Operation Lunch Table

Marcus adjusted his hood, keeping low behind the fake **orange** plastic tree in the school courtyard. Three tables away, THE table—where Jordan, the varsity QB, held court like he owned the entire social **pyramid** of Northwood High.

"You're being ridiculous," his best **friend** Leo whispered through their AirPod connection. "Jordan's not gonna notice if you sit two tables away. This isn't a mission."

"That's what they WANT you to think," Marcus muttered, ducking as a lacrosse bro looked his way. "I've been conducting surveillance since September. The upper echelon doesn't tolerate freshmen. Remember what happened to Tyler? He tried to sit at the wrong table and got socially vaporized by Friday."

"Dude, you're not a **spy**. You're just overthinking lunch seating."

Marcus ignored him. Today was different. Today, he had intel. Jordan had been benched at practice yesterday—the first time all season. The hierarchy was destabilized. Opportunity.

He made his move, sliding toward a recently vacated spot. Victory seemed certain—

Until a 230-pound linebacker materialized behind him like a vengeful ghost.

"Wrong neighborhood, freshman."

The entire courtyard went silent. This was it. Social annihilation. He'd heard stories about seniors who could **bull** dozer through your reputation with a single roast.

But then—

"Actually, he's cool." Jordan nodded from the head table. "He helped me with that chem assignment Friday."

The linebacker blinked. "Oh. Nice."

As Marcus sat there, shell-shocked, Jordan grinned. "Bet you didn't see that coming, 007."

Maybe the pyramid wasn't so rigid after all.

"Leo," Marcus whispered, "cancel the mission. I think I just got promoted."