AN:Please comment as much as you can — I really want your help so I can improve.
The alarm buzzed again. Same pitch. Same vibration. Same moment of groggy confusion before her brain caught up with the routine. Marie Williams slapped the wall panel, cutting the sound off mid-pulse. Then silence.
She stayed still for a few seconds longer, staring at the cracked ceiling of her apartment. The chill in the room hadn't lessened overnight. Her breath rose in thin clouds, the air barely above freezing. The heating system hadn't miraculously repaired itself.
Of course it hadn't.
Marie sat up and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, her bare feet touching the cold synthetic floor. The scent of metal and old wiring wafted up as she moved. Another day. Another round of survival.
She peeled off her sleepwear—a pair of threadbare thermal pants and a too-large shirt—and quickly dressed in her school uniform, the fabric stiff from repeated washes. Her dark pleated skirt, white shirt, and navy-blue jacket were regulation for the municipal academy of Zone 3 in Fortress City Wiesbaden. No individuality. No flair. Just conformity stitched into cotton.
Once dressed, she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, grabbed her datapad, and stuffed the protein bar that would be her breakfast into her coat pocket. Then she was out the door.
The hallway was dim, lit only by failing wall strips that flickered every few seconds. She passed her landlord's door without slowing, her steps quiet but determined. No sign of Mr. Kano this time. Good. She didn't want to deal with his smile this morning.
Outside, the fortress city was waking.
Wiesbaden was a monument to controlled decay. Its towers of reinforced concrete and mana-steel loomed above narrow walkways and outdated transport lines. There were newer districts, of course—central zones where the power never flickered and the elevators ran smoothly—but Marie didn't live in one of those.
In Zone 3, buildings leaned at uneasy angles, rust coexisted with mana conduits, and the air always smelled faintly of chemical stabilizers and ozone. The filtration towers spewed silvery mist into the early morning gloom, making everything look softer than it was.
Marie munched her protein bar as she walked the fifteen blocks to school. Her path was efficient, practiced: cut through alleyways, avoid main intersections, stay clear of the checkpoint at Nordplatz. Her boots splashed through shallow puddles from last night's rainfall, her eyes down, her pace steady.
No one greeted her. She didn't expect anyone to.
She arrived ten minutes before the gates opened, just as the early students began to gather. Most stood in cliques near the entrance, chatting or tapping away on their datapads. Marie took her usual spot by the wall near the side gate.
A few girls from Class 3-B gave her a look as they passed, whispering just loud enough for her to hear. Marie ignored them. She always did.
Once the gates unlocked with a soft mechanical click, the crowd surged forward. Marie waited until most had gone through before entering. She hated walking in the middle of groups—it made her feel exposed.
The academy was a blocky structure of dull grey concrete and glass, shaped less like a school and more like a bunker. Students filed in, filling the corridors with the usual noise. Marie slipped through the sea of uniforms and made her way to her classroom on the third floor.
Her seat was in the back row, next to the window. Always the window.
The first period was Literature.
Their teacher, Mr. Grünwald, was a soft-spoken man with a permanent coffee stain on his collar and a habit of quoting old Earth poets. He was one of the few teachers who didn't seem to dislike Marie—though he never called on her either.
Today's lesson was on pre-Gate dystopian fiction.
"Consider the symbolism in the depiction of societal collapse," he said, gesturing toward the holo-board where the text floated in layers of annotated commentary. "What does the author imply about human resilience?"
Marie wrote down the question, even though she knew she wouldn't be asked to answer. She liked the topic. Reading about fictional collapse somehow made the real one more manageable.
When the class ended, she stayed seated until the last student left. Someone had stuck a chewed piece of gum under her desk again. She made a note to bring alcohol wipes tomorrow.
Second period was Mathematics.
A subject she liked. Numbers were clean. Predictable. Solvable.
The lesson was on mana distribution matrices, theoretical models used to calculate magical energy flow during spellcasting. Marie already understood most of it from self-study, so she used the time to double-check her assignments. The teacher, Mrs. Bayer, didn't look in her direction once.
Not that Marie minded. Attention was worse.
During the break before third period, she went to the rooftop garden.
It wasn't much of a garden anymore. Mostly dead plants and synthetic planters coated in dust. But it was quiet, and the cameras had a blind spot in the far corner. Marie sat on a low bench, pulled out her datapad, and reviewed her Magical Theory notes.
Her mind wandered halfway through. She imagined what it might be like to finally Awaken. To see the System window unfold before her, full of stats and numbers. A chance. A reset.
Then she imagined seeing nothing. A blank screen. Or worse, a joke of a Skill. Something useless. Something that would doom her to stay here, in this life, forever.
She shook the thought off.
That wasn't helpful.
Third period: Magical Theory.
Ms. Aoki walked into the room with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. She carried a crate of training crystals and set them down on the table with a soft thud.
"Today, we're reviewing theoretical resonance," she said. "And how to recognize potential affinity without active mana."
The students groaned. No one liked these abstract lessons.
Marie, on the other hand, perked up.
Ms. Aoki passed around blank mana stones—non-reactive quartz fragments used for simulations. They didn't do anything, but under the right focus, some students claimed to feel "echoes."
Marie wasn't one of them.
She held her stone gently, as instructed, and focused. Nothing. No warmth. No vibration. No pulse. Just cool stone against her skin.
As always.
She glanced around. Most students were faking expressions of interest. A few were actually trying. One girl, seated two rows ahead, let out a startled breath as her stone pulsed faintly blue.
Affinity: Ice.
Everyone whispered. Ms. Aoki made a note. The girl smiled shyly.
Marie stared at her own stone. Silent. Lifeless.
She set it down.
Lunch was its own ritual.
She found her usual spot—a shadowed corner behind the east stairwell—and unwrapped her second protein bar. It was the same brand as always. Slightly bitter, full of soy derivatives, packed with vitamins she couldn't pronounce.
Her soup thermos was lukewarm. The heating panel in her room had failed again last night.
As she ate, she watched the other students through a narrow gap in the stairwell. Clusters of teenagers laughing, swapping food, sharing screen projections. They lived in a different world. One where family still existed. Where the future was a promise, not a threat.
Marie didn't envy them. Not really. But she did wonder what it would be like to have something—someone—to rely on.
She finished her lunch in silence.
Fourth period was Physical Training.
Her least favorite.
It wasn't that she was out of shape. On the contrary, Marie was lean and strong, thanks to years of self-discipline and her involvement in the Cold Weapon Club. But PE wasn't about strength. It was about groups. Teams. Competition.
The class today involved formation drills and mock combat scenarios.
"Group assignments are posted," barked Coach Krüger, a towering man with a voice like a warhorn. "Get to your positions!"
Marie checked the list.
She was paired with Satoshi, Karin, and Lena—none of whom liked her. They gave her cold glances as she approached.
When the drill began, Marie did her part. She kept pace. She blocked, countered, held formation.
No one acknowledged her effort.
After the third round, Satoshi shoved her shoulder harder than necessary during a pivot.
"Don't drag us down," he muttered.
Marie didn't respond. She couldn't afford to.
After class, she went straight to the Cold Weapon Club.
The dojo was quiet when she arrived. The mats had just been cleaned. The smell of oil and sweat hung faintly in the air.
Instructor Tanaka was already there, sharpening a dulled blade with calm precision.
"You're early," he said without looking up.
"I wanted to warm up."
He grunted, a sound halfway between approval and indifference.
Marie retrieved her wooden staff and stepped onto the mat. Her movements flowed with precision—tight arcs, steady footwork, focused breathing. She moved through each kata twice, then three times, until her limbs burned.
Tanaka finally stood.
"Again," he said.
She obeyed.
The sun was low when she left the school. The streets glowed with the orange haze of sodium lamps and mana-reactive signs. Most students had already gone home.
Her feet hurt. Her arms were sore. Her mind felt like a stone dropped into deep water.
At the checkpoint near her apartment block, a pair of security drones hovered overhead, scanning IDs. She passed through without incident.
Inside, her building was quiet. No sounds from the other apartments. No music. No shouting. Just the soft buzz of electrical decay.
She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and exhaled.
Home.
If it could be called that.
She changed into her old sleepwear, microwaved a nutrient pack, and sat cross-legged on her mattress.
Her eyes burned, but she still opened her datapad. There were assignments to finish, notes to review, formulas to memorize.
She worked until the screen blurred. Then she closed it, turned off the room's single light, and lay down in the dark.
No drama. No revelations.
Just another day.
But somewhere in the silence, a thought persisted.
The Awakening Ceremony was getting closer.
She wasn't ready.
But she would be.
She had to be.