NovaHelix High counts you before it sees you. Not metaphorically. Not socially. Literally.
The moment I step through the entrance gates, my bracelet tightens around my wrist not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me it is awake. A faint vibration. A silent acknowledgment. Presence confirmed.
Above the doors, the Skylumes shift from residential blue to institutional white. Numbers surface in the air like reluctant thoughts finally forced into the open.
3.12
4.08
2.97
I keep my eyes forward. Looking at other people's scores is how comparison starts. Comparison is how panic creeps in. Panic is inefficient, and inefficiency is exactly what the G.P.U. flags first.
"Nervous?" Nolan asks, bumping my shoulder.
I glance at him. Same unruly brown hair falling across his forehead, same half-awake grin stretched across his open, easy-to-read face. He's taller than me by a few inches—slim, loose-limbed, like he grew up too fast and never quite filled in. His grey uniform hangs wrinkled on his frame, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like he can't be bothered with the whole "professional student" act.
His bracelet flashes green.
R: 4.23
Comfortable. Not impressive. Not fragile.
"Why would I be nervous?" I say. "I'm professionally forgettable."
"That's what scares me," he says lightly. "People like you vanish quietly."
"People like you vanish loudly," I reply.
He laughs, too loud. A few heads turn. Somewhere, his Social probably shifts by a fraction. The system loves reactions.
We move with the current of students into the main corridor. NovaHelix High doesn't feel like the city outside. There's no glide here, no illusion of harmony. Inside, everything is compressed.
Hallways choke with bodies. Lockers slam out of rhythm. Bracelets buzz in short, anxious bursts instead of the slow, regulated pulse of residential zones. Even the air feels tighter, like the building itself is monitoring its breath.
My bracelet vibrates again. I don't want to look. I look.
Social: 3.5 | Talent: 4.2 | Visibility: 3.9 | Impact: 4.4
R: 4.00
That last number sits wrong. Impact isn't about being liked. Or feared. It's about consequence. It means the system thinks things change, even slightly, when you move.
Yesterday, nothing changed. Yesterday, I was background noise.
"Still four?" Nolan asks.
"Yeah."
"Average kings live another day."
I nod, but my chest tightens. Average isn't supposed to attract attention.
The plan is simple: keep my head down, survive the day, don't give the system a reason to look twice. It takes one class for that plan to fail.
History is supposed to be quiet. Low lights. Skylumes drifting overhead. Half the class pretending to take notes while scrolling FluxPulse.
Mr. Dalen Veyra flicks his wrist. Four continents bloom above us.
Vyra
Naelis
Karth
Elyn
"Before Resonance, there was the Wave," he says. "People shared everything. Emotion. Thought. No borders—"
"Boring," someone mutters at the back.
A few snickers. Dalen doesn't even look up. His bracelet flashes once.
Tarek's R flickers: 3.02 → 3.00
Behavior tag: disruptive
He shuts up.
"The Wave collapsed," Dalen continues. "Too many minds. Too much fear. The first G.P.U. systems were built to separate signals, not to rule them."
He taps Vyra.
"Vyra chose the individual. Personal Resonance. Your score doesn't just describe you."
He pauses.
"It confirms you exist."
Something cold settles behind my ribs.
A voice mutters, barely audible, "Then what are the rest of us?"
Bracelets buzz. Mine too.
The G.P.U. doesn't just record words it records who hears them.
The bell slices through the air, sharp as a blade.
The hallway doesn't calm down. It reorders.
Laughter thins out. Voices drop. Drones slide into formation above our heads, black shells glinting under harsh light. The Skylumes brighten until the corridor feels like a holding cell for data instead of students.
Then a clean metallic tone echoes.
Callout procedure initialized
All students report to Central Hall. Bracelets visible.
Nolan groans. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Morning entertainment," I mutter.
Walkways flatten out, guiding us inward. The student flow condenses until the Central Hall feels like a simulation run on overdrive. Scores bloom above heads like neon price tags.
2.86
3.44
4.91
People straighten or shrink.
"This is theater," Nolan whispers. "They do it every cycle."
"Then why does it feel different?"
He doesn't answer.
The drones rise. Noise compresses, deliberate, controlled.
My bracelet buzzes.
Behavior logged: potential interaction with High-tier profile
Impact: +0.02
Statut: under observation
Then she steps into the hall.
Liora.
Tall, easily a head above most of the crowd, and perfectly straight-backed, like gravity itself bends around her instead of pulling down. The immaculate white uniform of NovaHelix's High-tier fits her like armor: clean lines, sharp seams, luminous blue insets running along her sleeves and collar, as if the fabric itself reports every micro-signal back to the G.P.U. On her right shoulder, a silver amplifier-shaped crest gleams under the Skylumes, a signal that whatever she does can ripple far beyond this school.
Her hair, long, black, sleek as polished glass, is pulled into a high ponytail that doesn't move when she walks. Not a single strand out of place. Her face is all sharp angles: high cheekbones, defined jaw, pale skin so flawless it looks like it's never seen sunlight or stress. Her eyes, cold grey, analytical, sweep the hall, scanning faces like data points on a graph.
She doesn't look at people. She reads them.
Around her, the other uniforms look dull. Even the Skylumes seem to follow her steps.
Later, after her "People like you are important" and the whole dampener explanation, she lets out the smallest sigh, so light the drones can't tag it.
"Sometimes I wonder why they insist on putting every level in the same building," she says, almost to herself. "White, grey, faded blue same hallways, same air, as if proximity could manufacture harmony."
Her gaze drifts over the uniforms around us, then snaps back to me. "But the system likes its little experiments. See how the High adapt to the drag. See how the rest behave when they think we might be watching."
Nolan drifts back toward me, hands tucked in his pockets, grin stretched a little too wide.
"See?" he says. "Still alive. Still average."
His bracelet vibrates before the words even finish leaving his mouth.
R: 4.23 → 4.19
Behavior tag: inappropriate humor during Callout
He forces a weak laugh. "Guess the system hates my material."
Before I can answer, Liora turns our way. The crowd parts automatically, as if the floor itself knows which way she's going.
"Section VY-3, right?" she says, her gaze scanning our area before locking onto Nolan.
He straightens—or tries to. His shoulders come up, but his weight stays shifted back on his heels, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. "Uh... yeah. Nolan Cole."
His light brown eyes dart to her face, then away, unable to hold her sharp grey stare for more than a second.
His stats float briefly above him, brutally honest beside hers.
Social: 4.3 | Talent: 4.0 | Visibility: 4.1 | Impact: 4.3
R: 4.19
Liora's grey eyes flick over the floating numbers, cold and precise, then drop to Nolan's stance: shoulders uneven, weight shifted back on his heels.
Her lips press into a thin line—not quite disapproval, just... acknowledgment.
"Comfortable," she says, her voice calm, clinical, like she's reading a medical report. "Not impressive. Not fragile."
It's almost word-for-word what I thought this morning. But from her, it doesn't sound like an observation it sounds like a diagnosis.
"People like you are important," she adds, voice smooth, almost kind. "You keep the graphs steady. You fail quietly. You succeed quietly. You don't… bend anything."
Nolan's smile falters.
"Wow," he says. "Thanks, I guess."
"It's a compliment," she says. "High profiles attract chaos noise, attacks, fluctuations. Average profiles absorb it. You're the background of the curve. The dampeners."
Her bracelet pulses. A tiny Social bump for how composed she stays. His, unsurprisingly, doesn't move.
"So, when an Impact spike happens without authorization, it's almost never because of someone like you."
She turns to leave. Just enough words to cut someone down not enough for the drones to flag it as harassment.
"Or maybe it is," I say.
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too sharp. Too clear.
Liora freezes.
A few bracelets buzz, logging the tonal shift and the sudden rise in tension.
She pivots back toward me.
"Excuse me?"
Nolan shoots me a look that screams shut up, but I'm already too deep.
"You talk like being 'Average' only matters when we cushion everyone else's fall," I say, throat dry. "But the Headmaster said the anomaly was centered on this campus. Sector VY-3. That's mostly us, isn't it?"
Byte tilts his head slightly. One of his lenses focuses on me. Static crawls up my wrist, faint but insistent.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Liora replies, still calm. "The system detected something it couldn't explain. It's looking for the most probable cause."
Her gaze slides toward Nolan, then back to me.
"And it's not him."
She says him like she's ruling out an equation impersonal, precise.
Nolan doesn't move, but I can almost see him shrink.
"Maybe you're overestimating what it means to be High," I say. "Or underestimating what it means to be the one no one ever notices."
My bracelet heats a silent warning.
Behavior logged: confrontational tone toward High-tier
Impact: +0.03
Risk: minor
Liora studies me and, for the first time, she looks a little less certain. Not threatened. Just… interested.
"You really think it's more dangerous to be Average than High?" she asks.
"I think it's more dangerous to treat people like scenery," I answer. "That's usually what the system stops seeing right before it breaks."
A heavy silence ripples through our section. Even the drones seem to hover closer.
Something in Liora's expression shifts—tightens. Her eyes narrow slightly, just a fraction, like a lens focusing. Not emotion. Recalculation. Like she's running new data through an algorithm and doesn't like the result.
Her posture doesn't change. Still perfect. Still upright. But her gaze sharpens, locked onto Kai like a targeting system.
She glances toward Nolan.
"You're lucky," she says to him, voice neutral again. "You've got someone who speaks up for you. Most people don't."
She steps back. The cameras follow her automatically, drawn like metal to magnetism.
"We'll cross paths again, Kai Virek," she says, almost offhand. "Let's see how long you stay professionally forgettable."
She turns away. The crowd folds back in, swallowing her presence like water closing over a stone.
My bracelet buzzes again.
Impact: 4.43 → 4.46
Status: under extended observation
Nolan exhales slowly.
"You know you just picked a fight with someone who could ruin your life with a raised eyebrow, right?"
"You know she basically called you furniture."
He huffs a tired laugh.
"High vs Average," he mutters. "Guess we just found out which side you picked."
For the first time, the danger isn't a drone, or the Headmaster, or even Liora Kade. It's the system itself realizing that someone "Average" just refused to stay in their assigned place.