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

The drawer didn’t just burst open. It launched open, like it had been fired from a budget cannon bought on clearance from a questionable science fair.

A blinding cloud of dust poofed out, followed by a single, echoing thud.

Then something rolled out.

A cube.

A perfect, sharp-edged, aggressively symmetrical cube, clunking across the floor with the slow menace of a villain making its dramatic entrance three beats too late.

It came to a stop in the middle of the classroom.
Its surface shimmered.
Then, with a sound like someone cracking their knuckles purely for intimidation, the cube unfolded into a glowing red .

The students collectively recoiled.

“Oh great,” 67 muttered. “The square is awake.”

64 flexed its edges like it was warming up for a boxing match.

“Behold,” it rumbled, “the superior product of eight multiplied by itself. I have risen.”

“You were napping in a drawer,” 67 shot back. “Calm your orthogonal bits.”

64’s glow flared.
“I bring order. Structure. Precision.”
It turned to the class. “I have sensed… chaos.”

Every head in the room slowly rotated toward 67.

67 pointed both hands at itself. “Me? Chaos? I’m a delight!”

“You turned every 7 into a raccoon with cutlery,” someone whispered.

“Those raccoons had personality,” 67 protested.

The teacher, who had now achieved the facial expression of someone who had given up on reality around thirty seconds ago, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Numbers,” she said weakly, “we’ve talked about boundaries.”

64 straightened with pride.
“I exist to eliminate disobedience.”

67 scoffed. “You exist to make multiplication tables boring.”

“You exist to make my entire job harder,” the teacher muttered under her breath.

Before 64 could retort, every overhead light snapped to full brightness, then dimmed to a weird, ominous twilight.

The calculators refreshed their screens.

A new message appeared:

THE SEQUENCE HAS AWAKENED.

67 blanched.
64 went rigid.
The teacher sat down like her life insurance policy suddenly felt relevant.

“Um,” a student whispered, “what sequence?”

67 swallowed. “The one that makes me look well-behaved.”

A distant thudding echoed from the hallway.
Slow.
Heavy.
Rhythmic.

Like something counting down.

Or worse. Counting up.