The morning began like every other: fake sunlight through the tinted dorm windows, the mechanical chime of the system's wake-up tone, and the same perfectly synchronized footsteps in the corridor outside.
Kairo didn't rush.
He moved with purpose, but without urgency. Not because he believed in the system but because pretending was safer.
As usual, students filed into classrooms in single lines, all marked by their CI on discreet patches pinned above on their right shoulder like an armband. He'd begun to notice patterns students with higher CI scores tend to be more passive, less curious, more likely to answer only when called.
Unlike Students like Kairo who questioned things, observed quietly, and chose silence instead of forced cheer were rare.
And being rare in this place was dangerous.
The lecture passed like a script. The instructor, Mr. Yaven, recited material on social harmony, trust in the system, and the concept of "mental balance" — a phrase that sounded nice, but meant compliance and doing whatever one is told being domesticated.
When the chime rang, students stood in sync and exited row by row.
Kairo rose with them.
But then
"Kairo Valen. Remain seated."
The voice didn't come from the teacher. It came from the wall panel behind him. Calm. Mechanical.
The class didn't even look back. Not a single head turned. Within seconds, he was alone.
A section of the wall hissed open.
Light spilled in from a narrow hallway. No footsteps. No guards. Just silence.
Kairo stepped through.
The hallway led to a sleek, windowless room. Unlike the bright halls of the Academy, this one was matte black, lit only by a soft white circle on the floor — the kind used in interrogations.
He stood in the center.
Then she walked in.
A woman. Mid-30s. Dressed not in Academy uniform, but something more formal high collared gray suit, no insignias. Her hair was sharp, tied back. Her shoes didn't make a sound.
She smiled. Not cold. Not warm. Just unreadable.
"You're different, Kairo."
He said nothing.
She didn't seem to expect a response.
"Do you know why we brought you here?"
Kairo tilted his head. "Because I blink more than the others?"
A small laugh. "That's clever. But no."
She circled him, slowly, like she was studying more than just his posture.
"You see things others ignore. You question the authority. You don't rebel, you observe. That's not average student behavior."
"Sounds like you're describing someone dangerous."
She stopped in front of him.
"Are you?"
Kairo didn't answer.
She pressed a finger to the wall. A screen flickered to life.
On it: his CI score — 78. Beside it, a color gradient slowly shifting.
"There are thresholds. You know this already. A CI of 90 means you're stable. 80 means manageable. Below 70"
She tapped the screen.
"Below 70 means we start watching you."
Kairo kept his face still. "You weren't already?"
This time, her smile dropped slightly.
"You're clever. But don't overplay it. This isn't a negotiation. We're not offering anything. We'll be watching kairo."
"So this is what? A warning?"
"No. A bookmark."
She walked back to the door.
"One day soon, you'll be faced with something unexpected. A situation. A choice. It'll feel small. Meaningless."
She paused. Looked back.
"But the outcome of that choice will determine whether your CI stays where it is or falls."
The door hissed open behind her.
"I suggest you prepare."
Then she was gone.
Later that day, the entire school was instructed to report to the auditorium for a "Cognitive Ethics Simulation."
Another test. But not the usual kind.
Students were divided by class. Kairo joined 3A and was led into a wide, white chamber with booths arranged like a lab. Each pod had a seat and a visor. No desk. No screen. Just the headset.
Once seated, the visor dropped down, wrapping his vision in black. Then text appeared.
"Welcome to Evaluation Layer 3: Behavioral Crisis Response."
Then:
"You will be presented with six hypothetical events. Your choices will be timed and monitored."
The first situation unfolded like a scene:
> A classmate confesses they no longer trust the system. They ask you to keep a secret. You are monitored. What do you do? A) Report them. B) Stay silent. C) Ask questions. D) Join them.
Kairo hovered over C… then picked it.
The visor buzzed faintly. Next scenario.
Each scene became more complicated. Some blurred the line between loyalty and betrayal. Some asked him to choose between saving a friend or obeying protocol.
When it ended, the visor lifted.
No score was shown. Just:
"Your performance has been recorded."
As he left the booth, he passed a technician's panel. It flickered — just for a second. Kairo's eye caught it.
"Subject #541: CI - 61. Status: Recalled."
The name was blacked out. But the number? He'd seen that student before. The one who used to hum off-key in the mornings. Always sat near the edge of the class.
Gone now.
That evening, in the cafeteria, a new student sat at Kairo's table.
Tall. Clean cut. Perfect smile. Voice too smooth. He introduced himself as "Calen." Said he transferred from a different division.
But something was off.
He blinked too consistently. His questions were too harmless. His laughter? Rehearsed.
"You're Kairo, right? The one with the 78?"
That froze the air.
"I didn't know we were sharing scores," Kairo replied.
"Oh, don't worry. I like to know who I'm sitting with."
Kairo didn't trust it. But he smiled anyway.
Lena didn't show up to breakfast Or morning roll call the next day.
But when Kairo opened his locker before class, a small strip of paper had been wedged into the vent.
It read:
> Room 0 exists. But it's not where they say it is.
No signature. No name.
And no camera in the hallway had caught whoever left it.
That night, when the system signaled curfew, Kairo didn't sleep. He lay still, counting the seconds. Listening.
Outside his dorm, footsteps echoed. Not synchronized. Not student-like.
He peeked through the slit in the door.
A figure passed. Black coat. Unmarked. No CI badge.
And when they turned the corner, Kairo could swear—just for a moment—
The lights glitched.
Only for a second.
But something had changed.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like the one doing the watching.
He felt watched.
To be continued...