Chapter 7 She's Breathing Hard

Jake parked his sleek black sedan in the bustling lot of UCLA, the engine purring softly as he turned it off. He took a moment to gaze out the window, observing the sea of students milling around campus. Some walked in groups, laughing and chatting easily, while others hurried to their next destination, their faces buried in their phones. It felt like a different world, so far removed from everything he'd known.

He exhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts. You're not Peter Johnson anymore. You're Jake McCarthy, a business freshman at UCLA. Normal. Stay under the radar. Blend in.

But as he stepped out of the car and slung his bag over his shoulder, Jake couldn't shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at him. The nanobots had transformed him into someone new—someone who turned heads. And, sure enough, as he made his way to the Orientation Hall, he noticed the stares. People glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, a few whispering as he passed.

This face is getting too much attention, Jake thought, inwardly wincing. His new, chiseled appearance was more of a burden than he'd realized. I can't blame them though. I look like someone airbrushed a statue.

He pushed through the crowd, trying to keep his head down. Suddenly, a figure collided with him. He felt it before he saw it—the soft brush of fabric and the light thud of books falling to the ground.

"I'm so sorry!" came a breathless voice.

Jake looked down and saw a young woman scrambling to pick up her belongings. But something in the way she moved, the deliberate bump—he knew it had been intentional. "She wanted to run into me," he realized.

"It's okay," Jake replied, kneeling down to help. "Let me give you a hand."

The girl smiled up at him, a bit too brightly. "Thanks. I'm Hannah, by the way. Sophomore."

"Jake," he introduced himself as he handed her a notebook. "Freshman."

"Freshman, huh? That's great!" Hannah stood, brushing her long brown hair back as she adjusted her bag. "How are you liking it here so far?"

Jake shrugged, trying to play it casual. "It's alright. Haven't had much time to make friends yet."

Hannah's smile widened at that. "Well, let's fix that. You free right now?" She flashed him a look that was friendly—too friendly, perhaps—but Jake didn't read too much into it.

"Sure," Jake said, keeping his tone neutral. He was still trying to figure her out.

They walked together, chatting casually, though Jake's mind kept racing. "She's breathing hard, heart rate's elevated. She's nervous, but why?".

As they approached her dorm room, Hannah opened the door and motioned for him to follow her in. "Come in and just put them on the books on the desk," she said, smiling as she stepped aside.

Jake placed the books on the table, glancing around her room. It was neat, decorated with photos and string lights, the typical college aesthetic. Just another normal girl. But there was something off in her body language—her posture, the way her eyes darted between him and the door. Was she trying to make a move, or was she just overly friendly?

"So," she said, her voice a little higher than before, "You think we could be friends?"

Jake blinked. Friends? He hadn't expected the question to come out so bluntly. He offered a small, polite smile and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"

Hannah beamed, taking out her phone. "Here, let's swap numbers. You know, in case you need someone to show you around or help with classes."

---

The sun was setting over the dilapidated trailer park, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. A black SUVs rolled to a stop in front of Trailer 23, their government plates glinting in the fading light.

Special Agent Reeves stepped out, her face set in a grim expression. Her partner, Agent Delgado, joined her, adjusting his tie both. They were both from the CIA posing as agents from another department.

"You think he'll be more cooperative this time?" Delgado asked, eyeing the run-down trailer.

Reeves shook her head. "After the local PD's visit? Doubtful. But we need to try. There's too much at stake."

They approached the trailer, the sound of a blaring TV growing louder with each step. Reeves rapped sharply on the door.

"Mr. Johnson? Federal agents. We need to speak with you."

There was a crash from inside, followed by a string of colorful expletives. The door swung open, revealing Gregory Johnson, looking even more disheveled than usual. His bloodshot eyes widened in recognition.

"Christ, not you people again," he growled. "I already told the cops everything I know, which is jack shit!"

Reeves held up her badge. "Mr. Johnson. This goes beyond local law enforcement now. May we come in?"

Gregory threw up his hands in exasperation but stepped aside. The agents entered the cluttered trailer, wrinkling their noses at the stale smell of beer and cigarettes.

"Mr. Johnson," Reeves began, her tone measured, "we understand the local police have already questioned you about Peter's... incident at the school. We need to go over it again."

Gregory collapsed into his armchair, reaching for an open beer. "What's there to go over? My son apparently went psycho and killed another kid. Except it doesn't make a lick of sense!"

Delgado leaned against the wall, his imposing frame making the small space feel even more cramped. "Why doesn't it make sense, Mr. Johnson?"

Gregory's eyes darted between the agents, a mix of confusion and anger on his face. "Because Peter couldn't hurt a fly! Kid's been pushed around his whole life, never fought back once. And now you're telling me he... he..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Reeves sat on the edge of the threadbare couch, leaning forward. "Mr. Johnson, did you notice any changes in Peter recently? Anything unusual?"

Gregory barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Unusual? Lady, nothing about this situation is usual! My son's a fugitive, I've got cops and spooks crawling up my ass, and you're asking me if I noticed anything unusual?"

He stood up suddenly, pacing the small space. "You know what's unusual? That my loser kid supposedly turned into some kinda superpowered freak overnight! That's what the cops were hinting at, right? Said he did things that weren't... natural."

Reeves and Delgado exchanged glances. Delgado stepped forward, his voice low. "Mr. Johnson, it's crucial that you tell us everything. Even if it seems impossible or unbelievable."

Gregory stopped pacing, his face a mask of bewilderment. "You really want to know what I think? I think this is all some kind of sick joke. Or a mistake. Yeah, Peter was a disappointment, but a killer? With superpowers? It's like something out of those comic books he used to read."

He slumped back into his chair, suddenly looking very old and tired. "I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up and find out this was all some booze-induced nightmare."

Reeves leaned forward, her voice softening slightly. "Mr. Johnson, I know this is difficult to process. But Peter is out there, and he's dangerous. If he contacts you—"

"Yeah, yeah, call you immediately," Gregory interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "The cops already gave me that speech. But let me tell you something..." He leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes intense. "If Peter does show up here, I've got some questions of my own for him. Starting with what the hell happened to my son."

Delgado pulled out a business card and placed it on the cluttered coffee table. "Our number. Any information, no matter how small—"

"Could be crucial, I know," Gregory finished, rolling his eyes. "You spooks all read from the same script or something?"

As the agents turned to leave, Gregory called out, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Hey... you'll tell me if you find him, right? I mean, he's still my kid."

Reeves paused at the door, her expression unreadable. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Johnson. Remember what we said. Peter is not the boy you knew. He's dangerous now."

With that, the agents left. Gregory watched through the grimy window as they drove away, their taillights disappearing into the gathering darkness. He slumped back in his chair, reaching for another beer.

His eyes fell on an old photo of Peter on the cluttered side table – a gangly teenager with a shy smile, looking uncomfortable in his own skin. Gregory picked it up, his hand trembling slightly.

"What the hell happened to you, boy?" he muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of confusion, anger, and something that might have been concern. "What the fuck did you do?"

He tossed the photo aside and took a long swig of beer, trying to drown out the voice in his head that kept insisting this was all real. Outside, a dog howled mournfully, the sound echoing through the empty streets of the trailer park. The hunt for Peter Johnson continued, leaving behind a bewildered father grappling with a reality he couldn't begin to understand.