Reeve had perfected a skill most people never noticed.
Looking lost.
He sat near the back of the lecture hall, pen resting awkwardly between his fingers, notebook half-empty as if he had arrived unprepared. His posture was slightly forward, attentive yet uncertain—someone who wanted to understand but didn't quite know how.
When the professor finished explaining a key concept, Reeve raised his hand—not confidently, not eagerly. Just enough.
"Sir… sorry," he said, voice careful. "I didn't really get that part. Could you explain it once more?"
A pause.
The professor exhaled, irritation flickering briefly before professionalism took over. "Alright. Once again."
Around Reeve, students relaxed. A few even smiled.
If he doesn't get it, then we're not behind, they thought.
Reeve nodded slowly as the explanation repeated, writing nothing new. He already understood it. He always did. Asking questions wasn't about learning—it was about positioning.
People lowered their guard when they believed they were ahead of you.
When class ended, the room erupted into noise—chairs scraping, conversations overlapping, and plans being made. Reeve waited until the crowd thinned before standing. Timing mattered.
Near the exit, he approached a small group.
"Hey… um," he said, rubbing his temple lightly. "Do you guys know which chapters are actually important for the exams? I'm kinda confused."
A boy laughed. "Same here, man. But mostly chapters three to six."
A girl added, "Chapter five especially. They love that one."
Reeve smiled, relieved. "Oh—thanks. Seriously."
They felt useful. Smarter. Slightly superior.
Reeve walked away with confirmation, not information.
Outside, the campus looked alive in the ugliest way—political posters layered over each other, faces of candidates smiling with promises no one believed. Near the gate, students argued loudly.
"It's all decided already," someone said.
"Then why even vote?" another replied.
Reeve passed them without slowing.
Power fascinated him—not because he wanted to preach, but because it followed patterns. Systems repeated themselves at every scale: governments, colleges, families, and friendships.
Corruption wasn't evil. It was efficient.
He chose to walk instead of taking a bus, heading toward the metro station. The streets were crowded—vendors shouting, bikes weaving dangerously close, and people rushing as if time itself chased them.
At a small stall, he stopped.
"Excuse me," Reeve said softly, "can I pay tomorrow? I left my wallet."
The shopkeeper studied his face.
Reeve didn't rush. Didn't plead. He looked genuinely embarrassed.
A few seconds passed.
"Fine," the man said. "Tomorrow."
Reeve bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
People liked kindness when it cost them nothing.
The metro station swallowed him into its underground hum. Cold lights. Advertisements promising happiness in installments. Reeve stood near the platform edge, phone buzzing quietly in his pocket.
Messages.
Did you understand today's lecture?
Can you explain that formula later?
Bro, send notes pls.
He replied selectively. Enough to seem helpful. Never enough to become essential.
Dependence was dangerous.
The metro arrived with a metallic scream. Inside, Reeve stood holding a pole, watching reflections in the glass—faces tired, defeated, and hopeful for no clear reason.
A news clip played on someone's phone nearby. Another political scandal. Another denial. Another excuse.
Reeve stared at the tunnel rushing past.
They steal openly and call it leadership, he thought. We steal quietly and call it survival.
When he reached his station, he walked the rest of the way home. Narrow streets. Faded buildings. The city felt heavy at night, like it was holding secrets in its concrete.
His room was small, clean, and almost empty. No decorations. No attachments. Just necessities.
After a quick meal, he lay on his bed, scrolling through manga on his phone. He didn't read like a fan—he dissected characters, strategies, and failures.
Most protagonists were fools. Power fell into their laps, and they wasted it on emotion.
Reeve turned off the screen and stared at the ceiling.
Was he a good person?
The thought came and went without guilt. Morality was a tool, nothing more. The world wasn't kind. Pretending otherwise was childish.
His phone vibrated once more.
A college group message.
"The exam schedule changed."
Reeve smiled faintly.
Of course it had.
He turned off the light. The city murmured outside—engines, voices, and ambition grinding endlessly against ambition.
As sleep approached, a single thought surfaced, sharp and quiet:
If power decides everything… then what kind of world would need someone like me?
The darkness didn't answer.
But it felt as if it listened.