Woodside Middle was loud with noise and soft with minds. That was Marty's first impression as he walked through the school gates just before the bell.
He moved like someone who'd already been there a hundred times. Calm, sharp, cold. No slouch in his posture. No nervous tapping. Just a black leather jacket, boots that echoed with every step, and eyes that cut through the fog of suburban bliss.
And as he walked, people looked.
Some were confused. Others curious.
A few—already scared.
He passed the gym just as the cheerleaders were finishing morning practice. Glitter on their cheeks, ponytails bouncing like well-rehearsed lies. They were bright, loud, and designed to be seen.
One of them peeled off from the pack.
Haley Dunphy.
Petite, pretty, effortlessly styled. Her brown hair fell in waves that looked like they cost money. Hoop earrings. Skin-kissing crop top. She moved like someone who knew every hallway was a runway.
When she saw Marty, her smile turned calculated. Her pace slowed to a sway.
She stepped into his path without hesitation.
"You're new," she said, like that was a magic phrase.
He didn't even look at her.
"Sharp observation," he replied, eyes still forward.
"You want a tour?" she offered, her tone almost lazy. "I know this place better than the vice principal."
"I doubt it," Marty said.
She blinked, surprised. "Excuse me?"
"I've already mapped every camera angle, blind corner, and student access point. But thank you."
He kept walking.
Haley stood frozen, lips parted, unsure if she'd been rejected or recruited into a new kind of war.
Alex Dunphy was sitting on a low stone bench beside the library, tucked beneath a lopsided tree like always. A book rested in her lap, open to a page she hadn't turned in five minutes.
She had seen the whole thing.
Saw her sister get dismissed like a commercial break. Saw him keep walking, completely unfazed.
And now?
Now he was headed straight toward her.
She braced herself.
He stopped in front of her, hands in his jacket pockets, head tilted just slightly.
"You just made Haley question her entire personality," Alex said, closing her book. "That's impressive."
"I wasn't trying to," he replied. "But I'm glad it worked."
"And now what? You going to critique my glasses?"
He sat beside her—not close enough to be creepy, not far enough to be impersonal.
"No. I like your glasses," he said. "They don't try too hard. Unlike most people here."
She narrowed her eyes. "You really don't care what anyone thinks of you, do you?"
"I care what smart people think," he said. "Which is why I'm talking to you."
Alex blinked.
"Right," she said. "So let me guess… mysterious new boy, possibly criminal, reads people like Sherlock Holmes on Adderall—"
"I've read your transcripts," he cut in. "Your essays. I know your record, your IQ estimate, your behavioral profile. And I know what no one else around here seems to notice."
She stared at him.
"What?"
He leaned in slightly.
"You think you're not pretty enough."
The sentence cracked through her like a whip.
"What—"
"You wear baggy clothes to hide your body. You tie your hair back so no one notices how nice it looks down. You pretend you don't care what people think, but you do. Not in the way your sister does—not for attention. You just don't want to be seen unless it's on your terms."
Alex's mouth opened, then closed again.
"The only people who see you," Marty went on, "are the nerds who idolize you. Your little science fair entourage. You know they're not equals. But you let them orbit you because, in their eyes, you don't have to shrink yourself."
Her throat tightened.
"You know exactly how smart you are," he said. "You're just terrified of what happens if you stop hiding it."
She swallowed hard. "Who the hell are you?"
He sat back, calm as ever.
"I'm Marty Kael Vorran."
He paused. No theatrics. Just fact.
"And I'm the new godfather of the Irish mob."
She laughed—but it died halfway.
"Okay… now I know you're full of crap."
"My father, Sean Vorran, ran Boston for almost fifteen years. He was shot three months ago. I buried him, took his seat, and assumed full control. I run things differently—cleaner, smarter. I moved out here to rebuild. Quietly. Precisely."
Alex stared. "You're thirteen."
"So was Alexander when he took his first city," Marty said. "Age is just a number. Intelligence, however…"
He let it trail.
Alex said nothing.
"You want to know the truth?" he asked, voice low. "I want you beside me."
She blinked.
"Not now. We're kids. We're barely friends. But I see who you are. And I know who I am. And if we're being honest… we'd rule the world a lot better together than alone."
She looked away. "You're insane."
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm right."
"And what, you just… want to date me? Pull me into your mob dynasty and have me hold your gun at the wedding?"
"No," he replied, with startling softness. "I want to get to know you. Like a real friend would. No pressure. No games. If we never go further, fine. But I'm not going to lie about what I see."
She looked at him again—and for the first time, she didn't see a kid.
She saw a storm wearing calm like a disguise.
And somehow… she didn't want to run from it.
That morning, Marty Kael Vorran told Alex Dunphy the truth.
And for once in her life, someone wasn't just asking her to be smart.
They were asking her to be powerful.
And that idea?
It terrified her.
Because she didn't hate it.