For once, the world felt too bright.
The sky above St. Augustine's shimmered with hundreds of delivery drones, their propellers cutting through the air in tight, glittering swarms. Below, students milled about the courtyard, their eyes glued to holo-screens, their lives reflected in tiny floating windows of numbers and hearts.
And right there, in the middle of it all, was **Eli Nwoko**—the boy no one could see online, but everyone now seemed to stare at in real life.
He didn't notice at first. He was walking home, earphones in, hood up, head tilted toward the sun. His mind was still replaying the conversation with Nova two days ago — her voice breaking over the phone, the panic he could feel even through static.
Then he heard it.
A sharp *whirring* overhead, followed by the unmistakable buzz of metal scraping metal.
He looked up.
One of the school's larger supply drones was spiraling down from the sky, one propeller snapped clean off, smoke curling out of its side like a wounded bird. And directly below it—frozen in place—was a small kid from the junior section, maybe ten years old, staring up with wide eyes, too shocked to move.
Everything slowed.
Eli didn't think. He just moved.
He sprinted across the courtyard, dodging backpacks and confused shouts, vaulted a bench, and dove forward just as the drone dropped. His arms wrapped around the boy, and they both rolled across the pavement as the machine crashed where the kid had been standing.
The explosion wasn't big—just sparks and shattering plastic—but it was loud enough to draw everyone's attention.
And for the first time, *everyone saw him.*
Dozens of students rushed forward, phones already in hand, camera lenses glowing blue.
"Oh my god, I got that!" someone shouted.
"Post it! He saved that kid!"
Eli stood, brushing off dust and checking the boy. "You okay?"
The kid nodded shakily, clutching his backpack.
The teachers came running next, their badges blinking red from emergency alerts. Eli stepped back as the crowd pressed closer, voices overlapping in a rising wave of excitement.
"Who is that guy?"
"I've never seen him before—what's his score?"
"Wait—my camera glitched, did you get it?"
"Mine too. The file's gone!"
Eli froze.
The words rippled through the crowd, confusion spreading like static. Everyone had recorded him, but when they tried to replay it, there was nothing. Black screens. Corrupted files. Empty memory.
Yet the memory *remained.*
They all *remembered* him. His face, his voice, the way he'd dived without hesitation.
The algorithm had erased the footage—but not the *feeling.*
---
By evening, the story had already spread without a single post.
Students were whispering about "the boy who saved the kid." Teachers retold it like a rumor, half in disbelief. Even the news AI tried to verify the event, scanning for video evidence—only to return the same error: **NO DATA FOUND.**
Still, people kept talking.
Some said his name was Eli. Others called him "the glitch."
No one could agree on the details, but everyone agreed it happened.
That night, Eli sat alone on his rooftop, watching the city glow beneath him. The skyline pulsed with neon and drone trails, the sound of digital chatter echoing faintly in the distance. His phone buzzed once — an unknown number.
**Nova:** *"You did something."*
He blinked at the screen.
**Eli:** *"How do you know?"*
**Nova:** *"Everyone's talking about it."*
**Eli:** *"But there's no video."*
**Nova:** *"Doesn't matter. You went viral without the algorithm."*
He stared at that line for a long time. *Viral without the algorithm.* It didn't even sound possible.
He typed back, *"That's not how this world works."*
She replied, *"Maybe it doesn't work anymore."*
And then she went offline again.
---
At school the next day, Eli noticed the shift immediately. People who used to look through him were now looking *at* him. Noticing him. Nodding, even smiling awkwardly.
In the cafeteria, a girl whispered, "That's him."
In the hallway, a teacher said, "Good job yesterday," like he'd just scored a goal in a game instead of catching a falling drone.
Eli kept his head down, but inside he felt something different—something dangerous.
*Attention.*
It wasn't the algorithm's glow, but it was close enough to feel addictive.
He walked past the FameScore display near the entrance. His circle still showed **0.**
No change. No recognition in the system.
But when he caught his reflection in the glass, he could see the faint flicker of something new in his eyes—like the world had tilted slightly toward him.
---
At lunch, Nova found him sitting under the same tree behind the greenhouse.
"You're trending," she said.
He gave her a look. "You know that's impossible."
"Not online," she said, dropping her bag beside him. "In people's minds. The algorithm can't erase word of mouth."
Eli shrugged. "Maybe people just needed something real."
She smiled. "Real doesn't sell, Eli. It sticks."
He thought about that for a moment. "You sound like Halden."
She laughed softly, pulling out her offline camera. "He'd probably tell you this was a test."
"Maybe it is."
She aimed the lens at him, as if to see what would happen this time. "Mind if I try filming again?"
He sighed. "Sure. Why not."
The lens blinked red. Nova leaned in slightly, whispering, "Smile. You're famous now."
He gave a small grin, almost reluctant.
Click.
The recording ended.
She checked the screen—frozen. A single frame of him mid-smile, the rest blacked out.
But for a fraction of a second, she could see something flicker across his face in the still image—something not captured by light or pixels. Something *alive.*
When she looked back up, Eli was watching her.
"What did you see?" he asked.
Nova hesitated. "Not sure."
"You're lying."
"Maybe I am," she said, and smiled.
---
That evening, the school's local network crashed.
Posts duplicated themselves, profiles vanished, and trending feeds looped endlessly on the same topic: **"Boy Saves Kid — No Footage Found."**
People tried to repost drawings, AI reconstructions, even deepfake versions, but every upload glitched out the moment Eli's face appeared.
Still, the story refused to die.
Even without proof, people *believed.*
And that belief—raw, human, unfiltered—was stronger than any algorithm.
---
Later that night, Eli walked home under the orange haze of the streetlights. He passed a public screen showing news headlines flickering in confusion:
> **WITNESS REPORTS UNVERIFIED.**
> **SYSTEM ERROR: MEDIA CORRUPT.**
> **TREND SCORE: UNKNOWN.**
He stopped and stared at his reflection in the glass again. Behind him, the crowd of city faces glowed faintly from their screens, chasing their numbers.
He didn't glow.
He breathed out a quiet laugh. "Guess I finally went viral," he muttered.
A soft breeze passed. The city hummed, alive and unaware.
Somewhere in the static of a thousand screens, his name whispered without data, without hashtags—
just memory.
And in the end, *that* was what made him unforgettable.