February 1997.
Uriel was already eighteen.
The final school exams were underway. The hall was filled only with the soft scratching of pens and the rustle of paper. Uriel wrote in silence, almost mechanically. The answers came by themselves — fast, precise, flawless.
When the exam ended and the sheets were collected, the teacher paused for a moment beside his desk. He looked at Uriel for a few seconds, then said quietly:
"You… always write this fast?"
Uriel lifted his head. His hair, as always, was neatly dyed black — falling over his shoulders in ordinary, unremarkable strands. Nothing special.
"Always," he answered calmly.
The teacher nodded and walked away. Uriel remained seated and turned toward the window. Outside, a cold wind swirled, lifting dust along the empty street.
On the way home, the same thoughts returned to him.
University. Profession. Future.
Everyone said he should study law or economics. "You're a smart boy, you have a great future ahead of you," his teachers kept repeating. But Uriel knew the truth. He saw exactly how the system worked — corrupt professors, bribes, party connections, everything that passed for "success."
If he went to university and tried to get a "good" job, he would eventually become exactly what he hated: a hypocrite, a corrupt man, just another part of the machine that devoured people.
When he entered the apartment, he closed the door quietly. The small flat felt even emptier than usual. After his father's death, there was no one left to talk to. Uriel sat down at the table, rested his head in his hands, and stayed silent for a long time.
He turned toward the window. In the distance, the city lights glowed. Somewhere up there, they sat — the ones who decided everything. The government that even turned wars into spectacles so the rich could grow richer.
Uriel closed his eyes.
"If I enter politics… maybe I can change something," he thought.
But at the same time, he knew this path was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Those who were too smart and too clean did not survive long in this system.
He ran his hand through his hair. Black. Still black. The dye had been applied perfectly. No one had seen the truth.
Yet Uriel already felt that he could not hide much longer.