The city skyline glittered above, a distant constellation of ambition and wealth. But down on the streets, a different story unfolded. Here, in the gridlocked canyons of glass and steel, a river of faces flowed past, each one a testament to a different struggle. The sleek, black car was an island of silence in the river of noise, its window rolled down to let in the thick, city air.
A young man with a mop of curly hair peered out, his gaze analytical, dissecting the world outside. He watched the stream of pedestrians, noting the scarcity of crisp suits and purposeful strides.
'The number of people who move through the streets with suits and purpose has been dwindling for a while now,' he mused.
His attention shifted to a construction site as the car crept forward. Muscled men, their skin tanned and clothes dusted with concrete, swarmed the steel skeleton of a new tower.
'And the number of those engaged in hard labour has increased just as drastically.'
He rested his jaw on his knuckles, a habit of deep thought.
'Education is the most prized possession in the world today. It's the key that unlocks the gilded doors. And yet, so few manage to turn the lock. It's strange, isn't it? Everyone is given a chance at it, but most fail. A relative of mine, a boy who was practically canonized as a genius by our family, failed so spectacularly it was almost a work of art.'
A flicker of something—not quite amusement, but a detached curiosity—passed through his eyes.
'It intrigued me. To what end?'
The car fell silent again, the only sound the distant blare of a horn. The boy, whose name was Merlio, closed his eyes, and the memory surfaced, as crisp and clear as the day it happened.
---
The vast, dark-wood dining table was a sea of silence. At its head, blurred figures loomed—the architects of the Klein name—their gazes sharp and critical, fixed on the teenager who sat with his head bowed.
Shame radiated from his cousin in palpable waves, thick enough to choke the room.
At the far end of the table, a much younger Merlio watched. He didn't feel the shame; he only recorded it. To him, his cousin wasn't a brother or a failure—he was a fascinating, collapsing structure.
Suddenly, a figure detached from the shadows. His mother. She moved with a silent, predatory grace, her perfume arriving seconds before she did—a cloying, floral cloud that felt like a physical weight.
She scooped him up, her touch soft but her grip unyielding, and carried him out into the cool air of the courtyard.
She whispered into his ear. At the time, the words were just sounds—melodic, sorrowful noises meant to soothe. He hadn't understood the vocabulary then, but he had understood the frequency.
Looking back, I realize what she was doing, Merlio thought as the car bumped over a pothole in the present. She wasn't comforting a child; she was rehearsing. She used guilt the way a painter uses color—layering the blues and greys of 'disappointment' until the canvas of my mind was exactly the shade she wanted.
In the memory, he had looked at the gathering storm clouds instead of her face.
He had offered her a look of confusion—a mask he had learned to wear before he could even tie his own shoes. It was his first successful experime
A moment later, the teenager from the dining room, his cousin, walked past him. His face was a thundercloud of dark emotion, his eyes fixed on some distant point. He didn't see Merlio. He walked with a heavy, defeated gait towards his art space on the other side of the manor, his world shattered.
---
Merlio opened his eyes, the memory dissolving like morning mist. He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms.
'Ever since then, I've been curious. If my cousin, with all his supposed genius, could fail so utterly, how would I fare against such a system? Was his good nature his downfall? Perhaps. It'll be a valuable experiment. A good experience for me in this new school.'
He stared out the window, the buildings giving way to more manicured lawns and imposing gates. 'Failing your era of education is a death sentence in today's society. It's a slow, social death.'
"We're here, Mr. Merlio."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. What had felt like an eternity in the traffic jam had finally ended. Merlio found himself in a vast parking lot, dotted with other sleek, expensive vehicles. He stepped out, briefcase in hand. A subtle, yet insistent, sun blazed down, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes.
"Mr. Merlio…?"
He turned to the elderly driver. "Yes?"
"Your luggage will be brought up shortly. That is, if the interview goes well." The old man, Wells, gave a small, knowing smile.
Merlio nodded, his expression blank. "It'll be fine." He paused, a rare moment of hesitation. "Say, you can take a break now."
Wells raised a questioning eyebrow.
Merlio clarified, his voice softer than usual. "Your retirement, Sir Wells. I can look after myself now."
The old man's eyes widened, first in shock, then in a wave of warm surprise. A genuine, crinkling smile spread across his face. "Not yet, you're still a young lad." He chuckled. "But thank you for the thought."
Merlio didn't object. He held his stoic pose, but a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Thank you."
---
The reception hall of the Children of Gambit's Academy was a cathedral of ambition. Sunlight streamed through towering windows, illuminating polished marble floors and the anxious faces of new students. Merlio walked through, a solitary figure in the crowd.
Near a towering pillar, he noticed a boy about his age standing rigidly beside a stern-faced man—his father, by the looks of it. The father was straightening the boy's tie with sharp, irritated movements.
"You have to look sharp," the father hissed, his voice a low, venomous whisper that carried in the vast space. "You don't want anyone thinking you're the son of a farmer."
Merlio paused, observing from the periphery.
"Remember what you're here for," the father continued, tucking the tie with a final, decisive yank. "No unnecessary relationships. No distractions. Focus on the prize." The boy hardened his face, his expression becoming a perfect mask of determination.
"Yes, sir."
As they turned, the father caught Merlio's gaze. His eyes narrowed, a clear dismissal. The son followed his father's lead, his glare just as cold. Merlio, caught in the act of observation, quickly dropped his eyes to his own polished shoes. They walked past, a unit of shared ambition.
"Number 206!" a woman's voice called from the reception counter.
Merlio stepped forward, placing his numbered slip on the cool surface.
"Administrative Block 5, Room 15."
He nodded and turned to leave, but stopped short before a large, ornate mirror on the wall. He stood before it, his reflection staring back. He reached up and gave his already-perfect tie a slight, final adjustment. He examined himself—the crisp lines of his suit, the controlled composure on his face. He nodded in satisfaction.
Then, his eyes flickered to the other students milling about. Their outfits were more relaxed, comfortable. A sweater here, a pair of casual trousers there.
'Did I overdress?'
The thought flickered, unwelcome. He pushed it away with a slight shrug. It was a calculated choice. He would be remembered. He turned and walked towards his next destination.
---
The room was sterile. Cold. The only sound was the metronomic tick-tock of a clock on the wall, each second a small hammer blow against the silence. Merlio sat perfectly still in a chair facing a wide desk. Behind it, a man sat ramrod straight, his chest puffed out, his expression as blank and unyielding as the white walls. On his desk, a small plaque declared him the "Screening Officer."
The seconds stretched into minutes. The man simply stared, as if dissecting Merlio with his eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice flat. "Merlio Klein, yes?"
"Yes."
The officer wrote something on his notepad, then slowly scanned the files before him. He looked up at the black-haired boy, then back at the files. "A thorough arrangement of your documents."
"Thank yo—"
"But that's not what I'm here for." The officer cut him off, his voice devoid of warmth. "You will answer one question."
Merlio gave a slow, deliberate nod. The officer loosened his tie, a small crack in his rigid facade. He leaned forward slightly. "Is everyone equal?"
The question hung in the sterile air, heavy and profound. Klein didn't flinch. He sat in silence for several long seconds, letting the question settle.
The officer pressed, "Is everyone equ—"
"Yes." Klein's voice cut through the man's, clear and unwavering. His face remained a mask, devoid of any emotion, any hint of doubt.
The screening officer stared, his eyes narrowing as if trying to peer behind the boy's calm facade. After an age, he leaned back, picked up his stamp, and began methodically pounding it onto the documents—the birth certificate, the middle school results, the application form. Each *thump* was a final, irrevocable judgment.
When he was done, he slid the stack of papers back across the desk to Merlio.
"Welcome to the Children of Gambit's Academy."