"Efficiency is the enemy of soul, but the best friend of victory." — Solmere, after the First Win.
...
Three weeks into World Cup preparation, Gabriel had developed a system. It wasn't a habit; habits were unconscious. This was a protocol.
Every morning at precisely 6:47 AM, he would sit on the edge of his bed and close his eyes. He didn't meditate to clear his mind; he meditated to overclock it. He would extend his consciousness through the digital networks that connected UFPA to its satellite campuses. To a normal observer, he was just a young man sitting in silence. To Gabriel, the world dissolved into a cascading waterfall of neon grid lines and data packets.
He saw the bottlenecks in the university's server. He saw the latency in the research databases. With a mental flick of his wrist, he rerouted the traffic. He optimized the flow. He smoothed out the bumps in reality until the data streamed like mercury.
It took thirty-seven seconds and left him with a cold, metallic pressure behind his temples — like a wire being tightened inside his skull.
Small price for competitive advantage, he told himself, rubbing his temples.
At 9:15 AM, during the team's first strategy session, he would subtly enhance the cognitive environment. He could feel the ambient temperature of the room. 24 degrees Celsius? Too warm for high-stakes problem solving. He nudged the sensors. 21 degrees. Alertness optimized.
He glanced at the coffee machine in the corner. The water pressure was inconsistent. He reached out with his mana, just a tendril, and adjusted the extraction pressure. The coffee produced was no longer just a beverage; it was a precise chemical compound designed for peak neural firing.
Acceptable cost.
By 2:30 PM, when energy typically flagged and human minds began to wander toward dinner plans or relationship dramas, he would send imperceptible pulses through his teammates' devices. Removing friction. Ensuring their laptops didn't lag, their phones didn't drop calls. Optimizing human potential by removing the excuse of technical failure.
The headache was now accompanied by a peculiar emptiness, as if something warm in his chest — empathy, perhaps, or patience — was being slowly drained away and replaced by humming machinery.
Gabriel documented these interventions in an encrypted file titled "Environmental Optimization Protocols." The clinical language helped. It made the growing void feel strategic rather than symptomatic.
[System Notification: Daily Optimization Complete.]
[Efficiency Bonus: +15%.]
[Humanity Tax: 2%.]
...
"Your efficiency ratings are unprecedented," Mikaela observed during one of their evening consultations.
They were alone in the glass-walled conference room. The rest of the campus was dark, but their room was an island of light. Mikaela sat at the head of the table, reviewing the Vila Esperança logs.
"Pattern recognition," Gabriel said with a practiced smile. It was the smile he used for investors — perfectly symmetrical, reaching the eyes just enough to feign warmth. "When you understand systems deeply enough, you start seeing outcomes before they manifest."
"Show me," she said, leaning forward with hunger. She wasn't looking at him like a colleague. She was looking at him like a scientist looking at a new element.
Gabriel opened his laptop. He pulled up the live monitoring system.
"Watch."
Without conscious thought, he extended his awareness. He didn't just look at the numbers; he became the circuit. He felt the resistance in the wires miles away. He felt the friction in the pump bearings.
[Command: Overclock.]
He pushed.
The screen lit up. The flow rate numbers climbed past 100%, past 110%. The energy consumption dropped. It violated the laws of thermodynamics. It was impossible.
Mikaela's eyes widened. She breathed out, a soft sound of genuine awe. "Jesus. How?"
"Next-generation adaptive algorithms," Gabriel lied smoothly. "The miracle of AI."
Watching her face transform from professional respect to reverence, Gabriel felt a dangerous warmth spread through his chest. It wasn't the golden light of connection he once knew with Luna. It was colder. Blue. Addictive.
It was the recognition that he was, in measurable, quantifiable ways, better than everyone else in the room.
...
The original Resilientes had become satellites orbiting a star that was burning too hot.
Gabriel noticed it during the morning briefings. Marina still technically led the meetings, standing at the front of the room, but her eyes constantly flicked to him. She checked his expression after every point, seeking the microscopic nod that indicated approval. When she didn't get it, she faltered.
Carlos had become a translator. He no longer debated ideas; he took Gabriel's high-level directives and converted them into language the mere mortals of the engineering department could understand.
But Caio's transformation was the most painful to witness.
It happened on a Tuesday. The tension in the room was high. They were behind schedule on the Miami logistics.
"Man," Caio said, trying to break the heavy silence, leaning back in his chair with a forced grin. "With this pace, we're gonna need IV drips for the coffee. Maybe we can engineer a caffeine patch? Stick it right on the jugular?"
It was a classic Caio joke. A year ago, Gabriel would have laughed. He would have thrown a pen at him.
Now, Gabriel slowly turned his head. He looked at Caio with eyes that were flat and unamused.
"Intravenous delivery would result in an immediate adrenal spike followed by a crash," Gabriel said, his voice devoid of inflection. "It would reduce cognitive efficiency by 40% after two hours. It is a suboptimal solution."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Caio's smile faltered, then died. He looked at Gabriel as if he were looking at a stranger wearing his best friend's face.
"Right," Caio mumbled, looking down at his hands. "Just... just a joke, Gab."
"We don't have time for jokes, Caio," Gabriel said, turning back to his screen. "We have a schedule."
Leonardo watched the exchange from the corner. He didn't say anything. He just wrote something down in his notebook, his pen pressing hard enough to almost tear the paper.
Later, Gabriel found Leonardo alone in the break room.
"Nostalgic?" Gabriel asked, noting the way Leonardo was staring at the coffee machine.
Leonardo looked up. "Do you remember the first keychain you made? For Marina's birthday?"
Gabriel frowned. He tried to access the memory, but it felt distant, covered in static. "Vaguely. Why?"
"You spent three hours on it," Leonardo said softly. "You kept restarting because you wanted it to carry the right... feeling. You said making something by hand was the only way to put your actual attention into it. You said imperfections were the fingerprints of the soul."
"Inefficient process," Gabriel replied automatically. "I've optimized the workflow since then. The new ones are stronger. Lighter."
Leonardo looked at him, sadness deep in his eyes. "I found one of your new keychains yesterday. It's beautiful, Gabriel. Technically perfect. But when I held it... it felt cold."
The word hung between them like an accusation.
"Perfection often feels cold to people used to imperfection," Gabriel said, defensive.
Leonardo nodded slowly. "Sure. Makes sense."
Makes sense wasn't agreement. It was the diplomatic courtesy extended to authority figures when arguing would be pointless. It was the white flag of a friend who realizes he can no longer reach the person across the table.
For the first time since beginning his optimization protocols, Gabriel felt a crack in the machinery of his confidence. A glitch.
...
"Your friends are worried about you," Mikaela said later that night.
The building was empty. The cleaning crew had gone home. The city lights of Belém streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold, reflecting off the glass tables.
"Worried how?" Gabriel asked, not looking up from his screen. He was rewriting the Miami pitch deck for the third time.
"The usual concerns people have when someone starts operating at a level they can't follow," Mikaela said without judgment. She walked around the table, her heels clicking on the polished floor. "They feel left behind. Because they are."
Gabriel's hands stilled on the keyboard. "They're not left behind. They're my team."
"They are anchors," Mikaela corrected gently. "Anchors are useful when you want to stay in the harbor. But you? You are trying to cross an ocean."
She moved to stand behind him, looking at the reflection of the city.
"You've evolved past the need for their validation, Gabriel. The question is: have you evolved past the need for their comfort?"
"I haven't changed that much."
Mikaela smiled, and in the reflection, it looked sharp. "Haven't you? When was the last time you genuinely asked for their advice? When was the last time their opinion influenced a major decision?"
Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. He searched his database of recent interactions.
Zero results found.
He couldn't remember.
"That's not because I don't value them," he said carefully.
"It's because you've developed capabilities they can't match. It's evolution, Gabriel. Natural and necessary." She placed a hand on his shoulder. It was warm, but it felt like a brand. "Are you going to apologize for being exceptional? Are you going to dim your light just so their eyes don't hurt?"
Gabriel looked at their reflection in the window. Two figures bent over data, working while the world slept. They looked like gods playing with a simulation.
"You're right," he said quietly. The admission tasted like ash. "I have evolved."
Mikaela's smile was sharp as a blade. "Good. Now let's make sure the world sees exactly what you've become."
...
Gabriel's apartment at 3 AM was a temple to productivity.
In the corner, his old workbench — once a place of sawdust and happy accidents — had been converted into a high-precision manufacturing station. Dozens of identical keychains lay in geometric arrays. Flawless. Efficient. Soulless.
Gabriel picked one up. It was lighter than the old ones. Stronger.
When had "good enough for anyone" replaced "perfect for someone"?
He sat at his computer. He tried to write the opening speech for the World Cup. He wanted to write about collaboration. About love.
But every sentence felt false. Like trying to write poetry in binary code.
Instead, his fingers moved on their own:
"Effective leadership requires the courage to transcend the limitations of consensus. Optimal outcomes demand decisive authority backed by superior capability. The mathematics of excellence are unforgiving: sentiment must yield to strategy.
He read it twice. It was elegant. Ruthless. Powerful.
It was something the Gabriel of six months ago would have found horrifying.
He closed his laptop. In the black reflection of the screen, he saw a face he barely recognized. Harder angles. Calculating eyes. A mouth that had forgotten how to smile without a reason.
He felt a sudden, desperate need to connect. To feel something real.
I should call Luna.
No. He couldn't call her. The signal was too weak.
Remember her, he commanded himself.
He closed his eyes and tried to conjure her face.
[System Access: Memory File 'Luna'.]
[Processing...]
[Error: Data Corrupted.]
He saw silver. He saw a sword. He saw stats: Strategic Intelligence: High. Combat Ability: Legendary.
But the warmth? The sound of her laugh? The way she smelled of ozone and moonflowers?
Optimized away. Compressed to save space for more "useful" data.
Panic rose in his throat, hot and acrid. He rushed to his desk drawer, tearing it open, searching for an anchor.
His fingers found a single keychain buried beneath perfectly organized cables. It was crude. Asymmetrical. It showed fingerprints.
On the back, scratched into the metal: "For Marina — because leaders need reminders that they're human too. -G"
Gabriel stared at it. He tried to access the person who had made it. Why would anyone deliberately create something flawed? Why leave the edges rough?
The effort made his head hurt. Not the clean, cold pain of optimization, but something deeper. A bruising ache. Mourning.
After ten minutes of staring at the metal, Gabriel placed the keychain back in the drawer. He closed it gently, like closing a casket.
There would be time for sentiment after victory. Right now, the mathematics of excellence demanded his full attention.
And mathematics, unlike memory, never lied.[1]
[System Notification: Humanity Stat Decreased.]
[Class Evolution: Sovereign of Solitude.]
[Warning: The Heart is becoming an inefficient organ.]
[1] ...