"The loneliest throne is the one no one dares approach." [Unknown of the sustém memory]
...
Gabriel's apartment had become a machine for producing excellence. Every surface served a function: research stations that never slept, charging docks for devices that monitored global market trends, a communication hub that kept him connected to opportunity across three time zones.
Where once there had been spaces for living, now there were only spaces for achieving.
The transformation had happened gradually, piece by piece, optimization by optimization. The comfortable reading chair where he used to lose himself in novels had been replaced by an ergonomic workstation designed to support eighteen-hour sessions without strain. The kitchen, once a place for experimenting with Amazonian ingredients, now contained only efficiency: protein bars calculated for optimal nutrition, a coffee machine that produced precisely 200mg of caffeine per serving, supplements arranged in weekly dispensers like a pharmaceutical algorithm.
The wall that once held photos of friends and family now displayed a real-time dashboard of their World Cup preparation metrics. Green numbers climbing, red numbers falling. The digital heartbeat of a project that had consumed every corner of his life.
But it was the keychain drawer that told the real story.
Gabriel opened it during a rare moment of distraction, expecting to see the careful organization he maintained everywhere else. Instead, he found chaos. Dozens of identical keychains lay scattered like fallen soldiers, each one precisely crafted, geometrically perfect, utterly interchangeable. They caught the LED light and threw it back in cold, uniform reflections.
When had he made so many?
The quantity was staggering — enough to outfit an army, but lacking any indication of who they were meant for. No names. No personal touches. No imperfections that would mark them as gifts rather than inventory.
Gabriel picked up a handful, letting them spill through his fingers like expensive coins. Each one represented hours of work, but work divorced from purpose. They were beautiful in the way that mass-produced excellence is beautiful: flawless and completely soulless.
His phone buzzed. A calendar reminder: "Team Check-in - 15 minutes."
He closed the drawer and checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that looked back had achieved a kind of perfection too — lean from optimized nutrition, alert from calculated caffeine intake, every feature sharpened by the relentless focus of someone who had learned to waste nothing. Not even facial expressions.
When had people stopped dropping by unannounced? When had every interaction required scheduling, every conversation needed an agenda?
The questions felt dangerous, so he filed them away in the same mental space where he kept other non-essential concerns.
There was work to be done.
...
Caio was waiting in the university courtyard when Gabriel arrived, but something was wrong with the scene. Usually, Caio would be in motion — gesturing while telling a story, laughing with other students. Instead, he sat perfectly still on a bench beneath the old mango tree, hands folded, expression serious.
"We need to talk," Caio said as Gabriel approached. No preamble. No joke to break the tension. Just four words that carried the weight of a friendship under strain.
Gabriel checked his watch. "I have twelve minutes before the strategy session. Can we—"
"Gabriel." Caio's voice cut through the efficiency calculus with surgical precision. "Sit down. Please."
Something in his tone — not authority, but desperate affection — made Gabriel pause. He sat, uncomfortable with the departure from the schedule but recognizing that some conversations couldn't be optimized.
"When was the last time you asked me how I was doing?" Caio asked. "Not project status, not task completion, not efficiency metrics. Just... how am I?"
Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The question should have been simple, but his mind immediately began categorizing Caio's recent performance indicators: Attendance perfect. Deliverable quality high. Team integration stable.
"You're performing well," Gabriel said carefully. "Your contributions have been—"
"Stop." Caio held up a hand. "Just stop. That's not what I asked, and that's not how friends talk to each other."
The word friends hung between them like an accusation.
"I am your friend," Gabriel said, and the words felt true even though they tasted strange in his mouth. "That hasn't changed."
"Hasn't it?" Caio leaned forward, and Gabriel saw something in his eyes he'd never seen before: not anger, not disappointment, but a kind of grief. "When was the last time you called me just to talk? When was the last time you asked for my advice about something that wasn't work-related? When was the last time you seemed... I don't know, happy to see me instead of just glad that I was completing tasks?"
Each question landed like a physical blow. Gabriel tried to access recent memories of casual interaction. The search came back empty.
"We've been under pressure with World Cup preparation," Gabriel reasoned. "After the competition, there'll be time for—"
"There's always going to be another competition, isn't there?" Caio's voice was quiet now, resigned. "Another milestone, another optimization opportunity, another reason why human connection has to wait for a more convenient time."
Gabriel felt something crack inside his chest. Not the warm breaking of walls coming down. The cold fracture of machinery under too much strain.
"What do you want from me, Caio?"
The question came out harder than intended, carrying an edge of frustration that surprised them both.
"I want my friend back," Caio said simply. "The guy who used to stay up until 3 AM talking about dreams that seemed impossible. The guy who made keychains with dents in them because he cared more about the person receiving them than about technical perfection."
Gabriel stared at his hands, trying to access the memory of deliberate imperfection. The concept felt foreign now. Like trying to remember a word in a dead language.
"I'm still the same person, Caio. I'm just... better at what I do now."
"Are you?" Caio stood up, and for the first time in their friendship, Gabriel felt like he was looking up at someone. "Because the Gabriel I knew used to ask questions when he didn't understand something. This version just... assumes he already knows the answer."
The observation cut deeper than Gabriel expected. He wanted to argue, to present evidence of his continued growth. But the defense that came to mind was a list of his recent achievements. Metrics of conquest, not curiosity.
"The world got more complicated," Gabriel said finally. "I had to evolve to meet it."
Caio nodded slowly, sadly. "Maybe. Or maybe you just got tired of being uncertain about things. Maybe you decided that being wrong was too expensive."
He turned to walk away, then paused. "For what it's worth, I liked you better when you weren't sure about everything. Uncertainty was what made you kind."
Gabriel watched his oldest friend walk away. He felt something he hadn't experienced in months: the desire to call out, to run after him, to have a conversation that meandered instead of marched.
But his phone buzzed. The strategy session was starting in three minutes, and twenty-four people were depending on his leadership. Personal feelings would have to wait for a more efficient time.
As Caio disappeared around the corner, Gabriel made a mental note: Schedule proper friendship maintenance conversation. Duration: 30 minutes.
The fact that he was thinking of friendship in terms of scheduled maintenance didn't occur to him until much later. And by then, it was too late to feel horrified by the realization.
[System Notification: Emotional Liability Isolated.]
[Efficiency Restored: 100%.]
...
"Your friend is right, you know."
Mikaela's voice cut through the late-night silence of the conference room like a scalpel. Gabriel looked up from the presentation they'd been refining. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Belém spread below them like a circuit board, all lights and flowing connections.
"About what?"
"About you changing. About becoming something different from what you were." She moved from her workstation to lean against the window, her reflection superimposed over the city like a ghost of ambition. "The question is whether that's a problem."
Gabriel saved his work and turned to face her fully. In the months they'd been working together, Mikaela had become the only person who could match his pace. She was brilliant, ruthless, and utterly without sentiment — everything he was learning to be.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think transformation is the price of transcendence." Her voice carried the certainty of someone who had paid similar costs and found them acceptable. "You can't become exceptional while remaining comfortable. You can't optimize for peak performance while maintaining every inefficient attachment from your previous operating level."
She gestured toward the city below, where millions of people lived lives bounded by the limitations of ordinary ambition.
"Your friend wants you to remain accessible to him. To operate at a level where his input feels meaningful, where his comfort zone isn't threatened by your capabilities. But that's not friendship, Gabriel. That's emotional welfare."
The phrase hung in the air like a challenge. Gabriel felt something respond to it — not warmth, but the cold satisfaction of recognition. How many conversations had he endured recently where people expected him to pretend their concerns were as complex as his?
"You think I should just... accept that some people can't keep up?"
"I think you should stop apologizing for being superior." Mikaela's reflection smiled, sharp as a blade. "Excellence is lonely by definition. The people who can't match your level will always try to convince you that the problem is your altitude, not their inability to climb."
Gabriel considered this. It aligned with everything he'd been feeling but hadn't allowed himself to articulate.
"But they're my friends."
"Were your friends. Past tense." Mikaela turned to face him directly. "People don't remain friends across significant capability gaps, Gabriel. They become dependencies. They become audiences. Sometimes they become obstacles."
She moved closer, and Gabriel caught again that subtle scent of expensive perfume.
"The question you need to ask yourself is this: Do you want to be loved by people who can't understand what you've become, or do you want to be respected by people who can match what you're becoming?"
Gabriel looked at their reflection in the window — two figures surrounded by the tools of optimization, working while the rest of the world slept. For a moment, he tried to imagine Caio in this scene. Or Marina. They would want to discuss feelings. They would want to stop.
The image felt... cluttered. Inefficient. Like trying to run advanced algorithms on obsolete hardware.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I can't optimize for their comfort and optimal outcomes simultaneously."
Mikaela's smile was pure approval. "Now you're thinking clearly."
As they returned to work, Gabriel felt the last emotional anchor to his previous self snap cleanly. The grief was brief and quickly optimized away. There was too much excellence to achieve.
...
At 4:17 AM, Gabriel sat alone in his apartment, surrounded by the architecture of his ambition. Three laptops displayed different aspects of their World Cup strategy. The presentations were flawless. The budget was precision itself. He had created not just a plan, but a mathematical proof that their success was inevitable.
So why did victory feel like an equation with a variable missing?
Gabriel opened the drawer where he kept the keychains. Dozens of identical pieces stared back at him.
His fingers found the crude, imperfect keychain he'd made for Marina months ago. The metal showed fingerprints, tiny imperfections where an inexperienced hand had slipped.
On the back, in his own scratchy handwriting: "For Marina — because leaders need reminders that they're human too. -G"
Gabriel stared at the keychain for a long moment. He tried to access the mindset of the person who had made it. Why had the old Gabriel thought imperfection was valuable? What possible advantage could flaws provide?
Every pathway led to the same conclusion: the old Gabriel had been operating with incomplete information. He had mistaken sentiment for wisdom.
The new Gabriel achieved better results. The new Gabriel made fewer mistakes.
Then why, a voice in his head asked, does every solution feel like it's missing something essential?
Gabriel pushed the thought away and opened his laptop. On the screen was a draft email to Luna.
The message was formal, efficient, stripped of the emotional language that had once come naturally:
Luna,
Trust you are well. World Cup preparation proceeding optimally. Significant developments in capability enhancement. Will update post-competition. Best regards, Gabriel.
He read the message three times. It conveyed the necessary information with perfect economy. It was professional. Clear.
So why did it feel like an obituary for someone who was still alive?
Gabriel deleted the draft and closed the laptop. There was no point in reaching out to connections from his previous configuration. The new Gabriel had different requirements.
As he prepared for his four hours of optimized sleep, Gabriel caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that looked back was sharp, focused, purified by the relentless logic of improvement. Every inefficiency had been burned away.
He had become, in measurable ways, perfect.
The only problem was that perfection, he was discovering, was another word for alone.
But alone was acceptable. Alone was efficient. Alone was the price of being better than everyone else.
In the drawer, surrounded by dozens of perfect keychains that would never find their intended recipients, one imperfect piece caught the LED light and threw it back in fragments — warm, scattered, beautifully broken.
Gabriel closed the drawer without looking at it.
There would be time for sentiment after victory.
There was always time for sentiment after victory.
[System Notification: Humanity Stat Critical.]
[Class Evolution Complete: The Sovereign of Solitude.]