Ari stopped thinking in terms of right and wrong without noticing when it happened.
There was no dramatic rejection of values, no internal debate where he weighed ethics and found them wanting. The concepts simply lost relevance, like outdated rules applied to a system that no longer existed.
Right and wrong assumed choice.
Ari experienced necessity.
When the pressure built, when the noise surged, the question was never should—only what would stop it.
He observed others closely now, not with curiosity or resentment, but with detachment. He watched how people justified their actions emotionally, how they framed harm as accident or intention depending on convenience.
Morality, he realized, was flexible for everyone else too.
They just hid it better.
Teachers ignored struggling students to preserve classroom order. Parents disengaged to preserve their sanity. Doctors labeled to simplify complexity. Everyone prioritized outcomes over principles when it suited them.
Why should he be different? The thought settled easily.
In Ari's internal calculus, outcomes mattered. Silence mattered. Stability mattered.
Intent did not quiet the noise. Apologies did not restore order. Guilt did nothing but add weight.
Effectiveness was the only measure that produced results.
He tested this logic carefully, the way he tested everything now. When he lied to avoid trouble, the outcome was peace. When he withdrew, the outcome was safety. When he imagined force, the outcome was calm.
The system held.
Ari did not feel malicious. He felt pragmatic.
Late one afternoon, he overheard a teacher speaking to another adult in the hallway.
"He just doesn't respond to normal incentives," she said quietly. "I don't think he understands consequences."
Ari almost smiled.
He understood consequences perfectly. He just understood them differently.
That evening, sitting alone in his room, Ari tried to locate the feeling others described as guilt. He replayed moments where harm had occurred—real or imagined—and waited for discomfort, for some internal reprimand to surface.
There was nothing.
The absence did not alarm him.
It clarified things.
Guilt was a signal designed to prevent repetition. Ari already had a system for that—trial, observation, adjustment. Guilt was redundant.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the house settling for the night. The noise inside him was present but subdued, manageable for now.
He knew it would rise again. When it did, he would respond.
Not emotionally. Not impulsively.
But effectively.
Ari understood that morality was a framework built for people who experienced hesitation. People who needed internal brakes.
He had something else. A direct line between problem and solution.
As sleep finally overtook him, Ari felt a quiet certainty settle deep in his chest.
He did not need permission. He did not need justification. He needed results.
And whatever produced silence—whatever restored balance—was acceptable by definition.
The thought did not thrill him. It steadied him.
Because now, when the pressure returned—and it always did—Ari would not waste time asking whether he was allowed to act.
He would only ask whether it worked.