The move was swift and silent.
Within forty-eight hours of the “incident,” the house on the outskirts was scrubbed clean and put on the market.
Elena and David didn’t talk about the blood on the linoleum, they simply packed the truck and drove until the air smelled different.
They settled into a quiet neighborhood in a new city, the kind of place where the lawns were manicured and the neighbors didn’t ask why your basement was reinforced with high-density rubber.
It was the perfect place for Mason to start high school, a fresh slate where nobody knew him as the kid who didn’t fit in.
On his first day at the new high school, Mason stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of a simple black t-shirt.
At sixteen, his Saiyan biology had finished sculpting him into something that felt less like a boy and more like a predator in a tailor-made skin.
He was tall, with a lean, dense musculature that suggested explosive power rather than bulk.
His jawline was sharp enough to draw blood, and his eyes, dark and unnervingly observant, were framed by a mess of jet-black hair that fell over his forehead.
He wasn’t “pretty” in a soft way; he had a rugged, charismatic edge that made people stop and look twice.
‘Keep the mask on, Mason.
You’re just another transfer student with a good gym routine,’ he reminded himself, though he knew the lie was getting harder to sell.
Walking through the hallways was a trial in itself.
The reaction was immediate.
Groups of girls stopped mid-sentence as he passed, their whispers following him like a trail of breadcrumbs.
“Who is that?”
“Is he a senior?
He looks sexy, Soooo~ my type.”
Mason kept his eyes forward, his expression a mask of polite indifference.
He wasn’t interested in the attention.
The attention wasn’t just limited to the girls.
A couple of guys from the varsity team, clearly mistaking his silence for a specific kind of invitation, tried to strike up a conversation with a bit too much lingering eye contact.
One leaned against a locker as Mason approached, offering a suggestive smirk.
Mason didn’t say a word.
He simply stopped and leveled a stare at the guy, a look so cold and predatory that the student actually stepped back, his smirk vanishing instantly.
Mason was as straight as a line of sight, he had zero patience for this, and his ‘death stare’ usually sent that message home without him having to waste his breath.
‘Too much energy,’ Mason thought, turning the corner.
‘I need to tone it down or I’ll be the center of the school’s drama by lunch.’
The hallway was crowded, a sea of backpacks and teenagers rushing to beat the bell.
Mason was navigating the throng with his usual spatial awareness when someone turned a corner too fast, slamming directly into his chest.
It was like a bird hitting a brick wall.
“Oh!
Sorry, I—”
The girl stumbled back, her books nearly slipping from her hands.
She was pretty, with a sharp, intelligent look and a head of braided hair.
It was Amber.
Mason didn’t skip a beat.
He reached out, his hand steadying her arm for a fraction of a second, feeling the fragility of her slim body compared to the iron density of his own, before pulling back.
“My fault.
Wasn’t looking,” Mason said.
His voice was smooth. This story is hosted at g.com.
He didn’t linger.
He didn’t offer a charming smile or ask for her name.
He simply stepped around her and continued down the hall, his mind already moving to his next class.
Amber stood there for a long moment, frozen in the middle of the hallway.
She felt a strange tingling in her shoulder where he’d touched her, her brain struggling to process the sensation of hitting him.
It hadn’t felt like bumping into a person, it had felt like walking into a secure pillar.
She turned to look after him, her mouth slightly agape, but he was already merging into the crowd.
Mason, however, wasn’t thinking about the girl.
His heightened senses had picked up something else—a gaze that felt different from the idle curiosity of the other students.
It was a look of recognition, with a hint of envy.
He turned his head slightly to the left.
Standing near a trophy case was a boy with dark hair and a slightly dorky, unassuming jacket.
He looked normal enough, but Mason could see the way the boy was watching him, intently, as if trying to learn everything about him.
It was Mark Grayson.
Mason felt a flicker of something in his chest, not fear, but a dark sense of amusement.
He knew exactly who that boy was, and more importantly, he knew who his father was.
Mason didn’t turn away.
He let a small, sharp smirk play on his lips.
Then, without a word, he turned the corner and walked away.