Ethan noticed it on his way home.
At first, he thought it was imagination—his mind still replaying the system messages, filling empty spaces with fear. But when he slowed down and really looked, the pattern became impossible to ignore.
Some people walked with a weight that had nothing to do with age.
A man in his thirties leaned against a streetlight, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. Above his head, a number flickered for less than a second before vanishing.
A teenager laughed with her friends, loud and careless. For her, there was nothing. No symbol. No number.
Not everyone was part of it.
Only some.
Ethan stopped at a convenience store to clear his head. The automatic door slid open, and a cold wave of air hit his face. He grabbed a bottle of water, his hands trembling slightly.
At the counter, the cashier scanned the item and paused.
The scanner beeped again. And again.
"Sorry," the cashier said. "System lag."
Ethan looked up.
For a brief moment, just above the cashier's head, he saw it clearly.
[Participant]
Eligibility Score: 4
The cashier blinked—and the text disappeared.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them spoke.
But something passed between them in that silent second. Recognition. Understanding. Fear.
The cashier finished the transaction quickly, avoiding eye contact. Ethan paid and walked out without waiting for a receipt.
Others like him existed.
They were everywhere.
That night, Ethan received another message.
Not a command.
An invitation.
[Meeting Point Available]
Access Cost: 12 hours
Accept / Decline
Twelve hours.
The number made his stomach twist.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at the options. This wasn't about survival—not yet. He could decline.
But then what?
He had already learned the first rule:
The system never stops watching.
Ethan pressed Accept.
The room went silent.
[Access Granted]
Location Uploaded]
A map appeared. An abandoned office building on the edge of the financial district. Officially closed for years.
Unofficially?
Active.
The building smelled of dust and old electricity. Dim lights flickered in the hallway as Ethan stepped inside. He wasn't alone.
Six people stood scattered across the room.
Different ages. Different clothes. Same look in their eyes.
They all felt it.
The countdown they couldn't see.
A woman with short hair broke the silence. "First payment?" she asked.
Ethan nodded.
A man near the window laughed quietly. "You can always tell."
No names were exchanged. No greetings. Names still mattered here—too much.
"We're not a group," the woman continued. "We're a pattern."
She looked straight at Ethan.
"And patterns get noticed."
Above her head, a number flickered briefly before fading.
Higher than his.
Much higher.
Ethan swallowed.
He had thought the system was personal.
He was wrong.
It was social.
And once you were visible…
You could never go back to being just another face in the crowd.