Third floor. Room 312. The kind of Tuesday that smells like dry-erase markers and boredom. Mr. Fenwick is mid-sentence about something nobody cares about when it starts - a weird pressure behind your ears, a tingling in your fingers that isn't quite right. Across the room, Briggs has already gone quiet. His sneakers are split at the seams. His hands are wrong. Three thick, padded toes where fingers used to be, resting awkwardly on the desk. Daxton leans over and whispers something, but his voice has a raspy edge it didn't have this morning. Nobody knows what's happening. It just - started. Mr. Fenwick calls your name. He wants the answer to question four. You open your mouth to respond - and that's when you feel it.