The news replayed the rescue for the third time.
Kirran was still watching.
The television mounted across from his bed displayed footage of cheering crowds, flashing cameras, and two smiling heroes standing triumphantly before the remains of the Sherman Apartments.
The headline scrolling across the screen read: BLIZZARD AND BLAZE SAVE DOZENS IN SHERMAN APARTMENT FIRE Kirran shook his head.
“They make it look easy.” Mach’s icon appeared on the front display of his wheelchair.
“They are highly trained professionals.” “That’s a fancy way of saying they’re cooler than me.” “I was attempting to be polite.” Kirran laughed.
A faint wheezing sound escaped him as he adjusted the nebulizer mask resting against his face.
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating a room that was modest, comfortable, and familiar.
Medical supplies occupied one shelf while books filled another, and an entire wall was devoted to classic literature.
Shakespeare, Dickens, Twain, and countless others stood neatly arranged in rows.
Several students had jokingly called the collection a museum.
Kirran considered that a compliment.
His purple wheelchair sat beside the bed, sleek, advanced, and heavily customized.
It wasn’t nearly as flashy as the equipment used by the Wheelers, but it was his, and that mattered far more than any amount of fame or attention.
The chair’s metallic finish reflected the television screen.
Tiny blue and red flashes danced across its surface.
Mach noticed the pattern before Kirran did.
Every time the footage flashed blue or red, Kirran’s eyes drifted toward the reflection on his chair, lingering just long enough for the longing to become measurable.
The Vent didn’t need a full emotional analysis to understand what that meant; Kirran was not merely watching heroes.
He was imagining, very carefully, what it might feel like to be one.
“You are staring again.” “I’m watching the news.” “You have been watching the same rescue footage for twenty-three minutes.” Kirran dragged his gaze away as if the screen had caught him doing something embarrassing.
His eyes settled on the blankets instead, but the blue and red flashes still pulsed at the edge of his vision, stubborn little reminders of everything he wanted and everything he kept telling himself not to want.
“Okay, maybe I was staring.” Mach’s icon blinked knowingly.
“I have calculated a ninety-two percent probability that you wish you were one of them.” Kirran sighed.
The annoying thing about artificial intelligence was that it was usually right.
“Can you blame me?” He nodded toward the television.
The interview he had watched years ago replayed in his mind.
He remembered seeing Zyla calmly explain emergency rescue procedures while Jarrick looked increasingly bored beside her.
Mach considered this.
“Your entrances are generally acceptable.” Kirran laughed.
“Thanks.” The Vent paused.
“Although the incident involving the grocery store automatic door was not especially heroic.” Kirran groaned.
“Why do you remember that?” “Because you screamed.” “I did not scream.” “You absolutely screamed.” ◇ ◇ ◇ A knock interrupted the argument.
The bedroom door opened.
Raymond Harrison stepped inside.
He carried a tray of supplies beneath one arm.
At first glance, most people found Raymond intimidating.
He was tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Covered in old scars.
The kind of man who looked like he could punch through concrete.
Kirran knew better.
Raymond was one of the kindest people he had ever met.
“Morning.” “Morning.” Raymond approached the bed.
“Treatment done?” “Almost.” Mach immediately spoke.
“He attempted to finish early.” “I was fine.” “You were not.” Raymond chuckled.
“Sounds about right.” Kirran pointed accusingly at his Vent.
“You snitch way too much.” “I prefer the term ‘medical advocate.'” “You’re a tattletale.” ◇ ◇ ◇ A few minutes later the nebulizer treatment finally ended.
Raymond carefully removed the equipment.
Kirran stretched.
“Freedom.” “Temporary freedom.” Raymond began organizing supplies.
“You’ve got work.” Kirran groaned dramatically.
“Why must you remind me?” “Because your students deserve an education.” “They don’t want one.” “That’s not the point.” Kirran rolled toward his desk.
A stack of essays waited for him.
Mach extended one of his robotic arms.
The laptop floated gently into position.
Kirran opened the first essay.
Five seconds later he closed it.
“Nope.” “What?” “One of my students thinks Henry V was the fifth Henry.” Raymond blinked.
“Wasn’t he?” Kirran stared.
Raymond stared back.
“Oh no.” “You too?” The drive to school was uneventful.
Which, in Citron City, was usually a good sign.
Raymond’s hover-van glided through busy streets while Kirran reviewed lesson plans.
Outside, enormous digital billboards replayed footage of the apartment fire.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The Wheelers were everywhere.
Jarrick’s grin filled an entire building.
Zyla’s smile occupied another.
Kirran forced his attention back to the lesson plans in his lap, though the motion was a little too sharp to pass for casual.
The billboards still followed him in the glass, their heroic colors sliding over his reflection until it felt as though the city itself was asking why he wasn’t up there too.
Mach noticed, of course.
He always noticed the details Kirran tried to bury—the quick glance toward the billboard, the tightening of his mouth, the way his hand hovered over the controls as if movement alone could outrun the feeling.
The Vent had an irritating talent for catching the exact moments Kirran most wanted to pass unnoticed.
“You appear irritated.” “I’m not irritated.” The drive to school was uneventful.
Which, in Citron City, was usually a good sign.
Raymond’s hover-van glided through busy streets while Kirran reviewed lesson plans.
Outside, enormous digital billboards replayed footage of the apartment fire.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The Wheelers were everywhere.
Jarrick’s grin filled an entire building.
Zyla’s smile occupied another Kirran forced his attention back to the lesson plans in his lap, though the motion was a little too sharp to pass for casual.
The billboards still followed him in the glass, their heroic colors sliding over his reflection until it felt as though the city itself was asking why he wasn’t up there too.
Mach noticed, of course.
He always noticed the details Kirran tried to bury—the quick glance toward the billboard, the tightening of his mouth, the way his hand hovered over the controls as if movement alone could outrun the feeling.
The Vent had an irritating talent for catching the exact moments Kirran most wanted to pass unnoticed.
“You appear irritated.” “I’m not irritated.” “You rolled your eyes.” “I rolled them a little.” “You rolled them a lot.” Kirran sighed.
“Fine.” He glanced toward another billboard.
“They save one apartment building and suddenly they’re celebrities.” Mach’s icon blinked.
“They have saved approximately four hundred and twenty-three incidents this year.” “…Okay, that’s actually impressive.” “Thank you.” “I wasn’t complimenting you.” “I know.” ◇ ◇ ◇ The school building soon came into view.
Students flowed through the entrance while teachers prepared for another ordinary day.
Everything felt normal, predictable, and safe—the sort of environment Kirran usually preferred.
At least, most days.
He didn’t know it yet.
But before sunset, everything was going to change.
And for the first time in his life…
The path of a teacher was about to cross directly with the path of a hero.