VIII

The train rattled on, the dim overhead lights flickering every so often. I sat on the cold metal floor, back against a crate, forcing my breathing to remain steady. Across from me, the Cleaner lounged on another crate, his sharp gaze never leaving me. His posture was casual, but there was nothing relaxed about him.

He smirked. “You’ve got guts, kid. I’ll give you that. But do you have brains?”

I met his gaze, unwilling to rise to his taunts. “I imagine Kristof spared me because I have something he wants.”

The Cleaner scoffed. “That, or he’s curious how long you’ll last before you break.”

I kept my expression neutral. “If that’s the case, then why spare me?”

His smirk widened. “You tell me.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I knew my place here—I wasn’t an equal in this conversation. The Cleaner was testing me, prodding to see what I understood. If I answered wrong, he’d mock me. If I answered right… he’d mock me anyway. But it wasn’t just about humiliation—he was gauging my intelligence.

I exhaled slowly. “This isn’t a mercy. It’s prudence.”

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “You catch on quick. Players are… rare after all. And the Academy would always have a use for firewood like you.”

I let the silence stretch before asking, “Academy? Sounds better than jail. What’s it like there?”

The Cleaner chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, you’ll love it there. It’s a place where ‘meritocracy’ is the law. The strong rise, the weak are trampled, and the Elite ensure the whole system keeps spinning. They claim it’s fair, that anyone can make it if they try hard enough.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What a joke.”

I frowned. “If it’s such a lie, why does Kristof play along?”

“Because he benefits from it.” The Cleaner’s smirk disappeared, replaced by something colder. “The Council of City-States collectlivelt runs the place, but don’t fool yourself—people like Kristof pull the strings from the shadows. They let the Academy exist because it churns out killers, and killers are useful.”

I clenched my fists. “So I’m being thrown into the meat grinder.”

“Bingo.” He pointed a finger at me like a loaded gun. “Question is—will you come out ground beef, or will you be the one holding the knife?”

I didn’t answer.

The train’s overhead lights flickered again, casting shadows across the stacked crates. The air inside the cargo hold smelled of oil and metal, tinged with something acrid.

The Cleaner studied me, then suddenly let out a sharp laugh. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you think you can beat the system.” His amusement was clear now, but so was the edge in his voice. “That you’ll be the one exception. That all it takes is playing your cards right.”

I held his gaze. “Am I wrong?”

He leaned back, stretching. “Doesn’t matter what I think. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Silence settled between us, broken only by the steady hum of the train.

I took a slow breath. “If I want to survive Academy City, what’s the first thing I need to know?”

The Cleaner’s smirk returned, but this time, it was darker. “First rule—don’t trust anyone.”

I frowned. “Not even you? Yeah, obviously not you.”

His laughter was sharp and grating. “Especially not me.”

The train jolted, the slowing momentum making the crates creak against their restraints. The Cleaner stood, stretching as though he’d just woken up from a nap. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the soreness in my limbs. My mind raced, absorbing everything he’d said.

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The game was rigged.

The strong ruled, the weak suffered.

And I was walking straight into the lion’s den.

But that was fine.

Because I wasn’t here to play by their rules.

I was here to win.

The rhythmic clatter of the train filled the silence. I leaned against the crate, arms crossed, thoughts running like wildfire. The Cleaner’s smirk lingered in my mind, but I pushed it aside. I needed to focus.

Why had I attacked Kristof?

At first glance, it seemed like a reckless, impulsive act—suicide even. And maybe, in some ways, it was. But there was a method to my madness.

Kristof was untouchable. A towering figure in Amway’s power structure, surrounded by loyalists and enforcers like the Cleaner. If I had simply tried to run, I’d have been caught, probably branded a traitor, and disposed of. If I had groveled, I’d have been used up and discarded the moment I was no longer valuable.

Neither outcome suited me.

I needed to make Kristof look at me and see something more than just another pawn. I needed him to want me alive.

That meant proving my worth. That meant showing him that I wasn’t just another desperate rat scrambling for survival—I was someone with ambition, someone who could think, scheme, and execute.

So I attacked him.

It was stupid. Mad. Nonsense.

That somehow worked.

I knew my simulated bombs wouldn’t kill him. The Cleaner was right about that. But their purpose wasn’t to kill—it was to test. I needed to see how Kristof reacted to something like me. Would he kill me instantly? Would he torture me? Would he see value in me?

Kristof let me live. That meant I had intrigued him. That meant I had a sliver of control in this situation.

And then there was the second reason.

Amway was a prison. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. I’d already tested its limits in the shrot time I was living as Charlie. I knew escape was impossible—not through conventional means, at least. I needed to be sent out, not chased down as a fugitive. That meant Kristof himself had to decide that I was better off elsewhere.

And that was exactly what happened.

Now I was on this train, bound for Academy City.

A place where system users like me could grow. A place where power could be seized. A place where, if I played my cards right, I could stop being someone else’s pawn and start becoming a player in this twisted game.

Had everything gone according to plan?

Not exactly.

I hadn’t accounted for the humiliation at Kristof’s hands, the sheer weight of his presence pressing down on me, forcing me to acknowledge that I was still weak. I hadn’t predicted the Cleaner’s interference. I didn’t think. I was a bundle of nerves, mid explosion. And I exploded.

But that was fine.

Even when plans faltered, new opportunities arose.

The train came to a slow, rhythmic stop, its mechanical hum fading into the stillness. I felt the subtle shift in motion before the faint hiss of air brakes filled the cargo hold. The dim, confined space became unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling metal.

The Cleaner remained seated on his crate, his posture as relaxed as ever. He didn’t look at me, but I could feel his presence looming—his aura heavy, his amusement simmering just beneath the surface.

I decided to break the silence, despite the danger. My voice, steady but laced with defiance, sliced through the tension.

“This was a mistake.”

The Cleaner finally turned his piercing gaze toward me, one brow quirked in vague curiosity.

“Letting me go,” I continued, my chest tightening as my heart raced. “Kristof will regret it. One day, I’ll come back, and he’ll wish he’d finished the job.”

The words left my mouth before I could think them through, and I realized, far too late, just how suicidal they sounded. Why do I keep doing this?

For a moment, the Cleaner stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching. Then he laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that bounced off the metal walls.

“Revenge?” he drawled, standing up and dusting off his pants as though I weren’t even worth the effort of a real response. “You’re barely alive as it is, kid. You think you’ll make it far enough to even scratch Kristof?”

I didn’t flinch. His dismissiveness confirmed my earlier assessment—he and his master didn’t see me as a threat. That was good. That was important.

But his words still stung.

“You’re just another bug,” he added, shrugging with theatrical indifference. “One of millions squashed before they ever get anywhere. If it’s not here, it’ll be in Academy City. You’ll die, Owen Hart. Probably sooner than you think.”

The cargo hold door groaned, the sound reverberating through the chamber as it began to slide open. Light spilled in, illuminating the gray walls and casting long shadows. The Cleaner glanced at me, then grabbed my arm in an iron grip.

“We’re done here,” he said flatly.

Before I could even register what was happening, the world around me warped. A pulse of light engulfed us, and in an instant, the suffocating metal walls of the cargo hold vanished.

I blinked, disoriented. We were now standing in a pristine, sterile hallway. The walls gleamed unnaturally white, and the faint hum of overhead lights filled the air. It was eerily empty—no people, no sounds save for the two of us.

The Cleaner let go of my arm and gestured lazily toward a door at the end of the corridor.

“You’re enrolled,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “Congratulations. Try not to embarrass yourself more than you already have.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off with a sneer.

“Speaking of embarrassment, let’s talk about your idiotic stunt back at Amway. Attacking the CEO? Really? You should’ve stayed quiet, played your cards right, and pretended to be Charlie. You might’ve had a shot at something, anything, if you’d used your head.”

I met his gaze, unflinching.

“I’d rather die,” I said firmly, my voice low but unwavering. “I’d rather die than live another day pretending to be Charlie.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in the Cleaner’s expression—something almost resembling curiosity or grudging respect. But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual air of condescension.

“Suit yourself,” he said, turning on his heel. “Your funeral.”

With that, he strode down the hallway, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the distance.

I was left standing alone, my fists clenched at my sides.

This wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It never had been.