District 1
...
"A law was enacted at 1:00 AM that compels all able-bodied individuals to report for mandatory military service. This new law was a modification of the former that stated all older than 21 must participate in military service.
Instead, it extends the requirement to all individuals aged 16 and above. The enforcement of this law has faced considerable backlash, with many asserting that enlisting children under the age of consent is unacceptable.
The rapid implementation of this mandate has raised serious concerns among the public..."
A lady in a white lab coat smiled at the new she taped he watch to let the holographic image to disipate. Suddenly, the watch began to beep incessantly, tapping on he left side, she picked up the call.
"We caught one," a feminine voice announced from the watch.
"Alert the pilot, I'll be flying out tonight," she responded before tapping the watch twice to make the image disappear.
A sinister glint crossed his emeraled eyes.
********
District 4
...
The shrill sound of an alarm clock echoed through the smart walls of the small apartment.
Jim stared at the hovering display in annoyance before tapping its screen with two fingers. The holographic clock flickered and fell silent.
He always woke up before its insistent beeping—money wasted.
Still half-asleep, he sat up, the transparent disc-like clock hovering obediently in his palm. He flicked through melodies with a swipe. If it was going to ruin his silence, it might as well do so with some dignity. He settled on Ring of Fire by Rone, a soft rock song trending lately. He liked its mellow intensity—it stirred something in him.
With a reluctant sigh, Jim rose from the levitating bed, the sheets whispering beneath him. They were old—the smart fabric had lost its luster, and the once-luminous patterns were now just faint outlines. It was time to replace them.
Stretching, he surveyed his room—a small space reimagined to suit his taste.
A forty-inch transparent display was seamlessly integrated into the wall at the foot of his bed, hovering slightly, only visible when in use. The matte-white panels around it curved inward, giving the illusion of depth. The wall to his left was embedded with sleek, touch-sensitive surfaces. At a gesture, the panels parted, revealing recessed compartments holding physical books—rare, but dear to him. Another gesture revealed school materials, all perfectly organized. Below them, self-sorting drawers housed his stationery, each item in its rightful place.
His bed floated slightly above the ground, stabilized by quiet repulsion coils that let off a faint hum. Beneath it, biometric drawers stored his few clothes and shoes—discreet, minimal, secure.
To the right was a compact open kitchen, all smooth black panels and handle-less cabinets. Appliances were integrated behind smart glass—barely visible unless summoned by touch or voice. A sleek fold-out dining table curved from the counter, paired with two magnetic stools that hovered just above the floor.
Opposite his bed, a sliding door led to the bathroom, outlined by a soft pulse of blue light indicating availability. Even that was part of the design—subtle cues that made the small space feel alive.
The walls were clean, save for one—his personal wall. It bore augmented reality projections: rotating covers of his favorite books, dynamic game posters, and occasionally, abstract art based on his mood. They vanished with a word, returning the surface to blank tranquility.
Despite its modest size, the room felt tailored to him—like a command center in a quiet war against chaos.
Jim liked it that way. Clean. Controlled.
It gave him peace.
But today, his gaze remained on the offending alarm clock, its circular form now dim and apologetic in his hand.
He couldn't help but imagine the pleasures he could have otherwise enjoyed: a new immersive game, a freshly released novel, or maybe even a new stylus set for his desk—a sleek collection of tools that would actually be useful.
The thought lingered unpleasantly.
He prepared himself a light breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast prepared on a temperature-sensitive induction slab, paired with black coffee brewed in a flash by his wall-integrated assistant.
He cleaned up with a few voice commands, the kitchen restoring itself to its pristine default.
He took his bag—simple, compact, and smart—and slipped on his headphones. Music pulsed softly as he stepped out into the cool morning.
He walked to school, knowing he'd be among the first to arrive, as always.
Each day, he woke before the city lights dimmed. He craved the silence before the noise.
Crowds were never his thing. Chaos even less so.
Turning the corner, he instinctively slowed—an old reflex.
Then, like clockwork, a red ball whipped through the air toward him.
Jason.
The local menace.
The boy's trademark taunt hung in the air as the ball skimmed past Jim's shoulder. Jim stared at him, irritation prickling beneath his calm.
A cocktail of envy and frustration churned in his chest.
Jason glared, disappointed in his miss, and stormed away, footsteps tapping angrily against the pavement.
Jim sighed, shaking his head.
It was always like this.
In a world where power was currency, he was among the few with none.
No telekinesis. No elemental manipulation. No glitching, no phasing. Just... Jim.
One in fifteen in the poorer districts had no ability. Enough to be forgotten—but just enough to be targeted.
And Jason never missed a chance.
He sent a silent thanks upward for the boy's poor aim, adjusted his collar, and kept walking.
He arrived at school forty minutes early, his favourite part of the day. The halls were still, serene. The polished floors reflected the overhead fluorescents in long streaks, like light bending through water.
Posters fluttered gently on the walls, announcing events and clubs with far too much colour for his taste.
He moved to his locker. The biometric lock blinked green at his touch and hissed open. He ran a finger over the smooth metal, a quiet ritual. He checked his timetable and arranged his textbooks with careful precision.
Satisfied, he removed his headphones and replaced them with something even better: Revenge of the Damned—a book he had waited far too long to read. The cover artwork flared softly under the hall lights, promising adventure.
He shut his locker, took a breath, and walked to homeroom.
Two girls in the front were already gossiping about the new exchange students, voices high and animated.
Jim passed them unnoticed, just the way he preferred it.
He slipped into his seat at the back, opened his book, and disappeared into its pages.
He didn't notice the room filling up around him until the murmurs became a wall of sound.
Only three people stood out.
Dan, the sharp-eyed scholar in the front row, sat with a book thicker than Jim's and a focus as unbreakable as steel.
Fray, the black-clad mystery, sat behind him—her pale skin almost glowing under the lights, eyes distant, hair draped like a velvet curtain.
And Jim.
Ordinary, invisible, unremarkable Jim.
He was average in nearly every way.
But somehow, he felt aligned with those two—quiet outliers in a world too bright, too loud.
His phone vibrated. Class would begin soon.
He closed his book with a sigh, casting one last glance out the window at the campus—freshly maintained lawns, flowerbeds bursting with colour, banners flapping lazily in the wind.
It was a beautiful school—especially for a public one.
Still, there was one thing he truly loathed.
The cafeteria.
His face twisted at the thought. The food there was a public disgrace—bland, suspicious, and offensive to taste.
But it was cheap.
And Jim, like always, couldn't afford to be picky.
Just when everyone was becoming unbearably bored, the loud bell rang, cutting through the moment and letting the students rush out into the busy hallway to prepare for the upcoming lessons.
It was a warning bell that ussualy rang ten minutes before the lessons begun.
Jim's day typically began with a cacophony of noise and chaos, a whirlwind of sounds and distractions that swirled around him like a thick fog.
The morning rush, marked by the blaring of alarms and the hurried footsteps of those around him, often left him feeling overwhelmed.
He would find a brief respite during lunch, eating at his desk buried beneath a mountain of papers, cherishing those rare moments of silence that seemed to float in the air like a delicate bubble.
By the time he returned home, a profound weariness clung to him, like a heavy cloak that weighed down his shoulders.
He sought solace in a warm shower, letting the soothing water cascade over him, easing his tension and washing away the stresses of the day.
Afterward, he prepared a simple dinner of fluffy rice and crispy, wet fried chicken, savoring each bite despite the fatigue clouding his thoughts.
With tired eyes that felt as if they could barely stay open, Jim finally sank onto his bed. As he lay there staring at the ceiling, he silently hoped that the influx of new students would not disrupt the comforting rhythm of his well-established daily routine. This predictability brought him peace amidst the chaos that constantly surrounded him.