Being able to go invisible is not as big as a perk as it sounds. You constantly have to control your feelings and make sure you don’t accidentally disappear in front of people, or you could get reported to ASTRA- Agency for Superhuman Tracking& Regulating of Abilities. They could give you an ability inhibitor or in extreme cases, relocate you to a new city, and the incident would go on your record. ASTRA is a secret government agency that keeps tabs on people like me with special talents- Variants.

From the outside, I look like your average teen girl- short, wavy brown hair, small build, and brown eyes just like the rest of my family. Only I’m not like them. I can still remember the first time it happened even though it was almost ten years ago, when we were living in Florida.

I was six, and my mom had taken me and my twin sister, Hayley, to the playground. She was on the swings, and I was poking around in the bushes when my hand nearly brushed a ribbon snake and like any normal six-year-old, I screamed. And that’s when I felt it- a sort of cold chill run over my body. “Annaliese!” My mom screamed my name. Apparently, just for a second, I flashed invisible. My mom dragged me, still crying, and my sister home. I’ve hated snakes ever since. My mom became my handler- the one responsible for me and my abilities until I turned 18. She knew exactly what to do because something similar had happened to my aunt Missy and my mom was her handler too. I spent 6months in special therapy learning to control my new ability. My mom and my aunt are the only people outside of my ASTRA agent who know my secret. My sister has no idea and will never know unless one of her kids inherits it. Only one girl every generation in my family can do it. Hayley is the complete opposite of me- long blond hair, Barbie blue eyes, and the confidence of someone who doesn’t have an enormous secret to hide. I am the constantly cautious one-always keeping my guard up in case anything triggers my invisibility. I’ve almost never slipped up- only a few times.

There’s a difference between being careful and being afraid.

I live right on that line.

Every morning before school, I stand in front of the mirror and do a mental checklist the same way my therapist taught me years ago: breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four. Notice the room. Notice your body. Notice that you are still here.

Solid. Visible. Ordinary.

“Annaliese, you’re going to be late!” Mom calls from downstairs.

“I’m coming!” I grab my backpack and take one last look at my reflection. Brown eyes, wavy hair, nothing remarkable. Just a girl who definitely, absolutely will not vanish in the middle of math class today.

Hopefully.

***

School is the hardest place to keep control. Too many people, too many surprises, too many chances for something to jolt me the wrong way. Loud noises, sudden fear, intense embarrassment—any spike in emotion can send that icy ripple across my skin. The warning sign.

Disappear, it whispers.

Don’t, I answer back every single time.

By third period, I’m doing okay. History is boring enough to keep my heart rate stable, and Mrs. Calloway drones on about ancient empires while I scribble notes and focus on the rhythm of my breathing. Across the room, Hayley laughs at something her friend whispers. Of course she’s laughing. Hayley laughs at everything. She lives like the world is safe.

She has no idea it isn’t.

At lunch, I sit with her and the rest of her group like always, pretending I belong there instead of constantly calculating exits and sightlines. If something happens, where can I move without anyone noticing? How long before someone panics? Would the cameras catch it?

Yes. Cameras always catch everything.

“You okay?” Hayley asks suddenly, studying me. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I force a smile. “Just tired.”

She narrows her eyes, but then someone starts talking about an upcoming school trip and she’s distracted again. That’s the thing about Hayley—her attention moves like sunlight on water. Bright, warm, and never staying still long enough to notice the shadows underneath.

I envy that.

I really do.

***

The near-slip happens in science lab.

It’s stupid, really. Nothing dramatic. No snakes, no screams. Just a beaker, a Bunsen burner, and one careless elbow.

The glass tips.

It shatters on the floor with a sharp crack.

Everyone jumps. Someone yelps. The smell of chemicals fills the air.

And there it is.

That cold, creeping chill sliding over my arms, up my neck, like invisible frost. My pulse spikes. My hands tremble. I can almost feel the edges of myself loosening, blurring, thinning—

No.

I grip the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ache. Breathe in. Hold. Out. Focus on something real. The heat from the burner. The rough texture of the tabletop. The weight of my body pressing into my shoes.

“I’m fine,” I whisper to no one. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine—”

The chill lingers for one awful second longer… and then fades.

I stay. No one notices anything except the broken glass. Mr. Patel rushes over, scolding the boy who knocked the beaker while the rest of the class buzzes with excitement. To them, it was just a minor accident.

To me, it was a line I almost crossed.

My heart doesn’t slow down until the bell rings.

***

When I get home, Mom is already waiting at the kitchen table.

She always knows.

Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s the way I hold myself when I walk through the door, like I’m bracing for impact. She doesn’t ask right away. She just watches me set my bag down and sit across from her.

“Where did it happen?” she asks quietly.

“Science lab,” I admit. “Glass broke. I almost… you know.”

Her jaw tightens, but she nods. “Did anyone see?”

“No.”

“Any cameras?”

“I don’t think so.”

She exhales slowly, tension leaving her shoulders by degrees. “Okay. Then it’s just another close call. Not a reportable incident.”

Not reportable. Those words sit heavy in my stomach.

Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it? Not the invisibility itself, but what comes after if I mess up in the wrong place, in front of the wrong person. ASTRA doesn’t like unpredictability. They track, monitor, evaluate. If you’re stable, you stay where you are. If you’re not…

Well.

There are options.

None of them good.

“You’re getting better,” Mom says, softer now. “You held it back.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

I stare at the table. “What if one day I don’t?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She never lies to me, which means silence is usually the closest thing to reassurance she can offer.

Finally, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Then we deal with it. Like we always have.”

Handler and Variant. Mother and daughter. The lines blur sometimes, but they never fully disappear.

Unlike me.
***

That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. The shattering glass. The rush of fear. The almost.

Almost is the most dangerous word in my life.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A message from an unknown number lights up the screen.

Unknown: You maintained control today. Good.

My stomach drops.

I sit up, suddenly wide awake, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Me: Who is this?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately, like they were waiting.

Unknown: Just a reminder. Stay within safe parameters. Your record is currently clear. Let’s keep it that way.

My hands go cold.

ASTRA doesn’t usually contact me directly. Communication normally goes through Mom, through official channels and scheduled evaluations. This… this feels different. More personal. More like a warning than a check-in.

Me: Were you watching me?

Three dots. Pause. Then—

Unknown: We always are.

For a long moment, I just stare at the screen.

We always are.

The words don’t feel official. They feel smug.

I glance at my bedroom window even though the curtains are closed. My room suddenly feels smaller, like the walls leaned in while I wasn’t looking.

Me: This isn’t protocol.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Unknown: Protocol adapts.

That’s not how ASTRA talks. Not in reports. Not in evaluations. They use structured language. Cold language. “Incident.” “Fluctuation.” “Containment.”

Not this.

My heart starts climbing again—that same dangerous spike from the lab. I force myself to inhale slowly. Four counts in. Hold. Four out, like my therapist taught me.

Solid. Visible. Ordinary.

Me: If this is an official contact, you need to go through my handler.

The reply takes longer this time.

Unknown: Your handler is aware of your stability metrics. This is supplementary oversight.

Metrics.

That part sounds real.

But something about it is wrong.

I swing my legs off the bed and pad down the hall. Mom’slight is still on. She’s at the kitchen table with her laptop open, answeringan email.

She looks up immediately. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

I don’t answer. I just hand her my phone.

She reads the messages once. Then again, slower.

Her expression changes—not panic. Not exactly. Sharper thanthat.

“They didn’t contact me,” she says quietly.

“So it’s real?” My voice comes out smaller than I meant ittoo.

She doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she types somethingon her laptop. I catch a glimpse of an encrypted portal screen before sheangles it away from me.

“I’m checking,” she says. “Go back upstairs.”

“I’m not six. I want to know what’s happening.”

“I know,” she says gently. “Go anyway.”

I hover in the hallway instead.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

When she finally calls me back in, her mouth is set in athin line.

“It’s not from Agent Keller,” she says. “At least notofficially.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

“It means someone with access pinged your file withoutfiling a standard notice.” She closes the laptop carefully. “It means we needto be more careful.”

More careful.

There’s that line again—the one between careful and afraid.

“Are they allowed to do that?” I ask.

“Allowed?” She almost smiles, but there’s no humor in it.“ASTRA allows itself a lot of flexibility.”

I sit down across from her. “So they were watching today.”

“Yes.”

“The cameras?”

“Probably.” She hesitates. “Or something more sensitive.”

More sensitive? Like a bug?

“You said my record was clear,” I whisper.

“It is,” she says firmly. “One near-spike under thresholddoesn’t change that.”

“But now someone’s interested.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Silence stretches between us.

“Mom,” I say slowly, “what happens if someone decides I’m not stable enough?”

Her eyes meet mine.

“Then they review you.”

“And if they don’t like what they see?”

Her hand tightens around mine.

“Then we fight it.”

Fight.

That’s new.

I go back upstairs eventually, but I don’t sleep.

At 1:17 a.m., my phone buzzes again.

Unknown: You escalated quickly tonight.

My chest tightens.

Me: I showed my handler.

The reply is immediate.

Unknown: Of course you did.

A pause.

Unknown: Keep your emotions regulated, Annaliese. You’revery close to optimal control. It would be unfortunate to disrupt thatprogress.

Unfortunate.

Not dangerous. Not catastrophic.

Inconvenient.

Like I’m a project.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, then lower without typing.

I block the number. Then turn on my light and walk over to my mirror and stare at my reflection.

Brown eyes. Wavy hair. Solid.

But for the first time in a long time, the fear isn’t about disappearing in front of my classmates.

It’s about who’s watching when I don’t.

By morning, the house feels normal again. Too normal. Like nothing happened at all. Hayley is already at the kitchen counter, scrolling on her phone and eating cereal straight from the box.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” she says without looking up.

“I didn’t,” I admit.

“Homework?”

“Something like that.”

She finally glances at me, blue eyes narrowing. “You’re being weird lately.”

My chest tightens. “I’m always weird.”

She snorts. “Fair point.”

Mom slides a plate of toast toward me, her expression carefully neutral. “You’ll be fine today,” she says quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. “Just… stay aware.”

Aware.

Not afraid.

I nod, even though the line between those two things is getting blurrier by the hour.

The walk to school feels different.

Every passing car makes me wonder if someone inside is watching. Every reflective window catches my attention as I check—again and again—that I’m still visible. Still solid. Still normal.

You’re spiraling, I tell myself. Stop it.

But the feeling won’t go away.

At school, the hallway buzzes with the usual chaos. Ordinary life. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel exposed. Like a spotlight is following me even though no one is actually looking.

I keep my head down and move toward my locker, focusing on routine.

“Annaliese.”

I freeze.

The voice is unfamiliar. Male. Calm.

Too calm.

I turn slowly.

He’s leaning against the lockers across from mine like he belongs there. Maybe seventeen or eighteen, tall, dark hair, school uniform slightly too neat compared to everyone else’s wrinkled blazers and untucked shirts. I’ve never seen him before, which is weird in a school this size. New students don’t usually go unnoticed.

But he’s watching me like he’s known me forever.

“Yes?” I manage.

He smiles politely. “You dropped this.”

He holds out a pen.

I stare at it. Then at him. “That’s not mine.”

“It will be,” he says lightly, pressing it into my hand anyway.

The second our fingers brush, a faint chill prickles up my arm.

Not enough to trigger anything.

Just enough to make my heart skip.

“Thanks,” I say automatically.

“Rough night?” he asks casually.

My stomach flips.

“I… what?”

“You look tired,” he clarifies smoothly. “Didn’t sleep much.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe.

It could be a guess. People say that all the time. You look tired. Late homework? Studying? Totally normal.

“I slept fine,” I lie.

His eyes flicker, like he’s noting that down somewhere invisible. “Good. Staying well-regulated is important.”

The hallway noise seems to dull, like someone turned the volume down on the world.

Regulated.

My pulse spikes.

“Do I know you?”

“No,” he says easily. “But I know who you are.”

Cold spreads through my chest, slower and heavier than any invisibility trigger.

“You’re new,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“For now.”

That answer doesn’t make sense.

Before I can ask what that means, the warning bell rings. Students surge around us, filling the hallway again, noise crashing back in like a wave. For a second I lose sight of him in the crowd.

Then he’s right beside me again, walking in the same direction like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You handled the lab incident well yesterday,” he says quietly.

My entire body locks up.

I stop walking.

So does he.

Around us, students continue moving, flowing past like we’re just another pair of classmates having a conversation. No one pays attention. No one notices the way my hands are starting to shake.

“That was under threshold,” he continues conversationally. “Barely a spike. Impressive control.”

I can’t even pretend anymore.

“You’re the one who texted me,” I whisper.

He tilts his head, not confirming, not denying. “Blocking the number was unnecessary. I would have respected boundaries.”

“You bypassed protocol.”

“Protocol adapts,” he repeats.

Fear flares sharp and sudden, and that familiar icy ripple threatens at the edges of my skin. I clamp down on it instantly, forcing my breathing into the steady pattern drilled into me over years of therapy.

He watches the entire process with open interest.

“You’re doing it right now,” he says softly. “Breathing control. Sensory grounding. Very effective.”

My vision tunnels.

“Who are you?” I demand.

For the first time, his smile fades.

“Someone assessing long-term stability,” he says. “Unofficially.”

Assessing.

Not monitoring. Not observing.

Assessing.

“That’s not your job,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Not yet,” he replies.

The words land like a weight in my stomach.

Not yet.

A group of students jostle between us, forcing him to step back again. When the crowd clears, he doesn’t move closer this time. He just studies me from a safe distance, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“You’re close to optimal control, Annaliese,” he says. “Closer than most Variants your age.”

I hate the way he says that word. Like a category. Like a label stamped across my forehead.

“I’m not a project,” I snap.

“No,” he agrees calmly. “You’re a candidate.”

My throat goes dry. “For what?”

He glances down the hallway toward the admin offices, then back at me.

“That depends,” he says, “on whether you remain stable.”

The second bell rings, louder, more urgent.

He takes a step back, blending seamlessly into the flow of people.

“I’ll be observing,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Try not to make any noticeable mistakes.”

Then he turns and walks away.

I barely hear a word Mr. Fletcher says during biology. Twice he calls on me to answer a question, and I have to ask him to repeat himself above the muffled laughter of my classmates. I notice Hayley giving me concerned looks as if to ask, “are you ok?” but I avoid eye contact.

As soon as the bell rings I gather my things and practically sprint to the bathroom. I lock myself in the stall and lean against the door.

Who was that guy?

From what he said, he could be with ASTRA, but this is not how they operate. I try to calm myself down. He is probably just someone the agency sent to keep an eye on me temporarily.

But what is “protocol adapts” supposed to mean? What am I a candidate for?

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I text my mom that I’m walking home instead of taking the bus like I usually do. Right as I walk out the front door I see him again.

Standing behind a group of seniors, watching me intently. I blink and he’s gone.

When I push open the front door I must look distressed because my mom immediately asks, “Is everything ok?”.

I freeze. In a split second I decide not to tell my mom I met the unknown number.

“Uhh, yeah.” I stutter.

She moves closer, concern in her eyes and a worried tone creeps into her voice.

“Annaliese, what’s wrong? Did that person text you again?”

My mouth goes dry. “No, just lots of homework,” I say the most cheerful voice I can muster. “I better get started.”

Before she can respond, I hurry upstairs. I am about to open my door when I hear footsteps behind me. I whip around, half-expecting Unknown Number to be standing there but it’s just Hayley.

“Who was that boy you were talking to? In the hallway?” "He was kinda cute".

“I just dropped my pen,” I lie quickly.

Her eyes narrow- she knows me too well.

“How about in biology? You looked like someone told you Santa wasn’t real.”

I mentally struggle for an excuse. I blurt out, “I lost my phone!” and shut my door before she can ask again.

She stands on the other side of my door for a few seconds after I shut it. I can tell because her shadow blocks the thin strip of light at the bottom. She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t call me out. She just… waits. That’s what she does when she knows I’m not telling the truth. She gives me space, but not distance. Close enough to come back if I change my mind.

Eventually, her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

I sink onto my bed, my heart still beating too fast. Lost my phone? That was the dumbest excuse I could have come up with. Hayley literally saw me holding it.

I grab the actual phone from my desk and stare at the dark screen.

Blocked number. Unknown sender.

Candidate.

The word keeps echoing in my head, louder than everything else he said.

Candidate for what?

I press the power button like I expect another message to appear immediately, but the screen stays blank. No notifications. No typing bubble. Nothing.

Dinner is quiet. Mom keeps glancing at me like she’s waiting for me to say something first. I keep my eyes on my plate, carefully cutting my food into smaller and smaller pieces so I don’t have to meet her gaze. Hayley fills the silence with chatter about school, a funny thing her friend said, a rumor about the school trip. I nod in the right places. Pretend everything is normal.

It almost works.

“Did anything unusual happen today?” Mom asks casually.

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

“No,” I say, and hate how easily the lie comes out.

Hayley looks between us. “Why would something unusual happen?”

Mom smiles smoothly. “Just checking in. Your sister’s had a stressful week.”

Hayley shrugs. “Yeah, she’s been acting like she’s about to be abducted by aliens or something.”

My stomach twists.

If only it were aliens. Aliens would be easier. Aliens wouldn’t know my name, my control metrics, the exact moment my pulse spiked in a science lab.

I force a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

She grins. “Anytime.”

But her eyes linger on me a second too long.

Later that night, I’m halfway through my homework when the lights flicker. I freeze, pencil hovering over my notebook. Our power never flickers. Not unless there’s a storm, and the sky outside is perfectly clear. You’re being paranoid, I tell myself. Still, I get up and check my window. The street outside looks normal. A car drives past. A neighbor’s porch light glows steadily. No black vans. No suspicious figures lurking in the shadows.

Normal.

I almost convince myself I imagined it when my laptop screen suddenly goes black. My reflection stares back at me—wide eyes, tense shoulders, the faintest shimmer of fear I’m trying desperately to keep contained. Then white text appears in the center of the screen.

STABILITY CHECK: ELEVATED BASELINE ANXIETY DETECTED.

My breath catches.

Below it, another line types itself out.

RECOMMENDATION: DISCLOSE ALL RELEVANT INTERACTIONS TO HANDLER.

My pulse surges. The icy ripple prickles at the edges of my skin, a warning whisper.

No, no, no—

I slam the laptop shut.

The room goes silent except for my breathing.

They’re in my house.

Or at least, in my tech.

I stare at the closed lid like it might start talking out loud next. Like it might call my name. Like he might somehow step through the screen and lean casually against my desk the way he leaned against those lockers.

“You’re spiraling,” I whisper to myself, gripping the edge of the desk. “Breathe. Four in. Four hold. Four out.”

I follow the pattern until the chill recedes and my body settles back into solid, visible, ordinary.

But the message doesn’t leave my mind.

Disclose all relevant interactions to handler.

That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what I’ve always done. No secrets. No surprises. That’s the rule that’s kept my record clear for years.

So why didn’t I tell Mom about him?

The answer comes immediately, and I hate it.

Because he asked me not to make noticeable mistakes.

I barely sleep again.

When morning comes, I feel like I’m walking along a fault line—ground that looks solid until the exact moment it cracks open beneath you. At school, I scan the hallway the second I walk in. He’s not there. Relief washes through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy. See? I overreacted. Maybe yesterday was a one-time thing. Maybe he was just—

“Looking for someone?”

My entire body goes rigid.

He’s standing beside my locker again.

“I wasn’t,” I say, too quickly.

“Good,” he replies. “Hypervigilance can destabilize emotional baselines.”

I glare at him. “Stop talking like I’m a report.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Occupational habit.”

“You said unofficial,” I remind him.

“I did.”

“Then stop assessing me.”

“That depends,” he says finally, “on your cooperation.”

My stomach drops. “Cooperation with what?”

“With me,” he says simply.

Students stream past us, laughing, arguing, complaining about homework. The normal noise of school life feels strangely far away, like we’re standing in a bubble only the two of us can see.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I say quietly.

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why you’re interesting.”

Interesting is not a word you want an agency like ASTRA using about you.

I clutch my books tighter against my chest. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Adrian,” he says.

I don’t know if it’s real.

“And what exactly are you assessing, Adrian?”

He glances down the hallway, making sure no one is close enough to overhear. When he looks back at me, his expression is more serious than I’ve seen it yet.

“Whether you remain a low-risk Variant,” he says quietly, “or become something more valuable.”

My throat goes dry. “I don’t want to be valuable. I want to be normal.”

For the first time, he looks at me like I’ve said something genuinely surprising.

“Normal is inefficient,” he says.

I shake my head. “Normal is safe.”

He holds my gaze, unreadable. “Safe for who?”

The bell rings before I can answer.

He steps back, blending into the crowd again like yesterday, but this time he pauses just long enough to add one more sentence.

“Your handler isn’t your only safeguard, Annaliese,” he says softly. “And she isn’t your only liability either.”