The first hint that the morning was about to fall apart came at exactly 8:07 a.m., when the classroom lights buzzed with that tired, flickering sort of glow usually reserved for horror movies and public schools. A slow drizzle tapped against the windows, as if even the weather wasn’t sure whether it wanted to commit to raining or not. The air smelled faintly like dry-erase markers and the desperate hope that math class would pass quickly.

On the whiteboard, written in the teacher’s impossibly neat handwriting, was the warm-up question:

66 + 1 = ?

It should have been the most unremarkable equation in the universe.
But the numbers had other plans—specifically, .

Some numbers sit quietly on the board, doing whatever numbers do. But not 67. No, 67 was the kind of number that walked into a room like it owned the place. It had the chaotic confidence of someone who says “trust me” right before doing something that should absolutely not be trusted.

So when the teacher turned away to rummage through a drawer, 67 made its move.

It peeled itself off the whiteboard with a tiny popping sound, landed on the ledge with a dramatic flourish, and announced in a voice far too loud for its size:

“Greetings, mortals! Your favorite prime number has arrived!”

The class collectively sighed—one of those deep, exhausted sighs that comes from experience. Just last week, 67 had replaced every 7 in the multiplication tables with a raccoon holding a butter knife. Before that, it had somehow convinced every calculator to display “BRO.” whenever someone typed 66. No one knew how it did any of this. Honestly, no one wanted to.

The teacher turned around slowly, in that way teachers do when they’re mentally counting to ten.

“Sixty-seven,” she said, voice flat. “We talked about this.”

“Correct,” 67 replied, striking a pose like it was halfway through a Fortnite dance. “And I paid attention to absolutely none of it.”

“Get. Back. On. The board.”

A gasp—dramatic enough to win an award.
“Me? Obey? I’m a PRIME NUMBER,” 67 declared. “I cannot be divided. I cannot be defeated. I cannot—”

The teacher lifted a spray bottle labeled FOR MISBEHAVING NUMBERS.

67 shrieked like someone had unplugged its entire existence and dove behind a stack of geometry textbooks.

And that’s when the room shifted.

The lights flickered once, then twice. Every calculator lit up at the same time, screens glowing an eerie pale blue.

Then they all displayed the same message:

67 IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

A low hum rose from the teacher’s desk—quiet at first, then louder, vibrating through the floor. The bottom drawer trembled like something inside was very much awake and very much unhappy about it.

67 peeked out from behind the textbooks, looking unusually alarmed.

“Uh,” it said, “for the record? Whatever that is, it’s not me.”

The drawer rattled harder.

“Is this… normal?” someone whispered.

“No,” 67 murmured, eyes wide. “This is literally Chapter-One-of-a-weird-novel energy.”

The drawer burst open with a bang