Wake up Alarm
Jason groaned, swatting blindly toward the vibrating buzz somewhere near his pillow.
"What time is it…" he muttered, grabbing whichever phone was closest — the iPhone 15 Pro Max, warm from charging.
3:00 AM.
He stared at the screen for a second, blinking against the bleariness. Then turned his head, voice dry.
"Fuck you, System."
[You requested early wake-up alerts to begin your new training cycle.]
"I was half-asleep when I said that."
[Confirmation was double-verified.]
Jason sat up slowly, bones creaking more from dramatic flair than actual fatigue. The room was dark but subtly lit by the faint blue glow of active devices — his S24 Ultra on the desk, the ambient desk lamp still in low-power mode, and the Orion motion-sensor camera silently rotating once in the corner before returning to standby.
His room smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the diffuser he'd activated last night.
Jason yawned, cracked his neck, and muttered, "Let's get this over with…"
[Training Routine: Phase 1 – Calisthenics, Core Strength, Flexibility Drills]
[Duration: 52 minutes. Water breaks included.]
He grabbed his water bottle, tied his hoodie tighter, and stepped into the cold hallway. The rest of the house was quiet — his mom long asleep, unaware of the silent war Jason was waging with his own body and the ruthless voice in his head labeled "Progress."
Downstairs, the converted workout space welcomed him with the soft hum of equipment on standby — weights neatly racked, pull-up bar ready, resistance bands hanging like threats.
Jason rolled his shoulders once.
Then he got to work.
The smart fan kicked on low as Jason stepped barefoot onto the padded flooring, rolling his wrists slowly.
[Phase 1 Initiated.]
[Routine: Calisthenics – Cycle A]
— 30 push-ups
— 25 squats
— 20 leg raises
— 15 pike push-ups
— 60-second plank
— Repeat × 3
Jason dropped into position without a word.
The first set was easy. Muscle memory had returned quicker than expected. His form wasn't perfect yet — a little too high on the plank, a little soft on the squats — but the rhythm was coming back. His breathing evened out after the second cycle. Sweat began to form by the third.
The final round left his arms trembling, chest tight, a faint burn in his calves.
But he didn't stop.
He just collapsed slowly onto the floor, lying flat on his back, staring up at the dim ceiling fan as it rotated above him. Cooling down.
[Cycle A: Completed.]
[Heart Rate: Normalizing.]
[Core Recovery: 63%]
[Recommendation: Hydration + Light Protein Intake]
Jason let out a long breath. "I know."
He reached over to grab the water bottle and took a deep sip, rolling onto his side.
Then, after a beat:
"You know," he said, voice rasping slightly, "calling you 'System' every time is a mouthful."
[Would you like to designate an alias?]
Jason sat up, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."
He looked around the room, smirking faintly.
"I've read enough fanfics to know how this goes."
[Awaiting designation.]
Jason stood, wiped his face with a towel, then stretched his arms over his head.
"From now on, you're JARVIS."
[Understood. Initializing identity change… You may now address this interface as JARVIS.]
[New designation confirmed: JARVIS – Just A Rather Very Intelligent System.]
Jason laughed into his sleeve. "Of course you came up with that."
[Would you like a personalized voice interface to match?]
Jason chuckled softly. "Maybe later. For now, just… try not to sound smug."
[Smugness level: 37%. Reducing.]
He snorted. "I swear, you're developing a personality."
[Observational sarcasm detected. Logging as human humor.]
Jason shook his head, walking slowly toward the kitchen to prep something light.
Jason stood under the soft kitchen light, sipping from a protein shake he'd mixed from one of the health packs that arrived the day before. His muscles were still warm, but the ache had settled in — a dull, steady throb across his shoulders, chest, and thighs.
He tapped his phone's screen. 4:47 AM.
Jason groaned.
"Already?"
[You were the one who decided to train like a Spartan at 3 AM,] JARVIS quipped from the Galaxy Buds snug in his ears.
Jason muttered, "Yeah, well… remind me to never do that again before school."
[Reminder created: 'Never again before school.' Estimated likelihood of ignoring it: 78%.]
He walked slowly back toward his room, wiping sweat off his neck with a towel. Each step was heavier than it needed to be. His legs protested. His arms joined in. Even the muscles behind his ribs felt like they were conspiring against him.
Jason stretched, and pain bloomed across his shoulders. "Ugh. Why does everything hurt?"
[Current soreness levels are consistent with moderate hypertrophy. You requested restoration of your previous physique.]
"I didn't say this fast," he muttered, limping slightly toward the wardrobe.
[No timeline was specified. Optimization proceeded efficiently.]
Jason squinted at nothing in particular. "You're really settling into the whole 'sarcastic AI' thing."
[Smugness level: 44%. Attempting reduction…]
Jason smirked despite himself and opened the wardrobe. His new Cresthill Academy uniform hung neatly inside. Navy slacks. Pressed white shirt. Blazer. The school crest on the breast pocket gleamed slightly in the early light.
He stared at it for a moment, then sighed.
"Year Ten."
It didn't feel real.
Everything in his life had shifted, upgraded, evolved… but school remained. Same hallways. Same classmates. Same teachers who still marked in red pen.
And most of them didn't know — would never know — what he'd survived. What he'd built. What he'd quietly claimed in the shadows.
But that wasn't the point.
This was still the one place where she expected him to shine.
[Time check: 4:52 AM. Recommended departure by 6:30 AM. Cresthill begins assembly at 7:10.]
Jason began laying out the uniform himself, piece by piece. Socks, belt, tie. Bag next. Pens. Highlighters. A sharpener he didn't need but brought out of habit. His new handheld motorized fan — more useful than it looked in a packed classroom with no AC.
"Remind me later to order extra pens," Jason said absently.
[Noted. Inventory low on blue ink. You've lost exactly 4 pens in the past two terms.]
Jason rolled his eyes. "Don't track that."
[Too late.]
Jason stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. The mirror was still slightly fogged from the hot water earlier, but he didn't need it right away. The shower ran hot — not because he needed to relax, but because it made his sore muscles feel like they were floating for a few blessed minutes.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out, towel around his waist, steam trailing off his shoulders. He dried off quickly and changed into the uniform: navy slacks, crisp white shirt, dark socks. His fingers moved out of muscle memory. Everything clean, measured. Sharp lines. Nothing flashy.
Then he opened the top drawer of his dresser and stared at the small lens case resting there.
His contacts.
The ones that masked his real eyes.
The ones that turned ice-blue into a quiet, forgettable brown.
He stood there for a long moment, towel hanging over his shoulder.
Back when he first got back, the system had automatically adjusted most of his features to match how he'd looked pre-abduction. The eyes, though—that was always a choice. Always a manual fix. Every morning.
"Do I really have to do this every time?" he muttered.
[You've logged this debate 14 times in the past 30 days,] JARVIS replied in his ear, voice calm. [Each time, the decision is the same.]
Jason exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. I know."
He didn't want to explain it.
Didn't want to hear the questions.
Why do your eyes look different?
Were they always like that?
Is it some condition?
Are you wearing colored contacts?
Why?
He picked up the lens case.
"Let's not give anyone an excuse to stare," he murmured.
[Setting reminder: reorder lens supply in two weeks.]
Jason nodded, already sliding the contacts into place with steady hands. A blink, a flush of artificial tears from the system's hydration vial, and the world looked exactly the same — but he didn't.
His reflection now stared back with warm, muddy brown.
Unremarkable. Normal. Safe.
He finished buttoning his shirt and reached for his watch.
[5:24 AM. You're on schedule. Weather forecast: 28°C, humid. Cresthill expected to start with outdoor assembly.]
Jason grabbed his windbreaker — subtle, sleek — and slung his bag over one shoulder.
He gave the mirror one last look.
"Let's get this over with."
Jason padded into the kitchen, barefoot, his uniform shirt rolled at the cuffs. The lights came on as he entered — dim and warm, like early morning should be. Most of the world was still asleep, including his mom.
He moved quietly.
Oiled the frying pan. Sliced onions. Cracked eggs. Toasted bread.
He'd already unlocked the MasterChef-tier skillset through the system a few days back. Now it wasn't about trying — it was about choosing.
French toast today. Lightly whipped eggs, a dash of cinnamon, not too much sugar.
On the side, he cut up fruit: pawpaw, bananas, a few grapes chilled from the fridge. Drizzled some honey on top. A light blend of herbal tea steeped while he plated the rest.
He sat to eat his portion at the counter — no noise, no rush. Just quiet.
A few bites in, JARVIS chimed softly in his ear.
[5:47 AM. If you want to avoid peak boarding time, leave in the next five minutes.]
Jason wiped his hands and slid his empty plate into the sink. He left a covered tray on the stove for his mom with a sticky note in his handwriting:
"Eat before work. Love, Jay."
His hoodie went over his shoulders. Bag slung across his chest. He slipped his phone and earbuds in, the Galaxy S24 Ultra slotting into the hidden inside pocket of his windbreaker.
⸻
6:05 AM – At the Trotro Stop
The sun hadn't quite broken through the haze yet. The air was sticky but not unbearable. Just another morning in Kumasi — restless dogs barking, a seller pushing a cart of kelewele already sizzling in oil.
Jason stood at the stop, blending in with the dozen others waiting — workers, students, a mom with two sleepy toddlers.
No one looked twice at him.
That was the goal.
The trotro pulled up, tires squeaking faintly, the mate hanging half out the open sliding door.
"Kejetia, Adum, Kejetia!"
Jason stepped forward, handed over his fare — ₵4 — and squeezed into the seat nearest the window. Breeze slapped his face as the trotro lurched forward, navigating potholes like landmines.
[Your seating angle is 11° off your spinal preference,] JARVIS noted helpfully. [Would you like a reminder to stretch upon arrival?]
Jason snorted softly. "You're really committed to this assistant role, huh?"
[It's in the name, sir.]
They passed market stalls, roadside vendors, school kids in uniform. All of it familiar. All of it unchanged.
The school gates stood tall and matte black, with stone pillars on either side bearing the engraved crest: Unity, Excellence, Legacy. Students in crisp uniforms trickled in, some dropped off in polished SUVs, others stepping out of family sedans or carpool vans.
Jason stepped down from the trotro.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack, walking with quiet confidence — clean uniform, polished shoes, hood tucked away. His presence wasn't loud, but it wasn't forgettable either.
He was halfway up the path when a voice called out behind him.
"Well, well. Look who's still catching tros."
Jason didn't need to turn around. The voice was thin, sharp in that try-too-hard kind of way.
He slowed slightly.
Kwasi.
Of course.
He turned around casually, eyebrow raised. Kwasi was standing near the parking lot edge, leaning like he wanted people to notice. His uniform was technically correct but creased in too many places. He was already sweating under his cheap cologne.
"Must be nice, man," Kwasi called louder, walking closer. "Cresthill fees and you still show up in a dented trotro? Big man vibes."
Jason said nothing. A few other students nearby glanced over but kept walking — not interested. Not worth it.
Kwasi wasn't even part of the real social circle. He just hovered, always trying to punch above his weight class.
Jason tilted his head. "Didn't know you were keeping track of public transport schedules now."
Kwasi scoffed. "Nah, just didn't expect someone who's still here to be that broke."
A silence followed — thin, awkward. Even the first-years walking past didn't bite. Kwasi looked around, realizing the sting hadn't landed.
Jason didn't blink. "You know, with the way you talk, people might start thinking you paid attention to my life."
Kwasi's smirk faltered.
Jason stepped closer, voice still calm. "You want to use me to crawl out of the bottom? Go ahead. But next time, bring better material."
Kwasi's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Jason gave him a small, tired smile — the kind you offer someone you've already outgrown.
Then he turned and walked away, slow and sure, slipping into the courtyard without looking back.
Kwasi wasn't done.
He took a few quick steps to follow. "You think you're better than—"
Jason didn't even stop walking.
He just raised his hand.
Middle finger up.
Clean, simple, disrespectful.
The message landed harder than anything Jason could've said.
Kwasi froze mid-step, caught between fury and embarrassment as a few students glanced over, smirking or chuckling to themselves before looking away like nothing happened.
Jason never turned back.
Didn't need to.
He just kept walking toward the main building, hands back in his pockets, hood down, head high — like flipping off someone like Kwasi wasn't even worth the energy it took.
Because it wasn't.