A girl of the age of twelve was doing her math online one day, when suddenly she noticed something strange, all the even numbered problems had even answers, but all the odd numbered problems had odd answers. When she told her best friend she was advised not to tell anyone else, “If your mom finds out she might make you change curriculums,” she said.

Reluctantly the girl agreed not to tell. However, as time went on she began to notice more and more patterns in her math problems, for example every prime numbered problem had a prime number solution. The lesson number would be the solution to the problem numbered with the lesson number divided by the number of digits. At first she was fine with knowing this information, but as time went on and she discovered more and more she started to feel guilty. Leading to a phone call to her best friend in which she said, “I can’t keep my findings a secret any longer, it’s wrong. I’m not actually solving the problems anymore, I’m just typing the answers. I’m going to have to tell my mom.”

Of course her friend argued with her, mentioning the fact that she had skipped a grade and had a near impossible average of 100%, but none of that mattered to the girl, who knew what she was doing was wrong. So of course she told her mom and her mom changed her curriculum.

The next morning, the girl logged into her new math curriculum with a knot in her stomach. The screen looked different — brighter, cleaner, almost too cheerful — but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was because she’d spent the whole night replaying the conversation with her best friend. Maybe it was because she still felt guilty, even though she’d done the right thing.

Or maybe it was because the old curriculum hadn’t just been predictable.

It had been intentional.

She clicked on Lesson 1.1. A loading circle spun for a moment, then the first problem appeared.

1. What is 7 × 8?

She exhaled. A normal problem. A normal answer. No patterns. No tricks. No strange coincidences.

She typed 56.

Correct.

The next problem popped up.

2. What is 12 ÷ 3?

She answered. Correct again.

By the time she reached problem ten, she felt her shoulders relax. Maybe this curriculum really was normal. Maybe she could finally stop thinking about prime numbers and digit counts and all the weird coincidences that had started to feel less like coincidences and more like… messages.

She clicked Next.

And froze.

11. Solve: 4 + 7 =

Her breath caught.

The answer box was already filled in.

11

She hadn’t typed anything.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe she’d accidentally hit a key. Maybe—

The answer flickered.

Like it was blinking at her.

She yanked her hands away from the keyboard.

“Mom?” she called, her voice cracking.

No answer. She swallowed hard and clicked the box to erase the number.

It didn’t erase.

Instead, new text appeared beneath the problem, in tiny gray letters she’d never seen before.

You shouldn’t have told.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She slammed the laptop shut so fast the sound echoed through the room.

For a moment she just sat there, breathing hard, staring at the closed computer like it might open itself.

Her phone buzzed.

She jumped.

A text from her best friend.

Did you start the new curriculum yet?

Her hands shook as she typed back.

Something’s wrong. It’s happening again.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally:

Don’t type anything else. Call me. Now.

The girl grabbed her phone and hit the call button. Her friend answered on the first ring.

“Okay,” her friend whispered, voice trembling. “Listen to me. You need to unplug your laptop. Not shut it down. Unplug it.”

“Why?” the girl whispered back.

“Because,” her friend said, “I think it’s not the curriculum. I think it’s your computer.”

The girl’s stomach dropped.

“What do you mean?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

Then her friend said something she would never forget.

“I think someone’s been watching your work. And I think they know you figured out their pattern.”

The girl stared at the closed laptop, her pulse pounding in her ears.

The blinking answer.

The message.

The way the numbers had always been too perfect.

“Who?” she whispered.

Her friend’s voice cracked.

“I don’t know. But I think they’re still in there.”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“In where?”

Another pause.

Then, barely audible:

“In your math.”