“You look just like a younger version of your father.”

  The voice came from a man approaching through the thinning crowd—short, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a thick, neatly trimmed beard. I recognized him from the stage during the principal’s speech. A teacher, apparently. And, judging by the look on his face, someone who knew me before I ever set foot in this academy.

  Of course. I should’ve guessed. My mother would never have let me come here without some way to keep an eye on me.

  “I’m Jordan Skywatcher,” he said, extending his hand. “An old friend of your parents. I teach here at the academy.”

  I shook his hand, offering a polite nod, even though my stomach tightened a little.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the son of my friends,” he added with a warm smile. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  And just like that, he turned and left, disappearing with the rest of the faculty.

  I stayed where I was, letting the weight of that interaction settle in. A few nearby students threw glances my way—quick, subtle, but unmistakably curious. Or judgmental. Probably both.

  Great. Now they all know.

  Being a legacy student at the Pokémon Battle Academy is a double-edged sword. On paper, it means you’ve got family history—connections, pedigree, prestige. But in practice? It paints a target on your back. Especially if people think you didn’t earn your place.

  And the truth? I didn’t.

  My mom pulled strings. Got me in.

  She didn’t even want me to become a Pokémon trainer. Not after what happened to my dad.

  He was a professional trainer—well-known, respected—and five years ago, he vanished during an expedition to a dangerous, uncharted region. No one talks about it anymore, but I know the fear never left her. She didn’t want me chasing the same dream, walking into the same risks.

  But I had to. I’ve wanted this my whole life. The academy was my only path forward. The only compromise she'd accept.

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  So here I am. A legacy. A symbol of everything some students here already resent.

  And of course, that’s when she shows up.

  A blur of red hair and fury plants itself in front of me. She’s small—barely past my chest—but the sheer intensity of her glare makes me take half a step back.

  “You!” she snaps, pointing a tiny but aggressive finger right at me.

  I blink. “Uh…”

  “You dare mock me?”

  Wait, what?

  She jabs me in the chest—once, twice, three times—each poke more dramatic than the last. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from anger or embarrassment.

  “Irene Redstone!” she announces like I should already know the name. “Remember it. I’ll be the number one student at this academy. And you—legacy boy—will be my first steppingstone.”

  Then she spins around and storms off before I can even process what just happened.

  I stare after her, dumbfounded. What was that?

  I let out a breath and run a hand through my hair.

  Awesome. It’s not even the first day of classes and I already have a nemesis. A tiny, furious one.

  “Wow,” a voice says beside me. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

  An arm lands casually around my shoulders. I turn and find a kid a little taller than me with sun-kissed skin, shaggy dark hair, and a grin like he’s permanently amused.

  “Flavio. Flavio Rios,” he says with an exaggerated flourish. “Fellow legacy, woman magnet, future regional champion.”

  I raise an eyebrow, still recovering from Irene’s ambush.

  “And apparently, your wingman.”

  I can’t help it—I snort.

  “You have good taste,” he says, nodding toward where Irene disappeared. “She’s kinda terrifying, but I’ll admit—she’s got spunk.”

  I give him a sidelong glance. “You’re way too comfortable with getting stabbed in the chest.”

  He shrugs. “Comes with the territory. We legacy kids? We’re villains in someone else’s story. Might as well lean into it.”

  He moves beside me, arms crossed.

  “We should probably stick together. At least until we prove we belong here. Then maybe the others will stop looking at us like we’re cheating.”

  I nod slowly. “Gabriel. Gabe, for friends.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gabe.”

  We stand there in a strange but comfortable silence as the auditorium begins to clear out. The energy is still buzzing—dozens of students talking, laughing, or sneaking wary looks at one another. Everyone’s sizing everyone else up. Figuring out the pecking order.

  Overhead, the speakers crackle to life.

  “Attention, first-year students: please report to the administration office for class registration.”

  A wave of motion sweeps through the hall as students begin moving toward the exits. Flavio and I hang back, letting the crowd thin out.

  “So,” he says, casually nudging me with his elbow, “let’s talk girls.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  He nods toward a tall blonde chatting with a group near the door. “What do you think? Too much confidence? Or just enough?”

  I stare at him.

  “Wait—are we seriously rating classmates ten minutes after orientation?”

  He grins. “Absolutely.”

  I laugh despite myself.

  Maybe this won’t be such a lonely ride after all.