Your class shuffles in a loose cluster near the reception desk, a tangle of backpacks and whispering voices. Mr. Harrington stands at the front, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield, sweat beading on his forehead despite the perfect air conditioning.

Ned is beside you, practically vibrating. His eyes are the size of dinner plates as he stares at the ceiling, at the holographic displays flickering behind the reception desk, at the security guards in sleek black suits who look like they could bench press a car.

And Peter—Peter is standing a few feet ahead, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets, wearing a smile that's just a little too easy. Like he's been here a hundred times before. Which, you suppose, he has.

He glances back at you, and something soft flickers in his eyes before he looks away.

The elevator at the far end of the lobby dings.

A woman in a sharp blazer steps out. She has red hair, a pleasant but professional smile, and the kind of posture that suggests she could disarm you in three seconds flat.

Agent Cartwright's smile doesn't waver, but her eyes flick to Flash, then to the list on her tablet. A brief pause. Then her gaze slides to you.

Just for a fraction of a second. Like she's checking something off.