The grandeur of Nightfall Academy couldn't erase the memories that clawed at the edges of Jake's mind. The sterile white of the grading center had faded, replaced by towering spires that pierced the sky, but the chill of Dr. Aris's words still lingered, a haunting echo in the vast silence of his new room. He was here, among the elite, but the "F" branded on his soul felt heavier than ever, now weighted with the unsettling knowledge of a hidden truth.
He remembered Dr. Aris's eyes, moments after his grade appeared on the screen. He had initially dismissed her expression as practiced neutrality, but now, replaying the scene in his mind, he saw it differently. There had been a flicker, a momentary widening of her pupils, a subtle tightening around her mouth that spoke not of dismissal, but of a profound, almost fearful recognition. When she spoke of the "variance signature" and "unstable trajectory," her voice had dropped, not just in confidentiality, but in a hushed reverence that hinted at something dangerous.
Dr. Aris herself was a potent B-grade, her ability a rare form of psionic analysis. She could perceive and categorize the energy signatures of others, mapping their innate powers with chilling precision. It was why she was at the Lumina Grading Center, a human conduit for the system's terrifying accuracy. Her own power, typically used to calmly define and delineate, had recoiled from something within him. He remembered the subtle tremor in her hand as she held the data-slate, a tremor that spoke of an internal conflict, of her own finely tuned senses being overwhelmed by an anomaly she couldn't neatly file away.
Her fear, he now realized, was not of his weakness, but of his unquantifiable strength. An "unstable trajectory" – it meant he wasn't simply dormant. He was a blank slate capable of any etching, a chaotic potential that defied the rigid classifications of their world. It was a threat to the very order she upheld, a wild card in a deck where every card was meticulously graded and stacked.
When he closed his eyes, the vibrant displays of Nightfall's student body faded, replaced by the ghost of a smile, a pair of bright, curious eyes. Her name was Lily. His little sister.
Jake remembered a time before the grading system had defined him, before the whispers and the averted gazes. He remembered a small, sunny apartment, filled with the scent of his mother's cooking and the sound of Lily's laughter. Lily, with her boundless energy and her unwavering belief in him, even when he couldn't believe in himself. She was six years younger, a tiny whirlwind of joy in his otherwise quiet life. He had always felt… different, even then. Not in a powerful way, but in a way that set him apart, as if the world hummed at a frequency he alone couldn't quite tune into, or perhaps, was tuned too well into.
Their parents, both low-grade themselves, had worked tirelessly to provide for them. His father, a D-grade, could manipulate earth, a useful but unremarkable ability that earned him a living in construction, shaping foundations for the very buildings Jake now saw from his window. His mother, a C-grade, possessed a gentle healing touch, a warm, soothing power that could mend minor injuries and ease aches. She worked in a clinic on the outskirts of the city, her quiet compassion a stark contrast to the brutal efficiency of the grading system. They weren't powerful, but they were kind, their love a warm shield against the harsh realities of their world. They never spoke of the grades they wished they'd had, only of the future they hoped to build for their children.
Then, the disappearances began.
It started subtly, whispers in the news, hushed conversations among neighbors. Low-grade individuals, mostly from the outer sectors of the city, vanishing without a trace. The authorities offered vague assurances, claiming it was random, but the fear was palpable, a suffocating blanket that descended upon their small community. Jake remembered his parents growing increasingly anxious, their smiles strained, their hugs a little tighter. He'd hear them talking late at night, voices low, about people they knew, people who were suddenly just… gone.
One evening, they didn't come home.
Jake had waited, his heart a cold stone in his chest, Lily asleep on the couch, her small hand clutching a worn teddy bear. He'd tried to use his own nascent, almost imperceptible "photonic distortion" then, a childish hope that he could see them, bend the light to reveal their path. But there was nothing. The hours stretched into an eternity, the silence of the apartment broken only by the rhythmic tick of the clock. They never returned.
The authorities, after a cursory investigation, closed the case. "Missing persons," they'd labeled it, another statistic in a growing, terrifying trend that disproportionately affected the F, D, and C grades. Jake, barely a teenager himself, was left alone to care for Lily, the weight of their loss crushing him. He felt a chilling connection to the "variance signature" now, a growing dread that his parents, in their seemingly low-grade existence, might have possessed some hidden anomaly, some subtle potential that made them targets.
He did everything he could. He worked odd jobs, his small frame and lack of any discernible outward power making him easy prey for unscrupulous employers. He stretched their meager savings, rationing food, and doing his best to shield Lily from the truth, weaving stories of their parents on a long, important trip. He saw his own quiet defiance in Lily, her small, determined face echoing his own struggles.
But children are perceptive. Lily's laughter faded, replaced by a quiet sadness, a constant question in her eyes. He knew she suspected something, but she never voiced her fears, as if afraid that saying it aloud would make it real. He'd watch her sometimes, trying to coax tiny sparks of power, mimicking the kids in the street, her little hands clenching, her brow furrowed in concentration. Nothing ever manifested.
Then, one day, Lily was gone too.
He'd left her at a neighbor's, a kind old woman who occasionally helped him, while he worked a double shift at a grimy processing plant. When he returned, the apartment was empty, the door ajar. Lily's teddy bear lay abandoned on the floor, a stark monument to her absence. There was no sign of struggle, no forced entry. Just an emptiness that screamed louder than any alarm.
The police were even less helpful this time. Another missing person, another closed case. Jake was alone. Utterly, irrevocably alone. The grief was a physical weight, but beneath it, a cold, hard resolve began to form. He wasn't just missing his family; they had been taken. And he had a terrifying, growing suspicion that it was connected to people like him, to the hidden "variance," to the very nature of low-grades and what they might truly represent.
The memory of that day was a raw, open wound, a constant ache in his soul. He carried it with him, a silent burden that fueled his quiet rage, his desperate need to understand.
Nightfall, with its secrets and its power, felt like the only place where he might find answers. Why were low-grades disappearing? Was it connected to these hidden potentials, these "variance signatures" that even Dr. Aris, with all her formidable power, found unsettling? What happened to his family? Was there a connection between his own anomaly and their fate?
He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he wouldn't rest until he found it. The "F" on his record was a lie, a carefully constructed facade. But beneath it, something stirred. A power he didn't understand, a potential that even a high-grade like Dr. Aris found unsettling, a potential she was ordered to keep secret.
And he would use it. He would use it to find the truth, to avenge his family, and to finally break free from the chains of his past. The fight for survival had just begun, but now, it had a terrifying, deeply personal purpose.