Chapter 6 The Wounded Stranger
I sat in Mr. Peterson's advanced calculus class, staring blankly at the whiteboard. My mind wasn't on derivatives or integrals—I needed money, and fast. Without cash, half the things I needed to do were impossible. My skills as Shadow were essentially useless without proper funding.
I could hack into some accounts—my abilities as "X" remained intact—but using those skills too soon might draw attention from unwanted sources. I needed to lay low until I'd fully adapted to this new life. Perhaps some small-scale gambling? Or maybe some discreet "problem-solving" for wealthy clients with legal gray areas...
"Ms. Morgan!"
I blinked, finding Mr. Peterson looming over my desk, his face twisted with irritation.
"Since you find my lesson so boring that you're daydreaming, perhaps you'd like to enlighten the class with the answer to this problem?" He gestured dramatically to a complex multivariable calculus equation on the board.
The classroom fell silent. Everyone knew Jade Morgan was the class dunce in mathematics. This was Peterson's way of humiliating me, a punishment for not paying attention.
I glanced at the problem, then at Peterson's smug face. The equation was laughably simple to someone who had calculated bullet trajectories accounting for wind speed, distance, and the curvature of the Earth.
"Ms. Morgan, we're waiting. Or would you prefer to continue being a burden to this class's GPA?"
I stood slowly, walked to the whiteboard, and picked up a marker. With quick, confident strokes, I not only solved the problem but expanded it to show an elegant solution method that hadn't been covered in class yet.
I turned and handed the marker back to Mr. Peterson, whose mouth hung slightly open.
"The approach in our textbook is unnecessarily complicated," I said evenly. "This method is more efficient and provides deeper insight into the underlying mathematical principles."
The class sat in stunned silence. Peterson sputtered, his face reddening.
"That's... that's correct. But this approach isn't in our curriculum."
"Then perhaps your curriculum needs updating," I replied, returning to my seat. "And as an educator, you might want to consider that humiliating students isn't an effective teaching strategy."
A few students gasped. Others looked at me with newfound respect. Peterson cleared his throat, clearly flustered, and mumbled something about "lucky guesses" before hastily moving on with the lesson.
After school, I spotted Max ahead of me on the path home, dragging his bad leg slightly as he walked alone. He hadn't waited for me. I quickened my pace to catch up.
"Max," I called out.
He turned, surprise flashing across his face. "Oh. Hey."
I fell into step beside him. "Why didn't you wait for me after school?"
Max looked away. "Didn't think you'd want to be seen with me. Especially after..." He trailed off.
"After what?"
"After I couldn't even stand up for myself against those guys. They were saying stuff about you, and I tried, but—"
"What guys?"
"Just some football players. It doesn't matter."
We walked in silence for a bit, Max's limp more pronounced after a full day at school. I noticed how he occasionally winced when putting weight on his left foot.
"Are you really going to take the college applications seriously?" Max asked after a while, changing the subject. "You've never seemed to care before."
"Yes," I replied simply.
Max studied my profile. "What changed, Jade? It's like you're a completely different person all of a sudden."
I almost smiled at the irony. "Let's just say I've had a wake-up call."
When we arrived home, Linda was waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed.
"There you are," she snapped at me. "I'm working the late shift tonight. Make dinner for everyone before I leave."
I walked past her without acknowledging the command, heading straight for my room.
"Did you hear me?" Linda called after me, voice rising with indignation. "I said make dinner!"
I paused at the foot of the stairs, turning slightly. "No."
The single word hung in the air between us. Linda's face contorted with disbelief, unused to direct defiance.
"What did you just say to me?"
"I said no. Make your own dinner." I continued up the stairs without another glance.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Max stand awkwardly in the kitchen as Linda's face turned red with fury. Without a word, he began pulling ingredients from the refrigerator, quietly preparing to cook in my place.
"Don't you dare," I heard Linda hiss at him. "Get upstairs and finish those SAT practice problems. I didn't pay for that prep book for nothing."
I heard Max's hesitation, then his uneven footsteps as he limped upstairs, leaving Linda muttering curses as she began throwing together a hasty meal.
Over the next few days, I maintained my rigorous exercise routine. Each morning, I pushed my body harder, ignoring the burning in my muscles and lungs. Slowly, my form began to change, fat giving way to emerging muscle. My stamina improved, and I could run longer without gasping for breath.
Linda had stopped making dinner for me entirely, a childish punishment that I barely noticed. With no money on my cafeteria card, I'd simply stopped eating dinner altogether, which only accelerated my weight loss.
One night, as I finished my push-ups in the backyard, I heard a commotion in the alley behind our house. Cautiously approaching the fence, I peered over to see a man stumbling through the narrow passage, one hand pressed against his abdomen. Even in the dim light, I could make out the dark stain spreading across his shirt—blood.
The man collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily, looking frantically over his shoulder.
Without hesitation, I vaulted over the fence, landing silently beside him. The man jerked in surprise, reaching for what I assumed was a concealed weapon.
"Need help?" I asked calmly, already assessing his wound. Gunshot to the lower abdomen, missed vital organs. Painful, but not immediately fatal.
The man stared at me with suspicious eyes. I recognized the man instantly.
"You're bleeding out in a back alley in a shitty neighborhood," I observed. "Not exactly spoiled for choices."
In the distance, I heard multiple footsteps and harsh whispers. Whoever was hunting this man was getting closer.
I reached into the man's jacket pocket and extracted an expensive-looking pen. With practiced precision, I uncapped it and wrote a string of numbers on his arm.
"The bullet missed anything important. You'll live," I said matter-of-factly. "Cut through this yard, exit through the back gate, and take the first right. There's an abandoned gas station three blocks down where you can hide until your extraction team arrives."
The man's eyes widened with surprise at my assessment and knowledge.
"If you survive, transfer some money to the account number I just wrote. Consider it a professional courtesy fee."
The footsteps grew closer. The man nodded once, then pushed himself up and limped toward our back gate.