The alarm clock didn't ring.
It never did anymore.
Ren Takahashi opened his eyes to the pale light slipping through the cracked blinds, thin rays cutting across the ceiling of his room. The paint above him was peeling, curling outward like it had finally given up clinging to the concrete. He lay still for a moment, staring at it, counting the cracks without meaning to.
Sixteen.
He exhaled quietly and sat up. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, the metal frame letting out a soft creak. Ren froze instinctively, listening. From the other side of the thin wall came low voices—careful, tired voices that carried conversations they didn't want him to hear.
"…the landlord called again," his mother said.
"I know," his father replied. "I'll take another night shift."
Ren's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket.
He stood and pulled on his school uniform, smoothing the fabric out of habit. The sleeves were faded, the stitching near the cuffs worn thin. In the small mirror above the sink, a slim boy with dark eyes stared back at him—someone who always looked like he was thinking five steps ahead, yet still unsure whether to move forward.
Engineer.
The word surfaced in his mind, as it always did.
He splashed water on his face and stepped into the main room. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and instant noodles. On the table sat two slices of bread and a nearly empty jar of spread. Ren took one slice and ate slowly, forcing himself not to rush. Every bite felt measured, like a calculation he couldn't afford to get wrong.
The television flickered in the corner.
"…tensions between Central City and Arcadia continue to rise," the news anchor said. "Despite official statements denying escalation, military analysts warn that nuclear options remain a possibility."
The screen shifted to blurred footage.
A man lifting a truck with one hand.
A woman shrinking a massive structure down to the size of her palm.
A figure standing still as bullets stopped midair.
Abilities that defied physics.
Arcadia.
Ren looked away.
He picked up his bag and stepped outside.
⸻
The morning air was colder than he expected. The apartment building loomed behind him, concrete walls stained by years of neglect. Ren walked toward the bus stop at the corner of the street, the city already awake around him—vendors setting up stalls, delivery drones humming overhead, security patrols gliding silently along elevated rails.
He checked his phone.
6:28 a.m.
As always, he was early.
Ten minutes early.
Ren leaned against the railing beneath the rusted bus-stop sign, eyes drifting toward the road while his thoughts wandered somewhere else entirely.
A laboratory.
Bright. Clean. Silent.
His.
He imagined standing before a massive holographic display, equations floating in midair as his hands moved with certainty. Engineers watched from behind reinforced glass. Government officials whispered among themselves.
"This is the weapon," he said in the vision, his voice steady. "Not one that destroys—but one that ends the conflict."
No nuclear fire.
No cities erased overnight.
No children born into fear.
Arcadia surrendered. Central City disarmed. The war became history.
His parents smiled without worry.
The city slept without sirens.
Ren let out a slow breath.
It was unrealistic. He knew that. Dreams alone didn't stop wars. Only planning did. Precision. Understanding the rules that governed even chaos itself.
Still… imagining it made the present bearable.
The low rumble of an engine pulled him back to reality.
The school bus rounded the corner, white and blue, the academy emblem stamped proudly on its side. The doors hissed open, and Ren stepped inside.
The bus was already half full.
Juniors laughed loudly at the back. Seniors sat closer to the front, headphones in, eyes half-lidded. Ren took a window seat near the middle and placed his bag carefully at his feet.
Then he noticed her.
Aiko Nakamura sat two rows ahead, posture straight, black hair tied neatly behind her. She stared out the window, expression calm and distant.
Ren's chest tightened for a brief, irrational moment.
He looked away almost immediately.
He didn't know why she affected him like that. They barely spoke—if at all. Yet whenever she was nearby, his thoughts slowed, like his mind was recalculating something it didn't fully understand.
The bus started moving.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
⸻
The bus slowed as massive steel gates came into view.
Kurogane Science Academy.
The name was etched boldly into polished stone, flanked by tall fences lined with discreet surveillance sensors. Beyond the gates stretched a vast campus of glass buildings and research halls—more like a government facility than a high school. Wide stone pathways cut through carefully maintained lawns as students poured in from different directions.
Ren stepped off the bus and adjusted the strap of his bag, lifting his gaze as he always did.
Kurogane Science Academy was one of the largest science-focused schools in the city, reserved for students with exceptional academic potential. For someone from his background, being here still felt unreal.
Final year.
One year left.
As a science-track student, Ren's schedule was demanding—advanced physics, applied chemistry, engineering fundamentals. But one subject always left him uneasy.
Biology.
The classroom buzzed with low chatter as Ren took his seat near the window. Aiko Nakamura sat a few rows ahead, flipping through her notes with quiet focus. Ren noticed her only briefly before lowering his gaze.
The door slid open.
The room fell silent.
Mr. Sashimoto—the biology teacher—stepped inside.
He was a thin man with neatly combed hair and rectangular glasses that reflected the overhead lights, hiding his eyes for just a moment too long. He placed his materials on the desk with deliberate care before turning to face the class.
"Good morning," he said calmly.
His voice was soft—but precise.
"Biology," Mr. Sashimoto continued, "is not merely the study of life as it exists now. It is the study of what life can become."
Ren felt a faint pressure at the back of his mind, an unease he couldn't explain.
Mr. Sashimoto turned to the board and wrote a single word in careful lettering.
EVOLUTION
A thin smile crossed the teacher's face.
"Humanity," he said, "has barely begun to understand its own potential."
Ren's pen paused mid-note.
For reasons he couldn't name, he felt certain—
This class would change everything.