「On the morning commute」
I took the train today.
Not because I suddenly loved public transport, but because anything that could shorten the same gloomy journey I'd been repeating for the past two months was worth trying.
After getting off, I swiped my card and moved toward the crossing.
That was when I saw her.
A woman. Early thirties, maybe. One child in a carrier on her chest, the other—older—currently attempting to overthrow the government through physical violence.
The older kid was pushing her, twisting, whining at full volume. Clearly, his mother had refused some request. Judging by the intensity of the rebellion, it was probably something extremely important. Like candy. Or a dinosaur. Or the moon.
Meanwhile, the baby in the carrier stared at his brother with wide, silent judgment.
Honestly, the baby looked more mature.
I walked over.
Yes, yes. I know. I'm such a kind person.
Not really.
I was already irritated, and the kid's behavior gave me a socially acceptable excuse to intervene. If necessary, I was fully prepared to deliver a gentle educational pinch.
"Hello, ma'am. Do you need any help?" I asked, putting on my most harmless smile.
She looked up, confused.
For a second, her expression clearly said: Is this boy about to run off with one of my children?
Then her eyes dropped to the emblem on my breast pocket.
Phoenix High Wing.
Her posture relaxed immediately.
Prestige really was useful. Apparently, wearing a good school badge automatically reduced your kidnapping probability.
Between the badge and her son escalating from pushing to full-contact assault, she nodded gratefully.
Good.
One step closer to justice.
And by justice, I meant pinching this kid hard enough to reset his operating system.
My school was prestigious.
Surprised?
That's what happens when your father goes missing during active duty.
Since they never found solid proof that he was actually a terrorist, the government couldn't completely cut off our benefits. Especially not after the number of honors he'd received over the years.
Still, I couldn't help thinking we'd been cheated.
What was the point of attending a top school if it was filled with rich, arrogant snobs?
Prestige didn't make the atmosphere any less toxic.
After helping her cross, I headed toward the campus gates.
The Phoenix engraving gleamed above the entrance.
Beyond it stood rows of statues—colonels, generals, decorated officers. Heroes, legends, symbols of what the school expected its students to become.
I scanned my ID and stepped inside.
The halls were crowded. Students rushed past, bags swinging, voices overlapping, everyone trying to beat the bell.
I, on the other hand, walked at a steady pace.
Yes, I was late.
But I had a reasonable excuse.
And besides, experience had taught me something important: if you kept your head down and looked sufficiently gloomy, most teachers wouldn't bother asking questions.
They knew my situation.
Sympathy was a powerful attendance policy.
When I entered the classroom, the prefect was already calling attendance.
Margaret.
She looked up.
Her pretty face darkened immediately.
Right. I'd forgotten.
There was one person in this world who did not believe in sympathy.
I took my seat just as she called my name.
Then came the familiar sound.
Tap. Tap.
Without turning, I said, "Hello, Margaret. Is there a problem?"
Her expression darkened further.
"You know there is. Look at my watch. Your arrival time is unacceptable. This will affect our class points. You're an hour late!"
"Only an hour?" I replied, matching her tone but adding a layer of exaggerated concern. "Then please report me to the teacher. I'm trying to rest and would prefer not to continue this discussion."
I turned away.
Her face went from angry to explosive.
She opened her mouth—
—and the classroom door opened.
Saved by the system.
I glanced back and gave her a small, mocking smile.
She huffed and returned to her seat like a kettle that hadn't quite reached boiling point.
"Settle down, please."
Mr. Venyer entered.
He was lean, built solidly despite his age. His hair, cropped short and streaked with gray, framed a face lined by years of discipline.
He didn't tower over anyone.
But his presence filled the room.
The kind of presence that made students sit up straighter without realizing it.
His eyes swept across the class.
Each student he looked at snapped upright so quickly it was a miracle no one strained a muscle.
Personally, I wasn't worried.
What was he going to do? Make me run twenty laps?
The only thing I truly feared was his habit of requesting tea meetings with my mother.
That kind of damage lasted longer than physical training.
So I sat properly.
Respectful. On the outside.
He carried a thick stack of papers.
Mock exams.
My mood dropped immediately.
I was fairly sure I had failed.
Still, maybe luck existed.
Maybe.
"Good to see you all healthy and in one piece," Mr. Venyer began.
A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Frankly, I expected a few of you to arrive on stretchers after last week."
No one laughed.
Laughing at a teacher's joke required either courage or a medical diagnosis.
Last week's military drills had nearly broken half the class. Compared to that, the Scorched Barrens sounded relaxing.
Thankfully, I'd trained before. Otherwise, I'd probably still be walking sideways.
He dropped the papers on the desk.
"Now then. Your exams."
He rubbed his temples.
"Some of you wrote as if your goal was to destroy the paper rather than answer the questions."
A pause.
"These were only practice. In one month, you will sit the real examination. Compared to that, this will feel like a walk along the edge of the Scorched Barrens."
His gaze hardened.
"You are not ready. Not yet."
"The exam consists of ten papers. Three compulsory—Science, Mathematics, and Language—and five elective subjects."
He scanned the room.
"Based on your current averages, some of you are not even qualified for military admission. Though I'm sure a few of you believe otherwise."
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
"The highest score," he continued, "was Margaret. As expected. Nine hundred and ten out of one thousand."
Margaret sat even straighter.
"The lowest…"
His eyes moved.
Stopped.
On me.
I immediately lowered my head and studied my desk. Fascinating object. Wood grain. Subtle scratches. Excellent craftsmanship.
"…Three hundred and fifty-three."
The room reacted instantly.
Whispers. Gasps. Quiet calculations.
If that was the lowest, then where did everyone else stand?
"The class average was approximately six hundred and fifty," he continued. "That figure was carried by ten high scorers. The rest of you… heard my earlier comments."
"The papers will be distributed during lunch."
He nodded toward Margaret.
Then turned.
At that exact moment, I looked up.
Mistake.
He was looking directly at me.
"Mr. Sebastian," he said calmly.
"You know where to report during lunch."
Then he turned and walked out.
Which meant only one thing.
Lunch was officially cancelled.