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In the last row of Class Eleven, Dex Harmon's crew was experiencing a collective psychological event.
We attacked Ethan Mercer.
The Ethan Mercer.
The one who turned Aurelian Republic agents into wall decorations on live television.
If he'd been even slightly serious just now, would any of us still have teeth?
The answer, which arrived in each of their minds with the speed of mortal terror, was: no. Not teeth. Not consciousness. Possibly not skeletal integrity.
Dex himself was in worse shape than his crew. He'd spent the morning establishing dominance over a kid he'd assessed as a soft target. He'd assigned him water duty. Thrown a stool at him. Ordered his crew to rush him with chairs.
The kid was Ethan Mercer.
The kid had killed two people with his bare hands three days ago.
The kid could bench-press the building they were sitting in.
Dex's legs stopped working. He slid off his stool and hit the floor with a thud that echoed through the suddenly very quiet classroom.
The sound snapped the Education Bureau officials out of their frozen state.
We just threatened to expel Ethan Mercer from school.
We told the Republic's most important person that "one word" from us would end his academic career.
Our careers are over. Our careers have been over for approximately ninety seconds and we're only now catching up.
Frank, surveying the chaos in the classroom — beaten bullies on the floor, Education Bureau officials the color of old paper, his nephew standing in the middle of it all looking mildly inconvenienced — turned to Vice Principal Song.
"Song, what happened here?"
Song, who had nearly expelled the Republic's most valuable citizen moments before these people arrived, grabbed the lifeline with both hands.
"Principal Holloway, these Education Bureau officials conducting the inspection demanded — without any justification — that I expel student Mercer!"
He pivoted toward the officials with an expression that converted weeks of accumulated frustration into righteous indignation.
"I explained that the student was newly transferred and hadn't received a uniform yet. I explained there were extenuating circumstances. They refused to listen and insisted on expulsion!"
Frank's expression darkened.
"The reason?"
"Not wearing the school uniform, sir."
Before Frank could respond, the top government official of Ashford City — the one who'd been following Graves through the hallway like a well-trained subordinate — stepped forward.
"Is this account accurate?"
The question was directed at the Education Bureau officials. It was delivered in the specific register of a man whose authority was absolute within this city and who had just heard something that offended him professionally.
The officials' faces went grey. Their lips trembled. Their minds, which had been generating excuses at high speed, produced nothing usable.
Graves didn't wait for an answer.
"Get out."
His voice filled the room the way a cold front fills a valley.
"Disgraceful. Go back to your offices and await disciplinary action."
"The Republic's government does not employ pampered incompetents who threaten teenagers to inflate their own importance."
The officials left. Quickly. Without looking back. Without speaking. With the posture of men who understood that the next phase of their careers would involve significantly less authority and significantly more regret.
Graves pointed toward the door.
"Let's go, kid. I have something to discuss with you."
Ethan shrugged and was about to follow when his eye caught Tyler Briggs, sitting at his desk, looking at the scene with an expression that mixed awe, confusion, and the specific emotional overload of a teenager who'd stepped up to defend a stranger and discovered the stranger was the most famous person in the country.
Ethan stopped. Turned back.
He walked past the silent rows of students, past the still-frozen Dex crew, until he reached the back of the classroom.
Dex, slumped on the floor, saw Ethan approaching and felt every muscle in his body lock.
Ethan bent down and spoke into Dex's ear. Quietly enough that only Dex could hear.
"Tyler Briggs is my friend."
"If you want to spend the second half of your life in prison, try touching him."
Dex nodded so vigorously his neck almost sprained.
Ethan straightened up, walked to Tyler's desk, tore a page from his notebook, and wrote his phone number on it.
"Tyler. This is my number. If anything happens — anything at all — call me."
Tyler took the paper with fingers that were shaking. Not from fear. From the overwhelming realization that the kid he'd stepped up to defend, the kid whose water bottle he'd shamefully handed over, the kid he'd pitied as "too nice for this place," had just claimed him as a friend in front of thirty witnesses and the Director of the Bureau of Internal Affairs.
His face was red. His eyes were suspiciously bright. He clutched the phone number like it was a winning lottery ticket.
Ethan turned and walked out, because keeping Director Graves waiting was the kind of decision that had consequences even a super soldier preferred to avoid.
On the school playground, away from the building, Graves lit a cigarette and got to the point.
"Ethan, I know this is presumptuous."
He exhaled smoke.
"But if it's possible, I'd like to purchase a batch of the Super Soldier Serum on behalf of the Republic."
The words came out, and Graves felt something release in his chest. He'd been holding this request since the moment he'd watched the serum's effects on the Signal Bee broadcast. Every military strategist in the Republic had been thinking the same thing since the hospital fight: if one enhanced soldier could do what Ethan had done, what could a hundred do? A thousand?
The serum wasn't just a biological upgrade. It was a force multiplier that could redefine the Republic's military capabilities overnight.
Graves had been a Director long enough to know that asking directly was better than dancing around it. But he'd also never been this nervous making a request, because the person he was asking wasn't a subordinate or a contractor. It was an eighteen-year-old who held leverage that no government official in the Republic's history had ever possessed.
Ethan was quiet for a moment.
"Director Graves, it's not that I want to reject you outright."
He chose his words carefully.
"The serum is too dangerous for mass production."
"Think about it. If it were widely distributed — even within the military — how long before a sample leaked? How long before someone sold it? How long before a criminal got their hands on a dose?"
"Can you imagine how many police officers it would take to capture a single criminal who'd been enhanced by the serum?"
Graves had prepared for objections. "I can guarantee that every dose would be under Bureau supervision. Strict chain of custody. Delivered only to military personnel who've been vetted—"
"Director Graves." Ethan's voice was gentle but firm. "I believe you. Personally. Completely."
"But I don't trust everyone."
He paused.
"Think about those Education Bureau officials today. Petty men with small amounts of power, abusing it the moment they had an audience."
"Or think about the Whitfield family."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"Before the defection, would anyone have suspected that a founding political dynasty would sell the Republic to a foreign power? Would anyone have predicted that the Bureau itself would be compromised by moles planted over decades?"
Graves said nothing.
"You can guarantee your own loyalty, Director. But can you guarantee the loyalty of every person who receives the injection? Every soldier, every officer, every bureaucrat who gains access to the supply chain?"
"The answer is no. You know it's no. Because the Whitfield incident proved it."
Graves stood in silence. The cigarette burned toward his fingers. He didn't notice.
The kid was right. And the reason Graves couldn't argue wasn't because the logic was flawless — it was because the Whitfield catastrophe had been Graves's own failure. He'd guaranteed Frank Holloway's safety, and fourteen agents had died. He'd trusted the Bureau's internal security, and decades of moles had gone undetected.
If he couldn't keep a kidnapping from happening under his own nose, how could he guarantee that a serum capable of creating superhuman warriors wouldn't end up in the wrong hands?
There's a reason the serum was never mass-produced in the Marvel universe, Ethan thought. Captain America was one person. Not an army. And that was a deliberate choice by people far smarter than anyone in this room.
"The serum was designed for individuals, not armies," Ethan said. "One enhanced soldier is a strategic asset. A thousand enhanced soldiers is a civil war waiting to happen. What do you do when one of them goes rogue? When ten of them do? When a foreign power gets a sample and enhances their own people?"
Graves dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel.
"I understand."
The disappointment was real but controlled. He was a professional. He'd made the ask, received the answer, and accepted it.
Ethan, watching the Director's expression, felt a twinge of guilt.
The Republic had stepped in to clean up the diplomatic aftermath of the Aurelian operation. Valorian warships had sailed to the territorial boundary. The Chancellor had deployed military assets. Graves had personally driven him home. These were not small things.
Being too stingy with the people who'd supported him didn't sit right.
"Director Graves."
"I can't give you the serum. But I'm not going to pretend the Republic hasn't earned something."
"Give me some time. I'll find a way to contribute that doesn't create the risks we just discussed."
Graves looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"That's enough, kid. Take your time."
He turned and walked toward the school gate, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who'd asked for the moon and received a rain check that he trusted would be honored.