pathway that had been developing since the System's activation.
It's like the connection's still there, but the power's been dialed down, he thought, frustration building with each drill.
Inside, Mrs. Sayana—Lisa—was flipping pancakes while Ayana sat at the island counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand and sipping orange juice with the other.
"Morning, track star," Lisa said warmly. "Big day today. Pancakes?"
"That would be great, thank you," Tristain said, washing his hands at the sink.
Ayana glanced up. "You were out there early."
"Couldn't sleep," he admitted.
"Nervous?" There was something probing in her question.
"Nah just focused," he corrected, not meeting her eyes.
Something in his tone made her look up more fully, studying him with that pretty gaze he'd come to recognize—the one that made him feel like she was cataloging every detail for future reference.
"Well, you should be," she said finally. "Jason Williams from Riverside ran a 10.8 last season. And Westfield has two guys under 11."
"I know."
"Good." She returned to her phone. "Just so you're prepared."
Lisa slid a plate of pancakes in front of him. "Ignore her competitive spirit. She gets it from her father. Just do your best today—that's all anyone expects."
If only that were true, Tristain thought, cutting into the pancakes. His own expectations weighed heaviest of all.
The county meet buzzed with the controlled chaos of high school track. Teams warming up in designated areas, coaches checking clipboards, officials in striped shirts positioning themselves around the facility. The spring sun had burned away the morning chill, leaving perfect conditions—65 degrees, light breeze, not a cloud in sight.
Marcus found Tristain stretching near the North Bridgeton team area. "Yo, superstar! Ready to show these fools what's up?"
"Just trying not to embarrass myself," Tristain replied, working his hamstrings.
"Please." Marcus rolled his eyes. "False modesty doesn't suit you. Torres has been telling everyone who'll listen about his new 'dual-threat phenom.'"
Tristain winced. "Great. More pressure."
"Pressure makes diamonds, baby!" Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "For real though, you good? You seem off."
Before Tristain could answer, Coach Torres approached, stopwatch dangling from his hand. "Dyce, first heat of the hundred is in twenty minutes. Williams from Riverside is in your heat. Use him to pull you through—he's got the fastest seed time in the county."
From the corner of his eye, Tristain spotted Scarlett setting up her camera gear near the finish line. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, practical for the day's work, but the sunlight caught it in a way that made it look almost luminous.
Focus, he told himself, though part of him wondered if she was there specifically to photograph the North Bridgeton team or just covering the entire meet for the school paper.
As he began his final warm-up routine, Tristain searched internally for any sign of the System's presence. The familiar hum of enhanced processing had been notably absent for days now, and his attempts to activate it had been met with silence.
Come on, he pleaded silently. I need you today.
Nothing. Just his own racing thoughts and the weight of expectation.
----
From her position in the stands, Scarlett had a perfect view of the starting blocks. She'd claimed the spot early.
Tristain Dyce was a pattern she couldn't quite decode.
She watched him go through his warm-up routine, noting the subtle differences from previous sessions. His movements seemed more mechanical today, less fluid. The ease that had characterized his earlier performances was missing.
Something's changed, she thought, is he okay?
Her interest with Tristain's development wasn't merely casual. Since he'd moved into Ayanas home, she'd observed anomalies that defied easy explanation. The occasional nosebleeds he tried to hide. The rumored nights he apparently paced in his room at 3 AM. The way his performance metrics seemed to fluctuate dramatically from one practice to the next.
It wasn't just that he was gifted—though he clearly was. It was the inconsistency of his gifts that intrigued her. Like watching someone learning to control a power they didn't fully understand.
"Hey," Ayana's voice broke into her thoughts as she climbed the bleachers and took the seat beside Ayana. "Got my camera set up on a tripod at the finish line. Should catch all the action."
"Smart," Scarlett replied, not taking her eyes off Tristain as he settled into the starting blocks for his heat. "You're really committed to this track coverage, you're practically worse than me."
Ayana shrugged, but a hint of color touched her cheeks. "It's for the paper. End-of-year sports special."
"Mm-hmm." Scarlett allowed herself a small smile. "And the fact that your houseguest is running has nothing to do with it?"
"He's a good story," Ayana said defensively. "Transfer student having immediate impact. Readers eat that up."
"Right. The story is what interests you." Scarlett replied looking at her as if she was suspicious
Ayana didn't respond, but her eyes tracked Tristain with an intensity that betrayed more than journalistic interest.
The starter raised his pistol. Ayana leaned forward slightly, tablet poised to record.
"Set."
The runners crouched, bodies coiled like springs.
The gun fired.
---
Time slowed in that fraction of a second between "set" and the gun. Tristain's world focused to the track ahead, his breathing controlled, muscles primed.
The crack of the starter's pistol hit his ears, and he exploded forward—or tried to. His start felt lackluster and mechanical rather than explosive, his body responding to trained commands rather than the enhanced instinct he'd come to rely on. The track seemed to feel like quick sand, each stride requiring more effort than it should.
Where are you? he silently demanded of the System. I need you now.
By 30 meters, the truth was painfully clear—the System wasn't responding. This was all him, whatever baseline ability remained without active enhancement. And it wasn't enough. Williams from Riverside was already a full stride ahead, with Westfield's anchor not far behind.
Tristain pushed, driving his knees higher, pumping his arms more aggressively. But the connection between mind and muscle felt dulled, like trying to sprint underwater.
He crossed the finish line in third place.
His heat time? 11.12.
He barely made the finals.
Frustration bubbled in his chest as he walked off the track. His start was slow again. Too much lift, not enough push. His top speed was good, but he was late to get there. Ayana met him near the benches with a water bottle and her phone already cued up.
"You're popping up too early. See this frame?" She showed him a still image from his heat. "Your hips are opening before your second step."
Tristain sighed. "I thought I fixed that."
"Thought doesn't fix form," she said. But her tone wasn't sharp. It was careful.
She's starting to notice, he realized. The inconsistency. The struggle. She's too observant to miss it. Living in the same house makes it impossible to hide everything.
"Thanks," he said. "Seriously."
Ayana looked like she wanted to say more, but Scarlett's voice cut in. "Finals in twenty. Reset your head, Dyce."
Tristain caught Scarlett's eye briefly. Unlike Ayana's analytical concern, Scarlett's gaze held something more fundamental—belief. Pure and uncomplicated. It steadied him, even as he wondered if he deserved it.
"You've got this," she added, more quietly. "That heat time isn't who you are."
But what if it is? Tristain thought. What if that's exactly who I am without the System's boost?
Tristain closed his eyes and sat on the turf, knees to his chest. He could hear the ambient noise—spikes scraping the track, the distant call of event announcements, the rustle of the wind through the banners lining the fences. He didn't feel sharp. He felt drained. Like he was chasing something that kept pulling farther away the harder he ran.
Come on, he pleaded silently to the System. I need you. Just once more. Don't leave me hanging now.
He searched for any sign—a tingle down his spine, a flash of data across his vision, the familiar hum of enhanced processing. Nothing.
Maybe this is it, he thought with creeping dread. Maybe the integration stalled. Maybe I pushed too hard too fast, and now it's gone quiet to protect itself—or me.
Coach Torres approached, stopwatch dangling from his hand. "Heat time wasn't what we wanted," he said bluntly. "But finals are a clean slate. New race. New mindset."
"I know, Coach."
"No, I don't think you do." Torres crouched beside him. "You're chasing something. I see it. But the chase is throwing off your mechanics. Stop hunting the perfect race and just run your race."
If only you knew what I'm really chasing, Tristain thought.
"Trust your training," Torres said, standing. "The speed is there. The fitness is there. Get out of your own way."
As Torres walked away, Tristain felt a strange pulse at the base of his skull—not the full System activation he'd been hoping for, but something else. A pull toward sleep, toward the dreamspace where the System sometimes communicated with him.
He fought it, knowing this wasn't the time or place. But the pull intensified, and his vision began to blur at the edges.
No, not here, not now, he thought desperately. But the darkness was already closing in.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in the familiar field of grain, the Hall looming in the distance. But this time, he wasn't alone.
Johnny Manziel—or the System's representation of him—stood before Tristain, arms crossed, expression unusually serious.
"are you an Idiot?" Manziel said without preamble.
"I need the boost," Tristain replied. "The System's been quiet. I can't—"
"Can't what? Can't perform without it? Can't win on your own merits?" Manziel's tone was challenging. "That's not what this is for, kid."
"Then what is it for? Because right now, I'm failing. I'm not meeting expectations."
"Whose expectations? Yours? Some coach's? The pretty face with the camera?" Manziel shook his head. "The System isn't a crutch. It's an enhancement and a gift to what's already there. But if you keep trying to force it, you risk more than just a bad race time."
Tristain frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Not everyone's integration is as... filtered as what you're getting from Andrew and me." Manziel's expression darkened. "Some of us came with baggage. Bad habits. Destructive tendencies. The System shields you from that, focuses on the pure athletic and cognitive traits. But push too hard, demand too much too soon, and those filters start to break down."
A chill ran through Tristain. "What happens then?"
"You start absorbing the whole package. The good and the bad." Manziel looked away. "You don't want my decision-making off the field, kid. Trust me on that. And you definitely don't want to rush into a third template before you've properly integrated the first two."
"So what do I do? Just accept mediocrity? Just be... average?"
Manziel laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Average? Is that what you think you are without us, or right now? Kid, you qualified for finals in a county meet as a junior who's barely trained seriously for track. That's not average. That's the foundation we're building on."
The field around them began to fade, the edges of the vision blurring.
"Trust the process," Manziel said, his voice already distant. "Run your race. Not someone else's. And be careful what you wish for—the System might just give it to you, broken filters and all."
Tristain gasped as he snapped back to reality, the bright sunlight of the track meet momentarily blinding him. He blinked, disoriented, wondering how long he'd been "gone." But it seemed only moments had passed—Torres was still walking away, and the preparations for the finals were continuing around him.
The warning echoed in his mind. Not everyone's integration is as filtered as what you're getting from Andrew and me. Some of us came with baggage. Bad habits. Destructive tendencies.
It was a sobering thought—that the System might contain darker elements than the pure athletic abilities he'd been experiencing. That rushing his development might expose him to those elements.
Trust the process, Manziel had said. Run your race. Not someone else's.
---
From her position near the finish line, Ayana adjusted her camera settings, glancing occasionally at Tristain as he prepared for the finals. Something about him had captured her attention from his first day at North Bridgeton—an intensity beneath his easy-going exterior, a depth that belied the typical jock stereotype.
He's different today, she thought, noticing the subtle shift in his demeanor. After his disappointing heat, she'd expected frustration, maybe even resignation. Instead, there was a new calmness about him, an inner focus that hadn't been there before.
Photography was her medium for truth-telling—capturing what words couldn't express. And her lens had been drawn to Tristain Dyce from the beginning, not just because of his obvious photogenic qualities (though those certainly existed), but because of what she sensed beneath the surface.
A beginning of a story waiting to be told.
Ayana wasn't naive—she knew the pattern all too well. The quiet, academically-focused girl developing feelings for the athletic transfer student? It was practically a cliché. She'd rolled her eyes at exactly that trope in countless mediocre young adult novels.
And yet.
Something about the way he carried himself. The thoughtfulness she glimpsed when he didn't think anyone was watching. The way he treated everyone with the same quiet respect, regardless of their social standing.
And yes, the undeniable electricity she felt during their tutoring sessions, when their hands accidentally brushed as they reached for the same textbook.
Focus on the job, she reminded herself, checking her camera's battery level. You're here as a journalist, not a groupie.
But as Tristain settled into the blocks for the finals, she couldn't help the small flutter in her chest, the hope that he would find whatever he seemed to be searching for.
---
Back at the starting blocks for the finals, Tristain stared straight down the track. One heat. One chance. He didn't need domination. Just a win.
To his right, Riverside's top sprinter—Jason Williams—bounced on his toes. To his left, Westfield's anchor runner from their state-qualifying relay team last year. Both seniors. Both with college offers. Both eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and dismissal.
"Heard you're pretty fast for a football player," Williams said, not looking at him.
Tristain didn't respond. He was done with words. Done with thinking. Done with searching for a boost that wasn't coming.
This is just me now, he decided. Whatever version of me exists in this moment. With or without the System's help.
He thought of Manziel's warning about rushing development, about broken filters. Maybe this apparent setback was actually protection— ensuring he integrated properly, safely.
Run your race. Not someone else's.
"Set," the starter called.
Tristain's world narrowed to the track ahead. His breathing slowed. His muscles coiled.
The gun snapped.
His drive phase held a fraction longer than in the heats. Hips down, knees punching, arms driving. For the first time in a week, the track didn't feel like quicksand.
Racers flanked him, but he didn't look. Just drive, he told himself. Just drive.
This is all me right now, he realized with sudden clarity. No System, no template. Just whatever's already integrated.
By 40 meters, he was even with the leaders. By 50, he'd claimed a half-step lead. Then Williams from Riverside began to close, eating up ground with each powerful stride.
His top speed kicked in by 60 meters. The kid from Riverside was still ahead. Tristain surged.
More, he demanded of himself. Whatever's left. Whatever's in there.
And then—faint but unmistakable—a pulse from deep within. Not the full System activation he'd experienced before, but something more subtle. Like a reminder that it was still there, dormant perhaps, but not gone.
The final twenty meters became a blur of straining muscles and sheer will. He couldn't feel his legs anymore, couldn't hear the crowd. Just the pounding of his heart and the finish line approaching.
It came down to a lean.
Photo finish.
The scoreboard blinked.
1st - Dyce, North Bridgeton - 10.84
His chest heaved, lungs burning as he fell to the ground in a mix of joy and disbelief.
I did it, he thought, heart hammering against his ribs. Me. With whatever the System's already given me.
He could hear the cheers, feel the congratulatory slaps on his back. Williams from Riverside offered a grudging fist bump. "Aye respect," he muttered. "Didn't think you had that finish in you."
Neither did I, Tristain thought.
Coach Torres was beaming, clipboard clutched to his chest like it might float away. "That's dangerously close to the school record," he said when Tristain could finally stand. "And a district qualifier. By two-tenths."
The accomplishment should have felt monumental. Instead, Tristain felt a strange mix of pride and uncertainty. He'd broken 11 seconds without active System assistance. But was this his natural ceiling now?
"Yo, you were flying!" Marcus appeared at his side, practically vibrating with excitement. "Did you see Williams' face? Man thought he had you and then—boom!"
"Straight burners," Deshawn added, mimicking an explosion with his hands.
Tristain managed a smile, but his thoughts remained inward. The relay was up in an hour. He'd need to recover, refocus. And hope that whatever had helped him find that final gear would still be there when he needed it again.
As the team dispersed to prepare for their next events, Tristain caught sight of Ayana and Scarlett descending from the stands. Scarlett''s expression was thoughtful, analytical, as if she was recalculating some internal formula. Ayana was simply beaming, camera in hand, her enthusiasm unfiltered.
"Got the winning moment," she said, showing him the display on her camera. "Perfect lean at the finish."
The image captured something he couldn't have seen himself—the determination on his face, the perfect form of his lean, Williams a half-step behind.
"That's a keeper," he said, genuinely impressed with her timing.
"For the paper, definitely," she agreed. "But I'll send you a copy too. You know, for posterity or whatever."
There was a hint of shyness in her offer that caught him off guard, a glimpse of the person beneath her cold exterior.
"I'd like that," he said, finding he truly meant it.
Scarlett cleared her throat. "Not to interrupt this touching moment, but Torres wants you for relay prep. We're down by a couple points to Westfield, and the relay is worth ten."
As Tristain moved to join his relay team, Ayana fell into step beside him. "Something changed between your heat and the finals," she said quietly. "Your mechanics were completely different. More... integrated."
The word choice sent a chill through him. "Just found my rhythm, I guess."
"Hm." She didn't sound convinced. "Well, whatever it was, try to replicate it for the relay. We need anchor speed like what you just showed."
The rest of the meet unfolded like a dream. The 4x400 relay saw North Bridgeton finish a surprising second, with Tristain running anchor and nearly catching Westfield at the line. The long jump brought another personal best. By the time the final events concluded, North Bridgeton had secured second place overall—their best showing in five years.
The bus ride back to school was a boisterous celebration of unexpected success. Someone had connected their phone to the bus speakers, blasting music as the team relived their highlights. Tristain sat near the back, physically present but mentally elsewhere.
The System had remained quiet throughout the rest of the meet, offering no further boosts or communications. But Manziel's warning lingered: Not everyone's integration is as filtered as what you're getting from Andrew and me.
There were darker possibilities within the System than he'd considered. Risks beyond the physical strain of enhancement. And he'd nearly forced the issue, demanded more before he was ready.
Trust the process, Manziel had said.
Perhaps the System's apparent retreat wasn't failure but protection. Perhaps true integration wasn't about maximum enhancement but about sustainable balance.
As the bus pulled into the school parking lot, Coach Torres stood at the front. "Listen up!" he called over the music, which quickly died down. "I couldn't be prouder of what you all accomplished today. Third place overall, multiple state qualifiers, a soon to be broken school record." He nodded toward Tristain. "This is what happens when you trust your training, trust each other, and compete with heart."
Cheers erupted from the team.
"Now go enjoy your weekend. You've earned it. But remember—district qualifiers in three weeks. The work continues Monday."
As the team filed off the bus, Torres stopped Tristain with a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever you figured out between that heat and final, hold onto it. That was special."
"Thanks, Coach."
"And Dyce? A few college scouts asked about you today. Apparently word's getting around about our dual-sport transfer."
Tristain's stomach tightened. "Already?"
"Don't worry about it now. Just focus on continued improvement. But yeah—people are starting to notice."
The implications were both thrilling and terrifying. College scouts meant opportunity, exposure, potential scholarships. But also increased scrutiny on his development, his performances, his seemingly inexplicable improvements.
How much can I really achieve without active System help? he wondered. And how much should I rely on it, knowing what I know now?
That night, after the race, Tristain sat in the backseat of Marcus's car, the relay baton resting against his shoulder. Deshawn was riding shotgun, head tilted back, talking trash about how he carried the handoff exchange.
"Bro, my exchange was clean. You stuttered," Tristain said, half-smiling.
"Clean like expired milk."
Marcus glanced in the rearview. "Y'all shut up. We're grabbing food then heading to Davis's. Tris, you cool?"
"Yeah."
He wasn't. His legs still buzzed from the sprint, but more than that—he felt the pressure swell. Because the System was quiet. Too quiet.
Should be getting feedback, he thought, staring out the window as streetlights blurred past. Some readout. Some status update. Anything.
For the first time since the integration began, Tristain felt truly alone with the weight of his secret. Not even the artificial consciousness of the System was there to share the burden.
"Coach was talking to some dude with a Clemson jacket after your race," Deshawn said, breaking into Tristain's thoughts. "Just saying."
"Probably about the seniors," Tristain replied automatically.
Marcus shook his head. "Nah, man. They were looking right at you. Torres had your times on his clipboard. Don't play modest now."
The idea that college scouts might be watching added yet another dimension of pressure. Tristain had dreamed of playing college football since he was old enough to understand what it meant.
Lisa was washing dishes when her phone pinged with a notification from the track team's parent group chat. She dried her hands and opened the message to find a flurry of congratulatory texts and a photo of the North Bridgeton team celebrating their Second-place finish.
She smiled, spotting Tristain in the back row, his expression caught between happiness and something more complex.
Such a strange boy, she thought, not unkindly. When Tom had first suggested hosting an exchange student, she'd been hesitant. Their home was finally peaceful after years of career-building chaos. Ayana was thriving in school. Did they really need to disrupt that balance?
But Tristain had proven to be more than just a houseguest. There was a quiet intensity about him that reminded her of Tom in his younger days—driven, focused, but carrying some private burden he wouldn't share.
And then there were the oddities. The times she'd passed his room late at night and heard him muttering to himself in conversations that seemed one-sided. The occasional nosebleeds she pretended not to notice when she did laundry. The way he sometimes stared into space, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
She'd mentioned her concerns to Tom once, who had simply shrugged. "Teenagers," he'd said. "They're all weird. Remember how Ayana went through that phase where she would bite her hand and acted like she transformed?"
But this felt different. Not typical teenage eccentricity, but something more fundamental.
Her phone pinged again. Another photo, this one showing Tristain crossing the finish line in first place, his form perfect, his expression relaxed.
Whatever is happening with that boy, she thought, I hope he finds his way through it.
---
They hit a late-night diner. The kind with flickering lights, peeling booths, and the best fries in town. The kind of place where teenagers felt infinite.
Deshawn ordered a double cheeseburger, extra bacon. Marcus got a grilled chicken wrap and a protein shake. Tristain? Just fries and a chocolate milkshake. His appetite hadn't returned yet.
"Yo," Deshawn said, mouth full. "Have you ever wondered if homeless people know what day it is.."
Tristain. "Bro?"
Marcus leaned back. "You might be top 1 people I should never let touch a microphone."
Deshawn looking offended replied "What do you mean."
Tristain didn't reply. He just raised Deshawns new name on his phone "DoodleBob"
" Nah For real though," Marcus continued ignoring Deshawn, "whatever you did in the offseason? Whatever program you were on? Keep it up. Because that was next level today."
"It's nothing special," Tristain lied. "Just putting in work."
"Right." Deshawn rolled his eyes. "Just putting in work and casually almost dropping a school record in your first county meet. Totally normal."
"Speaking of normal," Marcus said, checking his phone, "Davis's party is officially on. Half the school's already there celebrating. We rolling or what?"
Tristain nodded "Yeah," he said, with enthusiasm "Let's do it."
As they were paying their bill, Tristain's phone buzzed with a text. He was surprised to see Ayana's name on his screen.
Ayana Great race today. Photos came out amazing. Sending you some now.
A moment later, three images appeared—his start from the blocks, mid-race form, and the lean at the finish. They were professionally composed, beautifully timed. Capturing moments of pure athletic focus.
Tristain: These are incredible. You've got a real eye.
Ayana: Thanks. I'll be at Davis's party later. Bringing my good camera. School paper wants shots of the team celebrating.
Tristain: See you there then.
He pocketed his phone, oddly buoyed by the exchange. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be a complete waste after all.
Davis's basement was lit with string lights, the projector screen showing a music video. Girls from school and a few upperclassmen floated in and out, music low but thumping. Tristain sipped his drink, more for the chill than the taste.
The moment they walked in, he felt the subtle shift in the room's energy—heads turning, conversations pausing briefly before resuming with new intensity. Word of his performance had spread quickly through social media and team group chats.
"Man of the hour," Davis said, greeting them at the foot of the stairs. "Didn't know we had an Olympic sprinter hiding on the football team."
"It was just a county qualifier," Tristain deflected, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Which you won. As a junior." Davis clapped him on the shoulder. "Drinks in the cooler. Food on the table. Ping pong in the corner if you want to get demolished."
He crushed Marcus in two straight ping pong games. Each point won drew cheers from the small crowd that had gathered to watch, amplifying the surreal feeling of the night.
Is this what it's going to be like now? he wondered. Everyone watching, expecting, waiting for the next impossible thing?
Scarlett was in the corner arguing about plot holes in a movie with a couple of juniors from the debate team. She'd smile whenever he looked her way, but made no effort to approach. The energy felt... fragmented.
He caught
He caught Ayana watching him when she thought he wasn't looking. There was something in her scrutiny that made him nervous
"Yo, Tristain!" someone called from across the room. "They're showing your race on Channel 6 sports update!"
The basement fell quiet as everyone turned toward Daves Phone, where Davis had quickly switch to local news. Sure enough, there was footage of the 100-meter finals, with Tristain pulling away in the final stretch.
"North Bridgeton High School may have found their next dual-sport star," the sportscaster was saying. "Junior Tristain Dyce, who transferred from Southfield earlier this year, hunting for the school record in the 100 meters today with a time of 10.84 seconds. Dyce, who is also expected to start at quarterback for the Royals this fall, led North Bridgeton to a surprising second-place finish in the county qualifiers."
A cheer went up from the basement crowd. Someone slapped Tristain on the back. He managed a smile, but inside, the pressure was building to an almost unbearable level.
This isn't me, he thought desperately. Not the real me. Not the whole story.
But it was his story now—the narrative building around him, the expectations piling on with each achievement. And he had no idea if he could get used to it but he knew he had to, after all pressure and expectations are a privilege.
From her position near the refreshment table, Ayana watched the celebration unfold around Tristain. He smiled at the right moments, laughed at the right jokes, but his eyes told a different story—distraction, worry, something hidden.
Whats up with you? she wondered, not for the first time.
Living with Tristain had given her a front-row seat to his peculiarities. The strange mutterings in his sleep that she sometimes heard when passing his room. The way he occasionally froze mid-motion, as if receiving instructions from some invisible source. The fluctuations in his physical capabilities that defied logical progression.
It wasn't normal development. It wasn't even exceptional talent.
She approached him as he refilled his drink at the cooler. "Nice turnout," she said casually.
"Yeah. People love a winner, I guess."
"Especially unexpected ones."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaning?"
"Nothing." She smiled innocently. "Just that your improvement curve is... remarkable."
"Good coaching," he replied, but his knuckles whitened around his cup.
"Of course." She held his gaze a moment longer than necessary. "Though I wonder what Coach Torres would think if he saw your 3 AM training sessions."
The flash of alarm in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed.
"I'm a light sleeper," she continued. "And my room is right next to yours."
Tristain swallowed. "I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Just stretching helps."
"Well whatever it's not my buisness but if you need to see a doctor let me know" She replied with worriness in her tone
Tristain's heart hammered as he watched Ayana walk away. She knew something—or at least, she suspected. Her casual mention of "3 AM training sessions"
The few times the System had activated during the night, he'd been careful to stay quiet, to keep his movements minimal. But evidently not careful enough.
He needed space to think, to process. The party suddenly felt suffocating.
Tristain found Marcus by the ping pong table. "Hey, I'm gonna head out. Not feeling great."
"What? Already?" Marcus frowned. "It's not even midnight. And Westfield girls just showed up."
"Rain check." Tristain forced a smile. "Still wiped from today."
"Your call, man. Want a ride?"
"Nah, I'll walk. It's not far to the Sayanas'."
"Suit yourself. Missing out though."
The cool night air was a relief as Tristain stepped outside. The neighborhood was quiet, most houses dark except for porch lights. He took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders.
The walk would do him good. Clear his head. Maybe even trigger some response from the System.
He'd gone about three blocks when he felt it—a slight tingle at the base of his skull, spreading down his spine. The familiar sensation of the System activating, though more subtle than usual.
Finally, he thought with relief. Where have you been?
No visual display appeared, no status readout. Just that gentle buzz of enhanced awareness, as if the System was running at minimal power.
And then, unbidden, Manziel's voice in his mind: Trust the process. Some things can't be rushed.
Tristain stopped walking, glancing around to ensure he was alone on the sidewalk. "Is that you?" he whispered. "Are you actually communicating, or am I just remembering?"
No response. But the buzz remained, comforting in its familiarity.
He started walking again, thinking about the day's events. The disappointing heat. The warning from Manziel about filtered integration. The surprising win without active System help.
Maybe this was how it was supposed to work. Not dependence just assisting.
The Sayana house came into view, most windows dark except for the kitchen, where a single light glowed. As Tristain approached, he saw Mrs. Sayana moving about, preparing something at the counter despite the late hour.
He let himself in quietly, hoping to slip upstairs unnoticed. But she turned as the door opened.
"Tristain," she said with a warm smile. "Home earlier than I expected. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just tired."
She nodded, gesturing to the kettle on the stove. "I'm making tea. Would you like some?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
She poured two cups, adding honey to both. "Congratulations on your win today. Tom and I were very proud."
"Thank you." He accepted the cup, warming his hands around it. "It was a team effort."
"Of course." She studied him with maternal perception. "But individual excellence still matters. You worked hard for that result."
He sipped the tea, unexpectedly moved by her simple acknowledgment. The Sayanas had welcomed him without hesitation, making space in their lives for a stranger. Their support came without the weight of expectation that seemed to accompany everyone else's interest in his development.
"Mrs. Sayana," he found himself asking, "do you ever worry about... changing too fast? Becoming something different than what you planned?"
She tilted her head, considering his question with surprising seriousness. "When I was about your age, I had to make a choice between medical school and a research career. Everyone expected me to become a doctor—my parents had planned it since I was born."
"What did you choose?"
"Research. Biochemistry. It changed everything—my future, my family's expectations, eventually even the country I would live in." She smiled at the memory. "It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Sometimes I hardly recognized myself."
"Do you regret it?"
"Never. Because the change came from my decision. It was authentic, even when it was frightening." She touched his hand briefly. "The only changes worth fearing are the ones that disconnect you from your core self. The rest is just growth, even when it happens faster than expected."
Tristain nodded, struck by how closely her words aligned with his situation, though she couldn't possibly know the details.
"Ayana told me you've been having trouble sleeping," she added, her tone casual but her eyes concerned. "We have some natural supplements that might help, if you're interested."
"Maybe. Thank you."
"Of course. We want you to feel at home here, Tristain. Whatever you're going through—athletic pressures, academic stress, adjustment issues—you're not alone."
The kindness in her voice nearly undid him. If only she knew how fundamentally alone he really was in his experience.
"I appreciate that," he said, meaning it despite the secrets he kept. "Good night, Mrs. Sayana."
"Good night, Tristain. Sleep well."
In the privacy of his room, Tristain finally allowed himself to fully process everything that had happened. The race. The System's silence. Manziel's warning about filtered integration. Ayana's growing suspicions.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, mentally thinking to himself
As he drifted toward sleep, one thought crystallized:
Maybe the ceiling isn't what I thought. Maybe it's not about maximum enhancement, but optimal integration. Not how much of them I can access, but how much of them becomes permanently me.
It was a comforting thought. A sustainable thought.
The true ceiling wasn't external limits or even the System's capabilities. It was his capacity to integrate change while remaining essentially himself. To evolve without losing his core identity.
---
Long after most of the party had dispersed, Ayana sat on Davis's back porch, scrolling through the photos she'd taken that night. Most were standard celebration shots—teams with medals, friends with arms around shoulders, the typical visual narrative of high school sports success.
But her favorite images were the quieter ones. Tristain lost in thought by the refreshment table. The flash of something vulnerable in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. The moment he'd slipped out the front door when he thought no one would notice.
She'd noticed.
"Still working?" Davis asked, stepping onto the porch with two sodas. He handed her one, then sat in the adjacent chair.
"Just reviewing." She accepted the drink. "Thanks for letting me crash your party for the school paper."
"No problem. Though I'm guessing not all those shots are for publication." He nodded toward her camera with a knowing smile.
Ayana felt her cheeks warm. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you don't." Davis laughed. "Look, I've known you since freshman debate year. You've never cared about sports coverage until certain people started playing them."
"That's not true. I've always been a well-rounded journalist."
"Uh-huh." He took a sip of his soda. "Just be careful, okay? Dyce seems like a good guy, but there's something... off about him."
Ayana frowned. "Off how?"
"I don't know exactly. Just different. Like he's operating on another level sometimes." Davis shrugged. "Maybe it's nothing. But I've seen how you look at him, and I don't want to see you get hurt if he's not what he seems."
"I can take care of myself," she said, more defensively than intended.
"I know you can. Just saying."
They sat in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the remaining partygoers drifting through the open basement door.
"He left early," Davis said finally. "Right after you talked to him. Whatever you said, it rattled him."
"I have that effect on people," she replied, though she filed the information away for later consideration.
As she packed up her camera gear to head home, Ayana found herself thinking about the perfect timing of her finish line shot—Tristain breaking the tape, form flawless, expression transcendent. A moment of athletic perfection captured in 1/1000th of a second.
But the most compelling image wasn't the victory itself. It was the look in his eyes immediately after—not triumph, but relief. As if he'd been afraid of something that hadn't materialized.
That was the story she wanted to understand. Not just what Tristain Dyce could do, but who he was beneath the achievements. What drove him. What scared him.
And whether, beneath it all, there was room in his complicated life for someone who saw beyond the surface.
In the Sayana house, long after midnight, two people lay awake in adjacent rooms.
In one, Tristain dreamed of integration, of becoming something more.
In the other, Ayana stared at her ceiling, thinking about the same guy who came in her life like a whirlwind.
Between them, only a wall