No one remembered when the world started counting people.
They only remembered the numbers.
1.98%.That was the figure whispered in lines, carved into desks, scratched behind ration counters. That was the fraction of humanity that awakened—those who survived long enough, suffered deeply enough, or broke in a way the world found useful.
The rest were just called the remainder.
Kael learned this at sixteen, standing in line outside the District Nine Allocation Hall, watching a man beg with his teeth clenched so tightly that blood ran down his chin.
"I worked the southern pumps for eleven years," the man kept saying. "Eleven. I didn't miss a single quota. My daughter is sick. I just need an extension."
The clerk didn't look up. She never did.
"Next."
The man didn't move.
Security arrived quietly. They always did. No shouting. No spectacle. One moment the man was standing, the next he was on the ground with a knee pressed into his spine. His words turned into wet sounds. People in line stared straight ahead.
Kael did too.
He had learned early that witnessing suffering did not grant moral authority. It only granted risk. And risk was something you rationed carefully when you were part of the 98.02%.
The line crept forward.
Above them, the city loomed like a layered carcass—District Nine crushed beneath the weight of the upper sectors. Light barely reached the streets here. When it did, it felt accidental, as though the sun itself hadn't intended to look this way.
Allocation Hall smelled like disinfectant and old fear.
Kael stepped up when it was his turn.
"Name?" the clerk asked.
"Kael Morren."
She paused. Just for a fraction of a second. Her eyes flicked to the side, then back to the screen embedded in the counter.
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
Another pause.
That was new.
She didn't meet his eyes. "No dependents listed."
"My parents are dead."
"That's not a dependent status."
Kael said nothing.
The clerk's fingers hovered over the console. Somewhere deep within the building, something clicked—metal sliding against metal.
"You're late," she said finally.
"I came when I was told."
She looked at him then. Really looked.
Her gaze wasn't cruel. That would have been easier to understand. It was tired, resigned, almost apologetic.
"Brand Day is tomorrow," she said. "You should be preparing."
Kael nodded. "I am."
She exhaled through her nose. "You'll receive a provisional ration. Three days. After that, your status updates."
"What status?"
She didn't answer.
The counter slid open. A small packet dropped through. Kael took it and stepped aside, letting the next person move forward.
Behind him, someone whispered, "Unawakened, right?"
Kael kept walking.
Everyone knew what Brand Day meant.
It was the closest thing the world had to mercy.
Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, something happened. No one could explain it properly—only track its results. A pressure. A moment. A breaking point.
Some people awakened.
Most didn't.
The awakened received Marks—invisible brands etched into their existence. With them came strength, abilities, resilience beyond human limits. Not enough to rule the world, but enough to be noticed by it.
Enough to be claimed.
The rest stayed human.
Human meant fragile. Replaceable. Feedstock.
Kael lived in a dormitory carved into the underside of a transit spine, a place designed for bodies rather than lives. Eight bunks to a room. Curtains instead of walls. Privacy enforced by mutual exhaustion rather than respect.
That night, the dorm buzzed with nervous energy.
Some prayed. Some laughed too loudly. Some pretended it was just another day.
Rian sat on his bunk, turning a coin over and over between his fingers.
"You think it hurts?" he asked.
Kael shrugged. "People say different things."
"Yeah, but you think things."
Kael hesitated. "I think it's worse not knowing."
Rian snorted. "Easy for you to say. You don't look scared."
"That's because looking scared doesn't help."
Rian stopped flipping the coin. "You think you'll awaken?"
Kael didn't answer right away.
Awakening wasn't about hope. It was about statistics. About pressure. About how much of yourself you were willing—or forced—to lose.
"I think," Kael said slowly, "that most people who believe they'll awaken don't."
Rian frowned. "That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
Across the room, someone started crying quietly. No one commented.
That night, Kael didn't sleep much. Not because he was afraid of awakening—but because he wasn't sure the world wanted him to.
The sirens sounded just after dawn.
They weren't loud. They didn't need to be. The sound slid into the bones and settled there, vibrating gently, insistently.
Brand Day.
People poured into the streets, guided by invisible currents of authority. Overseers watched from elevated platforms, their presence marked not by uniforms but by the subtle distortion of the air around them.
Kael moved with the crowd.
District Nine's central square was already full. Stone pylons ringed the area, each etched with symbols no one remembered learning but everyone recognized. The ground beneath them hummed faintly, as though the city itself were holding its breath.
A figure stepped forward.
The Overseer.
He was tall, thin, dressed in layered gray robes that shifted as if caught in a wind no one else could feel. His eyes were sharp, reflective—like polished metal.
"Today," he said, voice carrying without effort, "the world will assess you."
No cheers. No applause.
"Those who awaken will step forward when called. Those who do not will remain."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Kael felt it then—the pressure. Not pain. Not yet. More like the sensation of being examined, peeled open layer by layer by something vast and indifferent.
Names were called.
When the first awakening happened, it was subtle. A girl gasped, staggered, then straightened, eyes wide. She looked… heavier. As if reality clung to her differently now.
A markless awakening. Invisible. Internal.
The Overseer nodded. "Dormant," he said. "Step aside."
She obeyed, trembling.
More names. More awakenings. A few spectacular—bursts of heat, distortions in the air. Those drew attention. Interest.
Others collapsed. Some screamed. One boy vomited blood and had to be dragged away.
Kael watched it all.
And waited.
Minutes passed.
His name wasn't called.
Neither was Rian's.
Nor the crying boy from the dormitory.
Whispers began to spread.
Late awakeners were rare.
Non-awakeners were common.
But missed awakeners—
The Overseer's gaze swept the crowd, pausing briefly on Kael. Just long enough for Kael to feel it.
Then the pressure increased.
It was like something pressing against his chest from the inside, testing for resistance. For cracks.
Kael clenched his fists.
Nothing happened.
Around him, people fell to their knees. Some cried out as Marks burned themselves into existence. Others went limp, eyes empty, the world apparently having made its decision.
Kael remained standing.
Unchanged.
The pressure withdrew.
Silence fell.
The Overseer frowned.
"That is… unusual," he said.
He raised a hand. The pylons flared.
"Those unawakened," he said calmly, "remain where you are."
Kael's stomach tightened.
Unawakened meant the remainder.
But the Overseer wasn't looking at them.
He was looking at him.
"Step forward," the Overseer said.
Kael obeyed.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the ground itself resisted him. When he reached the center of the square, the air grew cold.
The Overseer studied him closely.
"Name."
"Kael Morren."
"Age."
"Seventeen."
The Overseer nodded slowly. "You fall within the awakening window."
"I know."
"You did not awaken."
"No."
A pause.
"That is not the same as being rejected," the Overseer said.
He extended his hand.
The pressure returned—stronger this time. Not just examination, but intent. Something tried to settle into Kael's existence.
And failed.
The air cracked like glass.
The pylons flickered.
A sound rippled through the square—sharp, dissonant, wrong.
The Overseer staggered back.
Kael gasped, falling to one knee—not from pain, but from vertigo. It felt as though something had brushed past him without touching, like a shadow slipping just out of sight.
The pressure vanished.
The Overseer stared at Kael, eyes wide.
"A delay," he whispered. "No… this is not delay."
Murmurs turned into shouts.
"What does that mean?""Is he broken?""Can that happen?"
The Overseer straightened, regaining composure.
"This individual," he said carefully, "has been flagged."
The word carried weight.
"Flagged how?" someone shouted.
The Overseer's gaze hardened. "As unresolved."
Kael looked up. "What happens now?"
The Overseer regarded him for a long moment.
"Now," he said, "the world decides whether you are an error…"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…or an investment."
The pylons dimmed. The square erupted into noise—fear, excitement, resentment.
Kael was escorted away.
As he passed the line of unawakened, he saw Rian staring at him, face pale.
"You didn't awaken," Rian whispered.
Kael met his eyes.
"I know."
Above them, unseen by any human eye, something ancient shifted its attention.
1.98%.The number had not changed.
But the remainder had noticed a flaw.
And flaws, in a world like this, were never ignored.