The room smelled of artificial calm—lavender diffusers, sterile leather seats, the faint hum of recycled air. Dominic sat with one leg crossed over the other, hands resting loosely in his lap, but every part of him was coiled, alert. Across from him, the counselor—a middle-aged woman with a soft voice and eyes that seemed too practiced in their kindness—tapped notes onto a sleek tablet.
He didn't trust her.
"I'm glad you chose to come today, Dominic," she said gently. "It's important to talk, especially after what you've experienced."
Dominic nodded slowly. "Right. Talk."
Her lips curled in what passed for encouragement. "Why don't we begin with your sleep? Any recurring nightmares?"
Dominic offered the shadow of a smile. "Would you believe me if I said I don't remember my dreams?"
"I'd say that's common for trauma survivors. Suppression is the mind's way of defending itself."
He let her words roll over him, answering only when needed, always with just enough emotion to seem open—but not too much to raise suspicion. He spoke about "difficulty adjusting," about how "quiet rooms make the echoes louder." He even let his voice waver slightly when she asked how it felt returning to school.
"It's strange," he said. "Like I walked into a place I once knew but now every wall's been painted over."
She scribbled something quickly.
He watched her fingers. Measured the length of pauses between her nods. This wasn't just therapy—it was data collection.
"How about your appetite?"
"Normal," he lied. "Mostly."
"I see," she said softly. "And friends? Anyone you've been able to talk to?"
He let the silence linger.
Then: "Not really."
Why not?
More tapping.
Dominic leaned slightly forward. "Are these sessions monitored?"
The counselor looked up, surprised. "No. Confidentiality is assured."
He didn't believe that for a second.
But he gave a small nod, eyes lowered, as if reassured. Let her think she was winning. Let her file her reports, tell the observers in the black suits that the boy was cooperating.
Let them all believe he was just a grieving, broken child trying to find normal again.
When the session ended, she offered him a warm smile. "You're doing better than you think, Dominic. These things take time."
He thanked her. Polite. Controlled.
He left the office with a slight slump in his posture—just enough to maintain the illusion of a weary, recovering teen.
But inside?
He was already moving.
He could feel their gaze long before he reached the east corridor.
Not literal eyes—he'd trained himself past that. No, this was subtler: an artificial pattern in hallway sensor pings, a repeated delay in door recognition scans, a faint pressure behind every mirror panel. The Watchers were watching. Closely. Relentlessly.
But not for the right reasons.
He'd made sure of that.
Three nights ago, he'd stood on the roof in the pouring rain, gazing out over the storm-washed skyline. No umbrella. No coat. Just the wind tugging at his sleeves like some forgotten ghost.
The watchers had seen that, too.
They hadn't understood it.
Since then, they'd shifted tactics—fewer direct probes, more psychological tracking. Dominic could read it in their placement: silent agents near water fountains and stairwells, "janitorial checks" scheduled just before his lunch period, suspiciously timed fire drills. A tightening noose disguised as routine.
They didn't know he was building something.
They didn't even know he'd reached out.
Their analysts were still operating under the assumption that Dominic was spiraling, possibly suicidal. The rooftop incident had confirmed it in their eyes. He'd made sure it did.
But while they worried about how and when he might break…
Dominic was already working beneath their notice.
Planning. Constructing. Preparing.
They were looking for a candle about to flicker out.
What they missed was the spark beneath the surface.
Dominic walked the hallways like a sleepwalker with his eyes open. The face he wore was carefully sculpted—distracted, burdened, not quite present. A boy whose mind floated just behind his eyes. Most of the teachers didn't press him too hard. The grief card still bought him space. The occasional whispers from classmates—murmured condolences, awkward silences when he passed—only helped.
He let their pity shape his aura. Every step was performed. Every glance down at his notebook, every twitch of his pen, every sigh—deliberate.
He was invisible in plain sight.
During chemistry, he doodled in the margins of his notes. Not because he had nothing to write, but because each sketch served dual purpose. To anyone glancing over, they were random swirls or scribbled spirals. But Dominic had developed a language of his own—a code hidden in flourishes, a structure in strokes.
It told him what still needed sourcing. Which parts had passed stealth checks. Where the gaps in the circuit remained.
Biology was better. The projector cast long shadows across the room, and the lab benches provided cover. With the right angle, he could slip a small tool out of his backpack, make a subtle adjustment to the casing of a mock transmitter he'd disguised as part of a dissection kit, then slip it back in one fluid motion.
He never repeated the same action twice.
He never allowed a pattern.
Paranoia had become his rhythm, and it kept him alive.
Between periods, he carried a novel he never read and a math book with a false bottom. Hidden inside was a flattened chip—the size of a contact lens, pale silver and matte black. Impossible to trace unless someone took it out and activated it. Even then, it wouldn't function unless paired with its hidden twin.
He was weeks ahead of where the Watchers believed he stood.
All it took was patience.
And misdirection.
It was nearing 9 p.m. when Dominic returned to the rooftop.
The clouds were forming again—angry, purple-black shapes rumbling above the cityscape. He stood still as the wind whipped past him, coat clinging to his frame, hair lashing across his brow. In his hands, he held the small transmitter he'd finished assembling just hours ago in the art supply closet.
It looked like nothing. A flattened oval, no bigger than a coin, with no light, no blinking diode. Just a thin groove etched into its surface—a contact line.
Lightning flashed.
Dominic crouched by the iron railing and wedged the device between two rusted bolts. He peeled back a segment of copper wire, then pressed his thumb to the contact line.
The device blinked once—barely perceptible.
Then nothing.
But he knew better.
He stood and leaned into the wind, gaze fixed beyond the city, into the unknown. His thoughts stretched far—toward the hills outside the capital, beyond the veil of trees and stone, where secrets still breathed in silence. If the transmitter reached where he hoped it would…
He didn't have to wait for confirmation.
He turned his back to the storm.
Walked away slowly, soaked but composed.
To the Watchers, it would seem like another melancholic episode.
A boy lingering too long on a rooftop in dangerous weather.
They'd double down now—probably increase monitoring, maybe even move in one of their "student-friendly" handlers.
Let them.
The message was already gone.
And if it reached the right ears…
He wouldn't be alone much longer.
The moment he re-entered the building, he saw the figure.
Black umbrella. Clean shoes despite the wet.
One of them.
"Raining hard," the man said casually, tapping the umbrella against his boot. "You okay, Dominic?"
"Yeah," Dominic replied, not stopping. "I just needed air."
"Storm's not the safest place for that."
Dominic shrugged and kept walking. "Didn't say I was safe."
The man didn't follow.
Just watched.
Dominic didn't have to look back to feel the report being typed up.
Possible suicidal behavior. Emotional instability persists.
Good.
Let them keep drawing the wrong conclusions.
The deeper they misread him, the more space he gained to maneuver.
As he turned the corner, he allowed a small breath to escape.
Controlled. Satisfied.
The signal was out.
If his grandfather still lived…
If the man still operated in shadows…
He would receive it.
And if he didn't?
Dominic would still keep moving.
The storm had become his language.
And someone, somewhere, would understand it.
Dominic returned to his dorm room and locked the door with mechanical precision. The thin walls did nothing to keep the night out, but he preferred that. Let the storm howl. Let it thunder like a giant clawing at the sky.
The low hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the crackle of distant lightning.
He stood still for a long time, eyes scanning everything. The books on his desk. The mirror. The dark gap beneath the closet door. Then he swept the room again—mentally this time—calculating angles, reflections, blind spots. He moved to the mirror and tapped the lower left corner once. A micro-shift. Good. The decoy tape he'd placed over the embedded pinhole was still holding.
They weren't watching him from here yet.
He sat on the bed and opened the small wooden box beneath it. Inside: graphite dust, a hollowed USB key, and now—an empty space where the transmitter had once been.
He smiled faintly. Half from relief, half from knowing this was just the first of many moves to come.
The signal he sent wasn't encrypted. Not conventionally. It carried no words, no coordinates.
Just a pulse.
A rhythm.
One only a ghost from his past could possibly recognize.
If the man was dead, the signal would die in the air.
If he was alive…
The game had already begun.
A knock at the door.
Soft. Measured. Polite.
Dominic's head tilted slightly. No surprise flickered in his eyes—only readiness. He didn't answer.
Another knock.
"Dominic?" came the voice. Calm. Female. One of the school counselors, probably sent by the Watchers. "Just checking in. The staff said you were out in the storm again. Do you want to talk?"
Dominic stood slowly, walked to the door, and laid his hand gently on the knob.
He waited five seconds before responding.
"Not tonight."
Pause.
"If you ever—"
"Not. Tonight."
He heard her shift uneasily. Then retreating footsteps.
He watched the shadow disappear beneath the doorframe.
Only when silence returned did he allow himself to breathe.
He glanced at the small clock.
03:41 a.m.
Lightning flashed again. This time, he imagined it was an answer.
He sat at his desk, flipped open a worn notebook, and began sketching.
Not blueprints.
Not schematics.
Not yet.
Just a face.
The face of the man he once called a legend.
A ghost no one else believed was real.
As he worked, the storm continued to rage—and somewhere far beyond the city, buried deep in shadow, a machine blinked green for the first time in years.
[End of Chapter Eight: Beneath Their Gaze]
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