The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.
It was thin, pale grey, and slipped halfway under the door like it didn't want to be noticed. Haruto found it when he returned from school, toe nudging it unintentionally as he stepped inside.
He froze.
For a moment, he only looked at it.
No return address. No stamp. Just his mother's name printed neatly across the front, the letters too precise to have been written by hand.
He picked it up and placed it on the table without opening it.
Some things carried weight before you even knew what they said.
---
His mother came home later than usual that night.
Haruto was finishing homework when the lock turned. He heard the pause at the door, the quiet exhale before she stepped inside. These were sounds he'd learned to read.
She noticed the envelope immediately.
"Oh," she said.
She didn't ask where it came from.
She sat, took off her coat slowly, then opened it.
Haruto pretended to keep reading.
Minutes passed.
Finally, she spoke. "They want me to come in."
"When?" Haruto asked.
"Tomorrow morning."
"For what?"
She folded the paper carefully, once, then again. "A routine assessment."
Haruto waited.
"They say it's voluntary," she added.
He nodded. "But it isn't."
Her mouth tightened, not quite a smile. "You're too young to sound that certain."
He didn't reply.
---
That night, Haruto dreamed of numbers.
Not faces. Not places. Just long columns stretching endlessly, values rising and falling without explanation. Whenever he tried to focus on one, it blurred, replaced by another.
He woke with the taste of metal in his mouth.
His wrist was warm.
---
The next morning felt stretched thin.
His mother left early, quieter than usual. She didn't say where she was going. She didn't need to.
Haruto walked to school with Riku, the city oddly calm around them.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Riku said.
"I slept," Haruto replied. "Just not well."
Riku hummed. "Same. My dad says it's the weather. Says pressure messes with people."
Haruto looked up at the overcast sky.
Pressure.
---
At school, a new announcement waited for them.
Students were to report, class by class, to the infirmary throughout the day. No disruption to lessons. No cause for concern.
Riku leaned back in his chair. "Didn't we already do health checks last month?"
"Yes," Haruto said.
"So why again?"
Haruto didn't answer.
When their class was called, they lined up quietly. The infirmary had been rearranged—extra equipment, screens turned at odd angles, a device mounted near the door that hummed softly.
"Step forward," the nurse said, smiling too evenly.
One by one, students placed their wrists into the scanner.
When it was Haruto's turn, the hum changed pitch.
Just slightly.
The nurse glanced at the screen, then quickly looked away. "All set. You can go."
"How did I do?" Riku whispered as they walked out.
Haruto flexed his fingers. "Normal."
It wasn't a lie. It was worse.
---
He took the long way home again.
Not to the river this time. Away from it.
The city felt tighter today. Not physically—emotionally. People moved with purpose, eyes forward. Conversations ended abruptly when certain vehicles passed.
At a crossing, Haruto noticed a man adjusting a public terminal, replacing an old interface with a new one. The screen lit up briefly before going dark again.
METRICS UPDATED
The words vanished almost immediately.
Haruto kept walking.
---
His mother was home when he returned.
Early.
She was sitting at the table again, hands folded, posture straight in a way that told him everything.
"They asked about you," she said without preamble.
Haruto stopped.
"What did you say?"
"That you're healthy," she replied. "That you do well in school. That you're quiet."
Quiet. Always that word.
"They wanted permission," she continued, voice steady. "For additional evaluations. Said it would 'open opportunities.'"
"And?"
"I told them I needed time."
Haruto nodded once. "That was right."
She studied him. "You're not afraid?"
He thought about it.
"No," he said finally. "I'm cautious."
Her eyes softened at that. "You shouldn't have to be."
But he already was.
---
That evening, Riku came by unexpectedly.
"I brought food," he announced, holding up a bag triumphantly. "Emergency supplies."
Haruto's mother thanked him more than necessary.
They ate together, talking about nothing important. A show Riku liked. A game coming out soon. Small things that anchored the moment.
When Riku left, he lingered at the door.
"You know," he said, quieter now, "if things ever get weird… you can tell me."
Haruto met his gaze. "They already are."
Riku smiled anyway. "Then we'll be weird together."
---
Late that night, Haruto stood by the window again.
In the distance, lights flickered along the river barrier. New ones. Temporary, but not hurried.
He rolled up his sleeve.
The red mark looked the same as ever.
But Haruto understood something now, with a clarity that didn't frighten him as much as it should have:
It wasn't what the system did that mattered.
It was what it measured.
And once something was measured long enough, it stopped being human.
He pulled the sleeve back down and lay in bed, breathing slow and even.
Tomorrow would bring more questions.
He would continue giving none.