《The Normal Struggle》


 The Start of It.

    "Sir, the preparations for this year''s National Talent Assessment are complete," remarked a cold voice. The speaker¡ªa petite woman with jet-black hair and sharp blue eyes¡ªstood at attention before a middle-aged man with graying hair. Lost in thought, the man rubbed his mustache. The woman waited for his answer, motionless in her black work suit.


    After what seemed like an eternity, he locked eyes with her. "This year''s theme will be Type-R," he said, adjusting one of the many badges on his army uniform. The woman nodded and saluted before leaving the dimly lit room. The man glanced at the now slightly ajar door and sighed. He walked over, shut it, and locked it.


    Turning back, he faced a holographic projection of District-9, where the National Talent Assessment would be held. He approached the hologram and waved his hand over it, causing the projection to zoom out and display the entire country. Another wave of his hand, and the hologram expanded to show the Earth. He stared at the image for a moment, then switched off the projector and walked back to his luxurious chair.


    He took one last look at his hard-earned badges, pulled a gun from his desk drawer, and shot himself in the head. His lifeless body slumped in the plush leather chair, blood flowing like a malevolent river from the bullet hole.


    General Nare was dead.


    ********


    "Bye, Ma!" I shout as I hurriedly rush out for college. Late again. You¡¯d think two years of college would have made me more punctual¡ªbut you¡¯d be wrong.


    I dash down the apartment staircase and take off on my bicycle, weaving through the usual traffic like a mosquito¡ªonly to nearly get swatted into oblivion by an oncoming bus. Every single day, I¡¯m grateful to my mom for making me choose a college nearby¡ªotherwise, I¡¯d have been expelled long ago. I zoom past cars, buses, and motorcycles. Normally, the idea of overtaking a car on a bicycle would call one''s sanity into question¡ªespecially when most cars break the sound barrier like it¡¯s nothing. But in traffic? They can''t do jack.


    I hurriedly lock my bicycle among the others in the parking space and sprint toward my classroom. Flashing my ID to the security bot, I rush onto the campus, navigate the halls, and finally reach my classroom.


    I peek inside and find the Devil himself scribbling on the blackboard. "Professor Bach, may I enter?" You see, I normally don¡¯t need to ask for permission, but this crazy psycho demands more discipline than the Army.


    "Late again, Sathel," an almost sickeningly dignified voice calls out.


    I look straight at the source of that cacophonous sound. "I''m sorry, Professor Bach. I was held up by traffic."


    He fixes me with a cold stare and says smoothly, "You''re just in time for the next class. Leave."


    I try to argue. "I''m just 20 minutes late, Professor."


    "To a 50-minute class. Now leave."


    I begrudgingly leave and spend my time in the library, scrolling through my phone.


    How to seduce anyone 101! (You don''t need to be an Awakened!)


    Bullshit.


    Are you a Fire type? Here are 5 ways to counter Water types!


    Useless.


    They want to keep this a secret! 3 ways to Awaken in the comfort of your home!!!


    Scam.


    Hot women in your area-.


    No.


    The preparations for NTA 2025 are underway! Here are 5 things you need to know!


    I open the link, even though I already know what it¡¯s about. There isn¡¯t a single person in this country who doesn¡¯t know about the NTA.


    The NTA (National Talent Assessment) is a nationwide examination designed to identify the most talented youths in the country and aid in their development.


    Anyone can enroll in the examination¡ªwhether they are Awakened or Normal. The government provides this opportunity to all residents under the age of 21.


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    The format of this merit-based examination changes every year. It could be a written test, a tournament, or even a simple exhibition. The format is only announced on the day of the exam.


    Last year, it was a rowing competition. Maybe this year they''ll hold a gooning competition.


    The exam location also varies each year. This time, it¡¯s being held in District-9, the tech hub of the country.


    It''s happening here this time, huh?


    The top 1000 candidates receive a fully funded scholarship to Indat University¡ªthe best university in Indat and one of the top educational institutions in the world. This scholarship is separate from the 100,000 IDD cash prize awarded to the top 1000 candidates.


    I see a link that redirects to the official NTA registration page. I stare at it for a moment before sighing and putting my phone back into my pocket.


    A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me that Professor Bach¡¯s class must be over by now. Good.


    I stand up and stretch before making my way out of the massive library. Aside from me, the only living being in here is the librarian¡ªand probably her weirdly shaped hair, which she insists on calling an afro.


    ********


    "Yawn. Bach is such a bastard. He¡¯s not even the HOD, but he acts like he owns the damn college," a tired voice reaches my ears.


    I glance over at Virav Frig, my close friend and classmate.


    "Every day I go to college, the stronger grows my belief that God is either dead or hates engineers. I should¡¯ve been an Arts major," I lament.


    He slowly rides my bicycle while I walk beside him. The noise from the main road nearby is barely audible, absorbed by the sound dampeners installed around the area


    "And what? Become homeless?" he quips, and we both burst out laughing.


    One cannot survive Engineering without shitting on other majors.


    We walk home under the moody hues of the sunset, a rare moment of silence between us. Taking shortcuts through the lonely alleyways to avoid the bustling traffic, we make our way home faster.


    "Kevin, are you applying for the NTA this year? The deadline¡¯s been extended till tomorrow."


    I glance at him. "What about you?"


    He shrugs. "Might as well. This is my last chance to be eligible. And who knows, maybe this year''s theme will be breakdancing. I¡¯d definitely win that."


    I smirk. "Yeah, right. As for me¡­ I¡¯m upholding my long-standing tradition of not applying. Doesn¡¯t matter if it¡¯s breakdancing or a written exam¡ªI¡¯m just a Normal."


    Virav sighs. "Right. Not that it¡¯s much easier if you¡¯re Awakened either. Look at me¡ªthe Great Lord of the Flames. Ranked 600,093 last year. Only those rich brats and monstrous geniuses ever make it to the top thousand."


    I snort. "Lord of the Flames, my foot. You can¡¯t even cook an omelet with those shitty flames of yours. The only reason you were even ranked was because Normals took up the bottom ranks."


    We both snicker like a couple of hyenas as we exit the alley and reach an intersection. Virav hands back my bicycle, and we part ways.


    After a few minutes, I reach my apartment. I lock my bicycle in the basement and climb the stairs to my home. The lack of an elevator might actually be a blessing¡ªyears of climbing these steps have conditioned me to ride to college like a maniac.


    On the third floor, I walk toward my door, my left hand lightly scraping against the rusty railing as I reach Door 6. I ring the doorbell, and after a moment, the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged woman with black hair tied into a ponytail, streaked with strands of gray. She¡¯s wearing an apron, a familiar sight.


    "Kevvy! I made spaghetti and meatballs. Let¡¯s eat after you take a bath," my mom says with a warm smile.


    ********


    What an ugly mug.


    Look at that bastard¡¯s stomach¡ªhe¡¯s on the verge of a potbelly.


    Slimy greaseball.


    Who am I talking about? My reflection, of course.


    Inspecting my body in the mirror after a bath¡ªone of my habits.


    Damn, I haven¡¯t worked out in two years¡­


    With a sigh, I cut my daily ritual short, throw on some clothes, and head to the dining table.


    "So, how was college today, sweetie?" my mom asks as I greedily stuff my face with meatballs.


    "Like usual." I devour them with razor precision.


    She chuckles, watching me eat like a starved raccoon. "Eat slowly, Kevvy. The food won¡¯t run away."


    "What about you, Mom? You took a week off to relax. Have you actually been relaxing, or just doing chores?"


    She smiles gently. "I have been relaxing, stupid. I¡¯ve been trying out a few skincare routines¡ªthey¡¯re lovely! I still have five days left before I go back to work."


    I nod and continue eating like a pig.


    After we finish dinner, I help her with the dishes and call it a day. But as I head to my bedroom, something catches my eye¡ªan envelope lying on the couch.


    Curious, I pick it up. It¡¯s addressed to my mom. From my college.


    Now I¡¯m really curious.


    The thing is, my mom is a professor at my college¡ªdifferent major, so we rarely cross paths on campus. Could this be about me?


    The envelope¡¯s already open. A small peek wouldn¡¯t hurt, right?


    It hurt.


    She was fired.


    I walk to my room and collapse onto my bed. My head aches as three conclusions form in my mind:


    1. She probably didn¡¯t want to tell me until she secured another job. That explains her "vacation."


    2. We¡¯re in a precarious position. I never thought the staff layoffs would hit our family. If it happened once, it can, and probably will, happen again. I have to support my mother.


    3.A part-time job isn¡¯t an option. AI does those faster, better, and for free. Hiring prospects for electrical engineers? Grim. And on top of it all, I¡¯m a Normal.


    My fingers move on their own, unlocking my phone. A familiar website loads.


    The blue light casts sharp shadows on my face in the darkness.


    Do you want to register for the NTA?


    Yes.

 4 days left.

    The sound of heels striking the cold floor echoed through Flare Hall. The vast chamber was the embodiment of fire itself. Though no heat source was visible, a bead of sweat trickled down the forehead of the petite figure walking its length. Her sharp blue eyes remained fixed ahead, untouched by the grandeur around her. Priceless artifacts lined the hall, but none drew her attention, as if this wasn''t her first time here.


    At last, the sound of her heels ceased. She stopped before the figure at the end of the hall and bowed deeply.


    That being could not be described by the most intelligent scholars, yet even the illiterate sang of it. No artist could capture its face, nor could the most advanced technology, but its image was etched into every person who laid their pitiful eyes on it. That being was the subject of adoration and fear, of awe beyond measure. It was biologically a human, but no biologist would dare claim it as one.


    "Lord, the preparations for the National Talent Assessment are complete. We are expecting you to uphold your end of the deal," the woman spoke with a voice so unwavering that one would think she was not in the presence of an indescribable being.


    A sound rang through the hall. A laugh? A roar? It carried no clear emotion¡ªperhaps it held all emotions at once.


    "Yes. Though I must say, I dislike the idea of restricting my family," the being replied. No human, be it Awakened or Normal, would be able to interpret the emotions carried by those words.


    "You will be fairly compensated, as discussed previously," the woman responded, still bowing.


    The being nodded. Or did it shake its head? Regardless, that thing had confirmed their deal.


    "Thank you, Lord." The woman stood straight and retraced her path to leave the hall. During her short visit to the Flare Hall, the woman never once dared to look at the being''s face.


    That being, whose words elude the wisest minds, yet children mimic its tongue with ease. That being, whose mere presence banishes all darkness, yet the shadow it casts can swallow even the brightest light.


    There was only one word in the human vocabulary that could even remotely describe it¡ª


    The Sun.


    ********


    "Kevvy! You''ll be late again, hurry up!" My mom shouts as I almost trip while wearing my shoes.


    "Bye, Ma!" I say, as usual, before sprinting down the damp apartment staircase. My mom is behaving normally. She hasn¡¯t mentioned the firing. In fact, the way she acts makes me question my memory of last night. But I know it was real. The proof is right there¡ªthe admit card for the NTA on my phone.


    I unlock my bicycle and take off like a dysfunctional rocket. A quick glance at the speedometer¡ª20 km/h. Not enough. I shift gears, feeling the resistance change under my legs. Pedal faster. 60 km/h. Good enough. The faint hum of the gears fills my ears as the torque amplifier kicks in, boosting my momentum.


    My mom says that back in her day, bicycles didn¡¯t have torque amplifiers. I¡¯d have definitely been expelled if I had to ride one of those.


    I take a sharp turn and merge onto the main road. Traffic is as chaotic as ever. I squeeze between the vehicles, almost scraping a brand-new bright red supercar that probably costs more than my entire family tree combined. Why is a supercar even in this traffic? Shouldn''t you be using the aerial road if you can afford a car like that?


    I branch off from the main road, slowing down as I enter the plaza. The white brick floor makes for a bumpy ride, and I swerve left and right to dodge pedestrians and vendors selling all sorts of trinkets, flowers, and food. The air is thick with the scent of spice and freshly baked bread as I exit the plaza and finally reach the road leading to my college.


    I quickly make my way to the parking space, lock my bicycle with a fingerprint scan, and rush to class. The entrance to the official campus was guarded by a 6-foot-tall, black cylinder. Endearingly called BBC by the college students. Well, the male students, specifically. The Braindead Bot of the Century. A fitting name, considering it hadn¡¯t been updated in a decade and was practically a fossil compared to the state-of-the-art security bots in use today.


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    I flash my ID at the bot, and it beeps in approval before letting me through. I break into a sprint toward the Engineering block, actively ignoring the monstrosity that is the Art block. Even a passing glance at that godless structure makes me nauseous. No sane person would design something like that. It looks like someone superimposed all of Van Gogh¡¯s paintings and then forced them into three dimensions.


    I exhale in relief as I step into the Engineering block¡ªwhere buildings are made of proper materials like concrete and steel, not whatever unholy amalgamation those Arts students worship. Reaching my classroom, I peek inside.


    Not Bach. Thank God.


    I stroll in casually and take a seat at the back, next to Virav.


    He glances at me. "Why are you only ever this late for Bach¡¯s classes?"


    I take a moment to catch my breath. "You don¡¯t want me to be?"


    "I never said that."


    We snicker for a bit before I hesitantly say, "I need to talk to you about something."


    ********


    It was lunchtime. Virav and I sit on one of the public benches around the campus, as usual. This is one of the only benches safely out of the unholy Arts block¡¯s visual range.


    In the vast campus garden, artificial butterflies frolic among real ones, their metallic wings catch the sunlight as they move through the air. I watch them in silence, the robotic ones seamlessly aiding their living counterparts in harvesting nectar from the flowers. One of the artificial butterflies struggles midair before dropping to the ground. Out of charge, probably. The garden-keeping bot will pick it up for a recharge later.


    We had just finished eating and were now killing time before the next class.


    "Seriously, though¡ªKevin Sathel, enrolling for the NTA. One of us must have lost our sanity," Virav sighs for what had to be the millionth time.


    "That¡¯s good, though. Who knows? Maybe it''ll be a written engineering exam. You''re at the top of the class¡ªyou should at least rank under 600,000. Maybe," he adds.


    "Maybe," I echo.


    I haven¡¯t told him the real reason for my application yet. Call it ego, call it pride¡ªI just don¡¯t want my best friend to pity me.


    I glance at him as he sprawls across the bench like a homeless man getting his first real sleep in weeks. "Since you have so much experience, don¡¯t you have any tips for a newbie?" I ask innocently.


    He lazily turns his head and gives me a deadpan look. "Pray."


    I grimace, pushing away his legs as he tries to rest them on my lap. "Come on, have you noticed any patterns? Any kind of recurring trend?"


    Instead of answering, he moves his legs away¡ªonly to wrap them around my shoulders instead. "There are only two patterns. One, no Normal ever reaches the top 1000. Hell, not even the top one million. Keep in mind, on average, there are around ten million applicants. Two, the top 1000 is dominated by certain families and organizations. You might not know this, but the top 800 spots are as good as taken. The rest of us fight for the remaining 200."


    "Bribery?" I ask, still trying to free myself from his grip.


    "Maybe. But even if that''s not the case, it¡¯s hopeless. The National Scientific Institute sends its students every year. Those guys modify Awakened¡ªand even Normals¡ªwith tech, implants, and all sorts of experimental drugs. And before you ask, yeah, it''s legal. How? Apparently, they have the consent of all parties involved¡ªthe students, their families, the whole shebang. And there¡¯s never been a casualty. There''s even a clause stating that if a single death occurs, the NSI will be shut down, so they¡¯re extra careful."


    So now I have to compete against cyborg Normal and cyborg Awakened, on top of the regular ones. Wonderful.


    Then, before I can react, he pulls me into a headlock.


    "Anyways," he continues, like he isn''t actively choking me, "those guys make up about 10% of all applicants and usually secure a 100 spots in the top 1000. Next are the Legacy Families. Enough said, really. These families have the wealth, knowledge, and resources to groom their heirs for the assessment. Some of them literally plan childbirth around this exam. The youngest applicant so far was 12 years old. And even though Legacy Families only make up about 0.5% of all applicants, they approximately take 600 spots out of the 1000."


    I struggle to escape his hold. "That ratio is insane. 600 spots? Are there even that many Legacy Families?"


    Talk about getting your money¡¯s worth. 600 out of 50,000 might not sound like much, but when you compare it to organizations like the NSI, who send millions of applicants just to secure around 100 spots, it¡¯s clear who really runs the show.


    He sighs, tightening the headlock. "There are, but not all of them are a part of that 600. In fact, out of all Legacy applicants, 80% are affiliated with the Flare family. And 10% are usually in alliance with them. So, you could say more than half of the top 1000 is controlled by the Flares¡ªthe oldest Awakened family in the country."


    I twist slightly, subtly shifting my arm. My fingers creep toward a very sacred place. A place no one should ever dare defile. I aim, tension building in my middle finger like a loaded spring.


    "The rest?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.


    Unaware of the impending disaster, Virav tightens his grip even more. "Foreigners. Any foreign national can apply, provided they agree to change their nationality if they get selected for Indat University. Other than that, the same rules apply to them."


    "I see," I murmur.


    And then, with a single flick of my finger¡ª


    Time slows.


    A ripple of kinetic energy passes through his clothes and strikes the forbidden pendulum.


    Virav makes a sound I had never heard before. I can almost see something leave his body. Is that what they call a soul?


    I almost feel sorry for him.


    Almost.


    4 days left for the commencement of the NTA.

 3 days left.

    Shadows danced along the walls of a narrow alley, shifting like living things in the dim light. A tall, gaunt figure, cloaked in black, moved like an apparition, dragging a heavy bag behind it. The burden scraped against the road, its weight undeniable. It paused at the alley''s exit.


    From the folds of its cloak, a bony hand emerged, clutching what appeared to be a simple smartphone. Its skeletal fingers glided across the screen with practiced precision. The figure paused, tilting its head slightly¡ªlistening, watching. The alley was empty, save for the occasional flicker of an old LED streetlight. Satisfied, it tapped the screen.


    Psssss.


    A faint hiss escaped as the streetlight sputtered and died. The presence sensors embedded in nearby buildings shut down in unison, their silent watch interrupted. If any half-decent Awakened had been nearby, they might have detected the residual hum of the EMP. But in this ward, only Normals and weak Awakened resided. At this hour, they were deep in slumber, oblivious to the night¡¯s shifting currents.


    Moonlight spilled through the parting clouds, casting shadows across the white brick floor. Shadows stretched and recoiled¡ªalong bakery walls, across the jewelry shop¡¯s darkened windows, through the tight crevices between buildings, and down into the sewer grates. They flickered, restless and alive.


    Then, just as swiftly, the clouds swallowed the moon whole.


    Total darkness.


    A heartbeat later, the streetlights flickered back to life, their glow artificial, unknowing. The presence sensors resumed their silent surveillance, oblivious to what had just transpired.


    The figure retraced its steps into the alley¡¯s depths, turning its back on the plaza. The bag scraped along the ground¡ªinexplicably lighter than before.


    The night was far from over.


    ********


    "Bye, Ma!" I shout as I step out the door.


    I hurry downstairs, hop onto my bicycle, and zip through the familiar alleys before merging onto the main road. Traffic¡ªsame as always. A quick glance at my speedometer: 45 km/h. Good enough. I weave through the congestion with the ease of a housefly, slipping past sluggish cars and half-alert drivers, untouchable.


    I pass the turn leading to the plaza. No college today.


    The faint scent of reinforced asphalt fills the air as I shift gears, gliding through the District-9 main road¡ªa 400-meter-wide artery that cut through every ward. This city, a 1.5-million-square-kilometer tech giant, has three primary modes of public transportation: intra-ward buses, a metro system connecting the wards, and inter-district shuttles.


    Yet, despite these options, the main road was always choked with traffic. Why? Because more than half of District-9¡¯s 500 million residents insisted on driving their own vehicles. And that wasn¡¯t even counting the daily influx of outsiders flocking to this forefront of technology from every corner of the globe. That''s doubly true this year because of the NTA.


    I soon reach my destination. The Tesler Ward Metro Station.


    I lock my bicycle in the parking area and step into the towering 400-meter-tall skyscraper. The moment I enter, my eyes sweep across the bustling ground floor.


    The place is alive with movement¡ªcommuters from all over the world flood in and out, their hurried steps blending into the hum of conversation and distant announcements. Ironically, the District-9 metro system seems more popular among outsiders than the city¡¯s own residents.


    Shops line both sides of the floor, their displays bursting with everything imaginable¡ªclothing, jewelry, cosmetics, toys, cutting-edge District-9-exclusive gadgets, and souvenirs of every kind. The holographic displays flicker, the bright signboards glow enticingly, automated sales assistants beckon passersby, and the scent of new merchandise mingles with the faint aroma of coffee from a nearby caf¨¦.


    "Kevin! Here!" A familiar voice calls out. I turn to see Virav approaching with a slight limp¡ªfor some reason unknown to me.


    "Yo," I greet him before we head to the elevator.


    The elevator¡ªalmost as big as my house¡ªwas packed with all sorts of people. I tap a screen on the wall and select the highest floor. The hum of elevator music was barely audible over the chatter filling the cramped space.


    "Where are we going first?" I ask Virav.


    "Newstein Ward. That''s where the 2020 NTA took place¡ªa painting competition. That one sucked. I had bought temperature-dependent paint, but the guy next to me had the same idea. And lucky me, he was a low Tier-5 Ice type. The place was so packed, our temperatures canceled each other out, and both our paintings looked like shit. Literally. Everything was brown¡ªthe grass, the birds, the houses, everything."


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    Virav sighed, shaking his head, then added, "Good times."


    Unnecessary information? Probably. Useful to me? Absolutely.


    He cleared his throat before continuing. "Next, we''ll head to District-10 and District-13. District-5 and District-6 can wait until tomorrow."


    The elevator paused a few times¡ªsome people got off, others got on. Mostly on the guest suite and hotel floors.


    Virav looked at me, his brows furrowed. "It''s useless, you know? There''s no pattern or anything. The NTA committee members probably ask their infants for suggestions. You''d be better off preparing for the competition instead. I can recommend some cross-functional training programs if you want."


    I sighed. "What am I supposed to achieve in a couple of days? It took you years to get where you are. A few days of training won''t make a difference. Might as well search for clues. I checked online, and there are tons of posts trying to predict the NTA theme."


    With a soft ding, the elevator doors slid open, and we stepped out. This was the station platform. Beyond the platform¡¯s edge was nothing¡ªa sheer drop straight down to the main road.


    Other districts use normal maglev trains, but only District-1 and District-9 have flying ones.


    "If some nerds on the internet could find a pattern, they might as well solve world hunger." Virav grumbles as we flash our student IDs to the security bots before entering the platform. These bots were the latest and improved version of the BBC¡ªcapable of taking on a hundred BBCs like it was nothing.


    We sit down on an empty bench, waiting for the train. I snap my fingers, and within seconds, a small spherical bot rolls toward me, stopping right at my feet.


    "How may I assist you?" A soft, childlike voice chirps.


    "Calculate, using all available resources, the possible themes for this year''s NTA," I instruct.


    The Assistive Ball Bot¡ªbetter known as ABBy¡ªprojects a hologram, displaying its calculations and results.


    ABBy has a wider database than my smartphone, constantly updating as it interacts with new people and gathers fresh data daily.


    "Shall I send the information to your smartphone?"


    "Yeah." I pull out my phone. ABBy scans it, detects the built-in communication chip, and transfers the data in an instant.


    "Anything else?" ABBy tilts slightly, almost expectant.


    I shake my head. "That¡¯ll be all."


    With a soft whir, ABBy zips away¡ªrolling off to assist other passengers, joining the swarm of identical ABBies weaving through the station.


    I sigh, lamenting my own desperation. If it were this easy to predict the format, Virav¡ªwho is now giving me a pitiful look¡ªwould''ve ranked under 100,000 at least. Maybe.


    A small gust of wind causes my hair to flutter as the train arrives.


    The pride and joy of District-9¡ªthe magrail.


    The 300-meter-long marvel hums as its doors slide open, releasing a flood of passengers onto the platform. A few seconds later, we step inside and find our seats. A chime sounds. The doors hiss shut.


    The gyroscopic suspension smooths out any jolt as the train accelerates. Then, with a smooth, almost effortless motion, the train takes off¡ªsoaring into the sky like a Chinese dragon, gliding above the cityscape.


    I turn to the window, watching cars zip alongside the train, some struggling to keep pace while others overtake with ease. This is the aerial road, 500 meters above the surface. Most vehicles can reach Mach 1 with ease, some even Mach 2, but on the ground, strict speed regulations keep them in check. Only on the aerial road can they accelerate to their heart¡¯s content, free from restrictions.


    But speed comes at a price. A single entry toll costs 5000 IDD¡ªa luxury only the wealthy can afford.


    I turn around and catch Virav staring at me. "What?"


    "You''re so skibidi," he says, expressionless.


    I could feel my finger growing taut like a catapult, primed and ready to launch.


    ********


    I step outside the Newstein Ward Metro Station and pause.


    It was like a scene from a storybook.


    Trees lined the streets like jewels on a crown, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Lush greenery bordered the white stone pavement, dotted with flowers that swayed like stars in a drifting galaxy. Birds sang, their melodies a backdrop to butterflies flitting through the air.


    The roads were quiet, with only a few pedestrians and the occasional car gliding past, careful not to disturb the ward¡¯s serene beauty.


    "First time?" Virav asks.


    I nod unable to peel my eyes away from the natural beauty.


    He sighs. "I had the same reaction when I came here for the first time. Thirty square kilometers of rich greenery with perfectly complementing European architecture... but there''s a reason this place is so quiet."


    I murmur, "The residents."


    He nods. "Exactly. Only the elite live here¡ªCEOs, government officials, top scholars, wealthy businessmen, and all. One wrong move, and you could piss off someone powerful. This ward is just mansions, gardens, and whatever weird shit the bourgeois get up to. Honestly, I don¡¯t even know why there¡¯s a metro station here. Doubt these guys even know what public transport is."


    We slowly stroll through the scenic area, heading towards the exact place where the painting competition in 2020 was held. Ten minutes later, we arrive at a garden unlike any other.


    A lone tree stands in the center, towering over a sea of flowers that ripple like waves in the breeze, as if bowing to their protector.


    "This is it," Virav says. "We had to keep a good distance from the flower bed. I was lucky enough to get a clear view of the tree, but the unlucky guys had to get real creative with their angles. Let''s just say paint wasn''t the only red that spilled that day."


    I scan the area, taking in every detail.


    Nothing.


    No pattern, no clue, just my own desperation leading me nowhere.


    Then, as my eyes drift over the tree, I notice a faint mark on its bark¡ªvisible only because of the sunlight¡¯s angle. I squint, but my sub-par vision betrays me.


    I beckon Virav. "Look at that."


    He squints so hard that he appears to be of a different ethnicity. "I see... letters?"


    Curious, I step forward, intent on getting a closer look¡ª


    Only to be shoved back by a girl in a maid uniform who appeared out of nowhere.


    "You do not have permission to enter!" she shouts.


    "Whoa, hey," Virav says, catching me before I fall. "We just wanna check out that tree. Mind letting us through?"


    "No!" she snaps. "This garden belongs to General Nare! Only he and his wife may enter!"


    "Okay, then can you at least tell us what¡¯s written on its bark?"


    "No!"


    That¡¯s when I notice something at the nape of her neck. An alphanumeric sequence.


    I stare at her. "Are you a robot?"


    Her cheeks puff in anger. "Don''t you have any manners, dumbass?!"


    I keep my gaze steady. "Answer me."


    She stutters before blurting, "Yes! I am a robot! Are you happy now, asshole?!"


    Who programmed this little shit?


    Virav and I exchange looks before silently heading back to the metro.


    ...Maybe I should just do some cross-functional training.


    3 days left for the commencement of the NTA.

 Waste of time.

    "Raise your arms," an elderly voice instructed.


    A boy, no older than fifteen, lifted his arms above his head. The old man in a lab coat ran his gloved hands down the boy¡¯s sides, searching for imperfections. He tapped his torso, listening for anything unusual.


    "Put your hands down and open your mouth," the doctor said, picking up a dentist¡¯s mouth mirror from his tray.


    He inserted the mirror, inspecting every nook and cranny. The medical room was silent, the surgical lights casting sharp shadows over the boy¡¯s lean muscles.


    "Mhm. Everything looks good. You can get dressed." The doctor withdrew the mirror and placed it in a sterilizer.


    The naked boy nodded and got off the examination chair. His muscles, taut like a panther¡¯s, flexed as he pulled on his clothes. He tied his shoulder-length black hair into a ponytail and stretched.


    "Thanks, doc," he said, rolling his shoulders.


    "You think the principal will allow that hairstyle?" The old man asked as a robotic arm meticulously sorted the lab equipment.


    "Ehhhh, I don¡¯t really give a shit. What¡¯s she gonna do? Force me?" The boy grinned.


    His mechanical eyes glinted with mischief.


    The doctor shook his head. "It¡¯d do you good to watch that mouth of yours. You don¡¯t want to be barred from the assessment, do you?"


    The boy hesitated. "You think she¡¯d stop me over something that dumb?..." He sighed. "Yeah, that crazy hag just might."


    "Anyway, see ya, doc." He turned toward the door.


    "Oh, Simon¡ªsend your sister in. I plan to finish all my inspections before the day is through."


    Simon gave a thumbs-up as he walked out.


    The old man exhaled, shrugging off his lab coat and draping it over his chair. As he made his way to the coffee maker, the glow of the laser bulbs reflected off the badge on his coat.


    Dr. Lambert, Physician, NSI.


    ********


    I must confess something.


    I have a deadly disease.


    I suffer from brainrot.


    I glance at Virav, who¡¯s mindlessly scrolling through his phone. I catch a glimpse of a toilet with a head before he swipes past it.


    I look down at my own phone and continue doing the same, consuming garbage without a second thought.


    We¡¯re on a shuttle headed to District-10, the trade capital of the country. Situated on the western coast of Indat, it¡¯s the wealthiest district in the nation. Goods flow in and out by sea, air, and land, making it the heart of commerce.


    It¡¯s also where last year¡¯s NTA was held¡ªthe rowing competition.


    Tearing my eyes away from my screen, I glance around. The shuttle is emptier than usual, thanks to the NTA. With everyone traveling to District-9, the shuttles heading elsewhere feel almost deserted. I look to my right and spot a couple staring blankly ahead, into the air, giggling every now and then. Probably watching something through their NeuroSync. It¡¯s always weird when someone seems to be looking at you, only for you to realize they¡¯re lost in a virtual feed.


    I sigh and turn to Virav. If students were allowed to have NeuroSyncs, we¡¯d all be beyond saving. Thankfully, the government put restrictions in place¡ªno NeuroSyncs for students. They say it¡¯s to prevent overreliance on the internet and to foster critical thinking.


    It¡¯s been almost an hour since we boarded the shuttle. We¡¯ll be arriving in District-10 any minute now.


    Virav tucks his phone into his pocket and stretches his arms with a satisfied sigh.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be training or something?¡± I ask, eyeing him. ¡°I know I asked you to come, but why are you wandering around like you have no burdens in life?¡±


    He smirks. ¡°I¡¯ve trained my whole life, bro. A day off or two won¡¯t kill me. Besides, I have a ritual¡ªalways relax on the days before the competition.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ve been training your whole life, how come you never rank under 500,000?¡± I ask, genuinely curious.


    I notice his fingers twitch, flexing like he¡¯s priming a catapult.


    ¡°Anyway¡ª¡± I clear my throat, changing the topic. ¡°Why is the gap between the application and the exam so short? Is it always like this?¡±


    Virav sighs, loosening his fingers. ¡°No, this isn¡¯t normal. Usually, there¡¯s about a month between the application deadline and the exam. But this year¡¯s different. The Flare family left for the US a couple of weeks ago, and they won¡¯t be back until next week. So, people think the top 1000 won¡¯t be dominated by the Flares for once. Naturally, a ton of applicants are hoping to grab a piece of that sweet cake and the deadline was extended.¡±


    What a bittersweet moment. The Flares won¡¯t be participating this time, but the number of applicants has likely doubled.


    I sigh as an announcement blares through the shuttle: "The shuttle has arrived at District-10."


    We walk through the aisle, ignoring the digital displays of ads plastered on the shuttle walls.


    "Hey, blue t-shirt!" I hear a voice shout.


    "Hey, you! The black-haired guy wearing a blue tee and jeans! You, the plain-looking guy¡ªaverage height, average build, average everything!"


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    I glance to my right and find the image of a soda bottle wearing sunglasses on one of the ad displays.


    "Yeah, you!" The bottle points at me.


    "What?" I ask, annoyed.


    "Buy me! You may look painfully average, but with Cola-Cola, you''ll be cooler than the North Pole!" The bottle markets itself while violating my dignity.


    I ignore the bottle as it moves on to catcalling another poor passenger.


    .


    .


    .


    Virav and I step out of the underground shuttle station entrance.


    "Let''s catch the metro. The harbor is quite far from here," Virav suggests.


    We walk for a few minutes and reach the metro station.


    The whole place feels abnormal to me. No magrails flying around the skies like dragons, no supercars zipping through the air at Mach speed, no ads calling me average. None of that. It¡¯s weirdly peaceful.


    We enter Polo Ward Metro Station and are greeted by... nothing. No loud stores, no sales bots, none of that. Just a few ticket booths and an escalator leading to the platform.


    We pay the ticket agent¡ªa human male¡ªfor our tickets and hop on the escalator. Our student IDs are only valid in District-9.


    "Doesn''t your grandma live here?" Virav asks.


    I nod. "Yeah. We''ll probably visit her this Sunday."


    The maglev train arrives just as we reach the platform. We squeeze into the packed train and immediately get crushed by the crowd.


    Even though District-10 has less than half the population of District-9, it''s over 200 times smaller. The result? A way higher population density.


    My face ends up buried in an obese man''s armpit while he''s on the phone, talking about some business venture involving perfumes.


    I try turning my head, only to get sweat smeared onto my face. I glance at Virav and see him pressed against what I¡¯d call a baddie. He''s smiling and making conversation, the sexy girl giggling at whatever he¡¯s saying.


    Quietly, I turn my head back and find solace in the obese man''s armpit.


    ********


    "What?" Virav asks as I stare at his frustrating face.


    I remain silent, the sound of waves crashing against the harbor walls ringing in my ears.


    Hundreds of boats, big and small, swarm the waters. Some yachts are preparing to set sail, while others have just returned from a cruise. Some boats have families boarding with happy faces, while others carry groups of horny dudes looking thirstier than a whale in a desert.


    I continue staring at the biggest whale of them all.


    "Come on, she was cute," the whale in question groans. "It ain''t my fault you''re afraid of talking to women," he adds unnecessarily.


    I''m not.


    I sigh and glance around. "So, this whole place was evacuated for the competition last year?"


    "Yeah. We had to form groups of ten and row for fifteen kilometers. The competition lasted just over a week. It was like a tournament, with the number of people per boat decreasing every round. In the end, ten thousand participants, each on a single boat, reached the finals, and the fastest thousand won the race," he replies.


    I look around, lost. What the hell am I supposed to be looking for?


    I shouldn''t have been influenced by those conspiracy theories.


    One internet post said the government follows the ley lines throughout the country and holds the NTA at every node. What the fuck is a ley line, and where am I supposed to find one?


    "Hey, Lord of the Flames!" a voice calls out, cutting through the harbor noise.


    Virav and I both turn curiously to find a tall, tan woman on top of a boat, waving toward us. What her baggy pants hid, her tight tank top revealed. Her glistening muscles, ready to burst, shone with sweat, while her ample chest was soaked in it.


    A muscle mommy, if you will.


    I look at the Lord of the Flames, who couldn¡¯t even cook an omelet with his flames.


    ¡°It¡¯s not what you think it is,¡± he says, expressionless.


    You bastard.


    ¡°Whatcha doin¡¯ here?¡± The woman jumps out of her boat, landing with an easy grin.


    ¡°Nothing. My friend here wanted to take a look at the sea. He¡¯s never seen it before,¡± Virav lies blatantly.


    What are you saying, you bastard?


    The woman¡¯s eyes widen as she looks at me.


    ¡°What, seriously? What¡¯s up with you District-9 folks?¡± She says in disbelief.


    ¡°N-no, he¡¯s just joking. I saw some theories online about predicting the NTA format, so I wanted to check them out,¡± I fumble, trying to explain.


    Her eyes glint. ¡°Ahhhhh, so you¡¯re investigating those conspiracy theories?¡± she asks curiously.


    ¡°Uhhhh, yeah,¡± I reply, avoiding direct eye contact.


    She flaps her tank top lightly, trying to cool off. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re a fresh applicant, then?¡±


    I nod, barely managing not to stare directly at her cleavage. I have to settle for my peripheral vision.


    Her smile widens. ¡°So cool! What¡¯s your ability? You look pretty fit. What training program do ya follow?¡± She starts bombarding me with questions excitedly.


    What a weird woman.


    I smile awkwardly. ¡°Actually¡ª¡±


    ¡°What are you doing here? Most applicants reached District-9 weeks ago. Aren¡¯t you being a little too carefree?¡± Virav interrupts me.


    Don''t cockblock me, you selfish bastard.


    The woman grins. "What are those guys gonna do by going there so early? We don¡¯t even know the exact test location in District-9. Plus, I can just hop on one of those sexy shuttles and be there in no time."


    Virav stares at her quietly, deep in thought.


    ¡°What? You wanna fuck me, ember boy?¡± the woman teases.


    He sighs. ¡°Fuck no. Have you¡­ seen any marks on the tree in the garden we went to in the 2020 NTA?¡±


    My ears perk up as I focus.


    Her brows furrow. ¡°A mark? What kind of mark?¡±


    ¡°I dunno, we saw something on its bark but couldn''t get a good look,¡± Virav says.


    A smile creeps onto her lips. ¡°What do I get in return?¡±


    Virav scowls. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    The woman grins. ¡°Team up with me this time too.¡±


    Virav is silent. After a few seconds, he speaks. ¡°Fine. But only if your information is actually useful.¡±


    Her eyebrows scrunch as she starts speaking. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t remember it too well, but after the competition, I and a couple of my friends stayed back and visited one of the caf¨¦s there. We spent well over an hour inside, then headed back to the metro station. But once we got there, I realized I¡¯d left my phone back at the caf¨¦.


    ¡°When I was returning, I passed by the garden and saw someone scratching the tree¡¯s bark. It was a little kid with pigtails, wearing a maid costume. I called out to her, and she said she was writing her name. I didn¡¯t think much of it and went back to the station.¡±


    We remain silent.


    Then why didn''t the robot just tell us that?


    The woman smiles as she extends her hand. ¡°I¡¯ll see ya in District-9, then.¡±


    Virav begrudgingly shakes her hand. She then walks back onto her boat.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Virav says as he leaves the harbor.


    I stand there for a moment, taking one last look at the boat she disappeared into.


    I have to compete against her.


    ¡°Hey! Who was that?¡± I ask, jogging to catch up to Virav.


    ¡°She was my teammate last year. A low Tier-5 Water type. Like me, she¡¯s been an NTA applicant for years. She was pretty helpful¡ªuntil she decided to switch teams and ram into my boat,¡± he sighs.


    That woman, no, girl because she must be 21 or younger, did that?


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask.


    ¡°¡¯Cause the other team had a higher chance of winning. In the end, she got pushed out of the boat before they reached the finish line, so¡­ Karma¡¯s real, I guess,¡± he replies.


    So stuff like this happens in the NTA... I have to be careful.


    ¡°What¡¯s her name?¡± I ask, trying not to sound too interested.


    He stares at me in disbelief.


    ¡°I dunno. We only teamed up temporarily and weren¡¯t even close. It was a one-time thing. Team-ups like that happen all the time in the NTA, so most of us don¡¯t bother getting close.¡±


    ¡°By the way, you gotta be careful. You saw how she was acting all cute, asking about your ability? She was trying to gauge your threat level. If Awakened applicants find out you¡¯re a Normal, you¡¯ll be treated like a pushover. Although... I suspect she may have already figured it out because of my interruption.¡±


    Know your enemy and know yourself, and you will win a hundred battles, huh?


    ¡°My bad¡­¡± I mumble.


    ¡°Not your fault, man. Just keep it in mind next time,¡± he says as we head toward the metro station.


    That little robot is very suspicious.


    ¡°Hey, let¡¯s just head back home,¡± I say as we step into the Harbor Metro Station.


    I''ll do some studying for the rest of the day.


    ¡°You sure?¡± Virav looks at me, slightly puzzled.


    And tomorrow, I''ll punt that little robot to oblivion.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±

 2 days left.

    "Customer, you have reached your destination," a female voice announced inside the car.


    A young man stirred in the backseat, rousing from a deep sleep.


    He sat upright, stretched, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.


    "Thank you," he murmured to no one in particular as he stepped out of the driverless vehicle.


    The taxi glided away, weaving through the posh streets lined with gardens and towering trees.


    With a guitar bag slung over his shoulder, the boy took in his surroundings. The vibrant greenery blended seamlessly with the Neo-Renaissance architecture, each building a masterpiece in its own right. The sweet scent of flowers and fresh leaves filled the air, making his nose wrinkle slightly. He hadn¡¯t expected such a place to exist in District-9.


    His gaze landed on the grand gate before him, embedded within a five-meter-tall wall that barely concealed the sprawling, extravagant Minka beyond it.


    He waited patiently for his relatives to open the gate.


    As he stood there, a small girl in a maid costume bumped into him, skipping along without a care.


    "Sorry, mister!" she chirped, bowing cutely.


    "It''s okay," he said with a smile, patting her head.


    Giggling, the girl resumed her skipping, vanishing down the path.


    The main gate opened, revealing an elderly butler who greeted him with a deep bow.


    "Welcome, Takeshi-sama. I will take you to the lord," the old man said.


    Kuramoto Takeshi followed the butler through the well-maintained garden surrounding the pagoda-style mansion. The soft murmur of a nearby stream blended with the chirping of birds, creating a peaceful atmosphere. As they walked along the stone-paved path, Takeshi noticed a pond reflecting the sky, with koi fish swimming beneath the surface. The air carried the faint scent of pine and fresh earth.


    Approaching the main house, Takeshi glanced at the traditional wooden structure with its dark beams and sloping roof. A cherry blossom tree stood near the entrance, its petals scattered on the ground, adding a touch of color to the otherwise muted tones of the estate.


    Stepping inside, Takeshi was met with three familiar faces.


    "Takeshi-kun! How have you been? Did you have any trouble getting here?" A balding middle-aged man in a yukata stepped forward, grasping Takeshi¡¯s shoulders before pulling him into a firm hug.


    "I''m well, Uncle. Thanks to the taxi you booked, I had no trouble getting here from the shuttle station," Takeshi assured him, returning the embrace.


    "That¡¯s good to hear, isn¡¯t it, dear?" A woman dressed in a matching yukata smiled, nudging the young boy beside her.


    The boy, no older than twelve, nodded before rushing forward to wrap his arms around Takeshi.


    "Hello, Onii-chan!"


    "Hey, Hiro-chan. How have you been?" Takeshi asked, ruffling the boy¡¯s hair.


    "I''m great! I can''t wait to play with you!" Hiro beamed.


    Takeshi chuckled. Hiro had always been clingy, even though they were only cousins.


    His uncle watched the interaction fondly before turning back to Takeshi.


    "I''m sorry for calling you here on such short notice, Takeshi-kun. You must be busy," he said apologetically.


    Takeshi shook his head. "It¡¯s no problem, Uncle."


    "Ahem, shall we go fetch some tea for Takeshi-kun, Hiro-chan?" the calm-looking woman suggested.


    "Okay, Mom!" Hiro shouted, following her into the house.


    With a sigh, his uncle lowered himself onto the tatami mat and motioned for Takeshi to do the same.


    "I''m sure your parents have already told you, but let me go over the situation again. The Flare family is heading to the U.S. next month, and it¡¯s our responsibility to coordinate with the other families to maintain our standing in the NTA. We can¡¯t allow rival factions to take advantage of this transition. More than ever, we need to strategize carefully¡ªthere will be more rats than usual this year," he explained.


    Takeshi nodded. He was already well aware of the situation.


    "I''m assuming the other families have finalized their rosters?" he asked.


    "Most of them. A few are still undecided, but they¡¯ll be ready soon," his uncle replied.


    "No Flares¡­ This year will be different," Takeshi muttered, rubbing the faint stubble on his chin.


    His uncle gave him a peculiar look.


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    "Haven''t you heard?"


    Takeshi frowned. "Heard what?"


    "Two descendants from the main family will be participating," his uncle said.


    The main family.


    A shiver ran down Takeshi¡¯s spine.


    ********


    The afternoon sun lazily shines over the trees as Virav and I stand in front of a familiar garden.


    I smugly smile at a tiny figure.


    "Your secret''s out, you little shit," I gloat at the robot maid.


    Virav looks at me uncomfortably. Is there something on my face?


    I ignore his concerned look and stare down at the stupid face before me.


    "We know it''s your name on the tree! You wrote it! Muahahaha! You stupid little robot, this is why you''ll never take over us humans!" I mock.


    I point at my head. "Your brain''s not fast enough! Your IQ is so low! Goddamn!" I grin ecstatically.


    The little robot just blinks at me, as if I''m speaking an alien language.


    "Hey, bro. Chill out. She was just following her orders," Virav says.


    I get frustrated at its blank face. "Are you too dumb to even understand me?! Maybe your owners should dispose of your defective ass and buy a proper robot!" I try to provoke it.


    "Sniff."


    "Huh?"


    "Waaaaaaah!!!" The rascal starts crying, bawling its eyes out.


    "W-what are you doing?" My eyes nearly pop out as tears roll down its face.


    Virav quickly hugs the robot and pats its head. "Shhhh, don''t cry. I''m really sorry if we hurt you. Don''t let that meanie bully you," he consoles it.


    "I didn''t do it! Waaaaaaahhh!!" The shitty robot cries as it clings to Virav.


    "Yes, yes. I believe you. You''re a good kid," he continues consoling it.


    It almost looks like I''m the villain here.


    Not almost¡ªdefinitely.


    I look around, noticing some pedestrians staring at us.


    "H-Hello there, folks! This robot just bumped her toe into a corner and got hurt. Crazy how advanced technology has become, huh?" I blatantly lie.


    Their disapproving eyes grow colder. A faint sound of tongues clicking rings in my ears. Some shake their heads as they continue on with their business.


    It''s over.


    All these wealthy and powerful people have seen me act like a lunatic. I''m done for. No reputable company will hire me. My college will expel me. I''ll be removed from the NTA.


    As my life flashes before my eyes, Virav finally calms the piece of shit down.


    "We''re sorry for the trouble, okay? We''ll be going now," Virav says as he gets up from his knees.


    "Sniff. I''m sorry, mister," the robot says to Virav, clearly ignoring my presence as it rubs its puffy eyes.


    "It''s okay, it''s not your fault." Virav smiles apologetically.


    "By the way, I never got your name. I''m Virav," he says, extending his hand.


    The robot shakes his hand and replies, "My name is Maria."


    "Okay then, Maria. We''ll be going now. Kevin, apologize to her before we go," Virav says.


    I look at the little shit staring at me.


    I show it the middle finger and turn around, walking away.


    Zzzzttt!


    Suddenly, the world flips upside down as I slam onto the snow-white pavement. If I hadn''t caught my fall in time, my head would¡¯ve split open.


    A sharp jolt runs through my legs, and my calves spasm lightly from the electricity.


    I turn around and see that little bastard smirking, its hand extended in the shape of a gun with sparks dancing on its fingertips.


    Goddammit.


    ********


    "It''s your fault, bruh. You could''ve just apologized," Virav says as we walk through our usual alley, heading home.


    What? Getting tased was my fault? And why should I be the one apologizing to that ill-mannered robot?


    "Seriously, how is that my fault? And how can that robot even tase me like that? Doesn''t it violate human rights or something? I should report this to the police," I argue.


    "The cops will lock you up first for verbally abusing a child," he says.


    What''s this guy on about?


    "That''s a fucking robot, man. It''s not human," I retort.


    He sighs. "Don''t fool around. You know very well that a lot of robots are at least semi-conscious. Take ABBies, for example. You can''t just treat them like that."


    Seriously? What¡¯s he saying? Is he high?


    "It''s fake consciousness. A shitty imitation. They''re supposed to be assistants, and if they can''t do their job properly, what''s the point in keeping them?" I argue.


    "Kev, there''s a ton of research suggesting AI might be conscious. The NSI, Indat University, MindLabs¡ªcountless organizations are dedicated to studying it. You don''t have to take my word for it. Just look up their papers," he explains.


    Geez, you''re so ignorant, man.


    "Bah, it''s all bullshit. Half of those papers don¡¯t even have useful information. Just a bunch of PhD-hungry bastards publishing whatever nonsense they can. Besides, we don''t even have a proper definition for human consciousness¡ªwhat the fuck are they doing investigating AI consciousness?" I scoff.


    "You''re just too stubborn. Have you even tried reading any article about it? Try to be open-minded, will you? This narrow thinking will get you nowhere¡ªlet alone through the NTA," he lectures.


    Why¡¯re you attacking me?


    "What the hell, man? That fucking robot gave us so much trouble, and you''re blaming me? That little bitch even zapped me!" My temper flares.


    "Bro, that''s your fault. She''s just behaving like a kid. She doesn''t know any better," he says.


    So it''s my fault that I got zapped?


    "You know what? Fuck you. You can shove that robot up your ass. Oh, and don''t forget all the bitches you''re fucking¡ªshove them up your ass, too," I snap, jealousy spilling from my mouth like venom.


    "So that''s what this is about? You not being able to talk to girls?" He narrows his eyes, clearly annoyed.


    "No, son of a bitch! It''s not about the girls!" I shout, not even believing my own words.


    "You need to work on your insecurity, Kev. You''re better than this," he says, his voice steady.


    This sick holier-than-thou attitude...


    "I''m sick of your pretentious bullshit, you son of a bitch," I spit.


    His face twists with anger.


    "Fine, then, you pathetic bastard. Have fun investigating those NTA hoaxes on your own. I shouldn''t have wasted my time on you. You''re just a good-for-nothing, insecure creep," he says, stepping off my bike and shoving it to the ground before walking away.


    I watch his back as he exits the alley, heading home.


    I am disgusting.


    I sigh, picking up my bicycle from the ground.


    "Ah!" I yelp as my hand touches something hot.


    I glance at the handlebars¡ªpart of the rubber grip has melted.


    I have to replace them.


    ********


    I lay on my bed with the door open, alone in the house. The lights are off, and the curtains are drawn shut.


    Mom said she was visiting old friends, but I doubt that. She¡¯s probably job hunting.


    I turn my head and find my phone next to my pillow, an explicit video playing. I stare at the voluptuous woman on the screen, moaning as a muscular man pounds her.


    I close the website, open YT, and click on a random video without even reading the title.


    I lay there, with my own ejaculate stuck all over my body, too apathetic to wash up or even reach for a tissue. A sickening sight, really.


    The video plays in the background, blabbering something about the NTA. I couldn''t care less.


    This is exactly what I did after coming back from District-10 yesterday too. Instead of preparing for the NTA, I wasted my time like this.


    Virav and the other applicants have been training for this their whole lives¡ªlearning music, painting, sports, dancing, martial arts, you name it. And here I am, rotting in my own filth, drowning in my porn addiction like a loser.


    I should just skip the assessment.


    Maybe I¡¯d be better off finding a part-time job.


    2 days left for the commencement of the NTA.