My name is Lucy.
It isn't a complicated name.
It doesn't carry a number.
It doesn't come with a title.
There is no hidden meaning embedded in its syllables, no symbol carved into it by design.
Yet the moment it is spoken, it never stands alone.
The sound barely leaves someone's lips before it gathers weight—attachments, implications, assumptions—like dust clinging to fabric that was meant to stay clean.
I have no real, substantive connection to the Jesse family.
At least, that's how I understand myself.
Yes.
My brother, Lucian, is one of the Jesse family's heirs.
That fact has never required explanation.
The world handles that part enthusiastically, obsessively, relentlessly.
News outlets repeat his name until it becomes familiar even to people who shouldn't care.
Rumors distort it, sharpen it, soften it, depending on who is telling the story.
Internal documents file it away under classifications that change color depending on context.
Underground circles pass it along in lowered voices, as if saying it too loudly might trigger consequences.
His name is rewritten over and over.
Highlighted.
Bolded.
Flagged.
Marked.
But that is his identity.
It has never been mine.
The problem is, the world does not make that distinction.
People don't look at me and ask who I am.
They don't wonder what I think, what I want, or what I'm capable of.
They only care about one thing—
Whose shadow I am standing in.
When someone hears the name "Lucy," the image that forms in their mind is never a single, complete person.
It's a relationship.
A direction.
A line pointing somewhere else.
—Lucian's sister.
And the name "Lucian" inevitably pulls the Jesse family into the picture, like gravity doing what it does best.
That's when the labels begin to stack.
Transparent, but heavy.
Clear, but crushing.
Layer after layer, settling down over me like sheets of glass.
The sister of one of the Jesse family's heirs.
A potential political symbol.
A variable with unclear security parameters.
Someone who should not be underestimated—but also should not be approached too closely.
Every one of these conclusions is reached without my participation.
Without my consent.
Without even the courtesy of asking.
I have never been involved in the process.
The labels keep piling up until they become so thick that explaining myself feels pointless.
Because I know—
No matter what I say, no matter how carefully I try to define myself, I will simply be sorted again.
Reclassified.
Filed under a different but equally convenient category.
My brother once said that school is useless.
It wasn't advice.
It wasn't even criticism.
It sounded like a finalized conclusion.
"A waste of time."
His voice was calm when he said it.
Flat.
Certain.
Like he was stating a law of physics rather than an opinion.
"Truly important things aren't learned in classrooms."
He has the right to say that.
The path he walked never ran parallel to textbooks or curricula.
Nothing about his life fits neatly into standardized outlines or graded assessments.
But when it comes to me, he never yields.
"Lucy."
Whenever he says my name like that, he slows down deliberately.
Not out of affection.
Not out of gentleness.
It's precision.
Making sure there is no room for misinterpretation.
"I know you hate school. But this is the path ordinary people have to walk."
"Even if you don't learn knowledge, you still need to learn how to interact with people."
"In the future, they can become your strength."
When he said the word strength, he didn't look at me.
His gaze shifted to the window, to the outside world, as if he were already calculating something that hadn't happened yet.
As if I were part of an equation whose variables would only reveal themselves years later.
I didn't argue.
Not because I fully agreed.
Not because I couldn't think of a response.
But because I understood what he was really saying.
This wasn't education.
It was training.
Not meant to help me blend into the world comfortably,
But to teach me how to exist within it without drawing attention.
How to stand among people without appearing abnormal.
How to dull sharp edges without actually removing them.
How to form connections, sever them, exploit them, abandon them—cleanly, efficiently, without hesitation.
How to hide real weight beneath the harmless shell of "ordinary."
Honestly, it fits me disturbingly well.
Even when I half-listen in class, my grades stay near the top.
Not because I love studying.
Not because I'm especially passionate.
But because the system itself is painfully simple.
Rules clearly defined.
Expectations plainly stated.
Outcomes easily predicted.
Simple enough to be boring.
Classrooms are unbearably dull.
The teacher's voice feels like metal that's been worn down by years of repetition.
Every edge smoothed away.
Every sharp sound filed down into something safe, steady, inoffensive.
Not teaching—broadcasting.
The material is broken apart, simplified, repeated.
Then repeated again.
Each sentence carefully shaped to make sure no one gets left behind.
Or rather—to make sure no one becomes uncomfortable.
I take notes dutifully while doodling in the margins.
Thin lines.
Small shapes.
No real subject.
Flowers.
Stars.
Symbols that don't mean anything.
Just proof that my hand is still moving, that I'm still present.
Growing up, the people around me have always followed the same pattern.
Gender doesn't matter.
Approach.
Probe.
Pull back slightly.
Then step closer again.
Their motives are never complicated.
They're just too afraid to say them out loud.
Politeness.
Flattery.
Calculated kindness.
Attempts to establish a connection that might be useful someday.
The same reason is always written clearly in their eyes—
I am Lucian's sister.
When I was younger, it showed as excessive courtesy.
Perfect posture.
Overly rehearsed smiles.
Parents whispering reminders: Be nice. Get along well.
As I grew older, those looks began to change.
Respect twisted into evaluation.
Evaluation blurred into desire.
Desire mixed with imagination.
They measure distance without realizing they're doing it.
Test boundaries casually.
Slip me into hypothetical futures when they think I'm not paying attention.
I notice.
Of course I do.
It's obvious.
So obvious that it doesn't even make me angry anymore.
Anger requires effort.
And this simply isn't worth it.
What can I say?
I am cute.
That's not arrogance.
It's an objective assessment.
My personal motto is simple—
Cuteness is justice.
A principle I have never doubted.
Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed without ceremony.
The mattress absorbs my weight immediately.
Stuffed dolls scatter, some getting trapped beneath me, releasing faint, muffled sounds.
The room is quiet.
Not naturally quiet—
But carefully designed to be so.
Every sound filtered.
Every vibration softened.
Even the hum of the air conditioner feels distant, as if it exists behind a layer of glass.
What should I wear tomorrow?
How should I match my hair accessories?
Should I change my earrings?
None of these questions matter.
And that's exactly why they're safe.
Thinking about meaningless things is the easiest way to pass time.
The easiest way to look normal.
After showering, I stand in front of the mirror and study myself.
The light comes from above.
Clean.
Even.
No shadows.
I adjust my posture.
Lift my chin.
Straighten my shoulders.
The girl staring back at me looks confident and harmless.
Perfect angle.
Balanced proportions.
Clean lines.
A face that resembles a doll—
Something designed, measured, refined.
As if every detail was calculated.
—A weak inner narrator notes, "Actually, it's a C."
Ignored.
So boring.
Aside from school, my brother keeps me away from almost everything.
Meetings.
Operations.
Internal discussions.
All of it is off-limits.
No crossing lines.
No acting on impulse.
No casual use of abilities.
He calls it protection.
I know better.
It's risk control.
A decision to keep me within a manageable range.
I lie back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
White.
Flat.
Featureless.
Nothing worth remembering.
An ordinary college life.
The inevitable path of ordinary people.
At least for now—
I'm still walking it.