Recruiting the founding brains of a future sovereign state taught me one very important lesson early on: ideology is easy—finding the people isn't.
Because apparently, world-class historians, blacklisted economists, and 'I-was-right-ten-years-too-early' thinkers do not advertise themselves online.
There is, tragically, no Craigslist category titled 'Disillusioned Intellectuals – Will Overthrow the World Order for a Decent Budget and Moral Vindication'.
So my first dive into human resources was a certified disaster.
Three straight days vanished into academic forums that looked like they hadn't been updated since the Cold War, cross-referencing keynote speeches politely labeled 'controversial' (translation: this guy scares governments), and reading papers so dry they felt personally offended by joy.
Every author radiated the same energy: I hate the system, I hate people, and I definitely hate peer review.
By the end of it, I had a shaky list of names, a small landfill's worth of takeout containers, and a newfound respect for SHIELD recruiters.
Honestly, no wonder Nick Fury always looks tired—this job ages you spiritually.
Then, out of nowhere, before I even opened my laptop, my phone rang.
Which immediately threw me off, because yes, this is the Marvel world—but it's 2005. Smartphones aren't a thing yet, which still feels illegal to me on a cellular level.
Instead, I grabbed my very sad, very indestructible Nokia equivalent.
I answered without thinking.
"Hey, Mark. You still alive?"
Rule number one of survival: never get caught lacking.
Rule number two: if you do get caught lacking, deny reality with confidence.
And as someone mentally running on 2026 software, casual gaslighting is basically muscle memory at this point.
Unfortunately for me, it failed spectacularly.
"You disappeared for three days?" Mark snapped from the other end, his voice vibrating with pure, righteous fury. "What the fuck are you talking about? I've been busting my ass promoting you and your work, and when I finally call you—poof. Gone. Like you got snapped early."
I winced and scratched my head, already drafting excuses in real time.
"Come on, man," I said lightly. "I've just been insanely busy. Had one of those once-in-a-century flashes of inspiration, you know? The kind that rewires your brain. I think this next book might actually change my life."
Technically, it was a lie.
But like… a small one, because I do have dozens if not hundreds of classics in my mind.
Mark isn't just my agent—he's my best friend in this life. We grew up together.
I was always the creative mess: drawing, music, writing, chasing ideas instead of stability.
Mark, on the other hand, had that rare superpower—the ability to get along with literally anyone without selling his soul.
He became an agent partly to inherit his father's legacy, sure—but also because of a stupid teenage promise. The kind you make when you're young and serious and think the future will be fair.
You do the art, he'd said. I'll handle the world.
Back then, I didn't have my memories yet. I was just a kid chasing entertainment dreams, and Mark was the idiot who believed in me hard enough to stake his own future on it.
Sure enough, Mark came to a full stop at that.
"Sure, if you say so," he said, dragging the words out like he was humoring a kid who'd just claimed they could breathe underwater. "And hey, I genuinely hope it's true. But aren't you even a little curious about how your first ever creative baby is doing out in the world? You know, your debut? The one people say is… special?"
Ah, my first work. How to put this?
I hadn't exactly recovered my past-life memories in crisp, 4K detail—more like they were buffering in a spotty Wi-Fi zone. But the instincts? Those were baked into my soul. The vibe was there. The cringe was there. The entire plot, conveniently, was also there.
So, I'd basically penned the tale of an American high schooler who stumbles upon a mystical notebook that grants him the power to, you know, delete anyone whose name he scribbles into it. Also known as Death Note.
Yup. Against all odds, my literary debut was a copy of the iconic anime from my past life—the same one that, by 2015 over there, had circulated over 30 million copies and fueled approximately a billion dark, philosophical lunchroom debates.
A smirk tugged at my lips. "Alright, hit me. How'd it do? Did I break the bestseller list, or do I need to start writing someone's name down?"
The past three days hadn't just been me chasing down historians and side-eyeing the world's state. I'd also been cooking up a whole mental mood board of chaos. Top of the list? Fixing mutants' PR nightmare.
Because nothing says 'we're not a threat' like strategically releasing hyper-popular media that makes having superpowers look like the ultimate dream.
Ideas on the back burner included serializing something like My Hero Academia or even a Harry Potter riff—give the people a magical academy to yearn for, make them wish they could shoot lasers or summon Patronuses.
Get the public genuinely excited about awakening something extraordinary. It was a long-game play, sure, but way more fun than just screaming 'We're not evil' into the void.
All necessary groundwork before dealing with bigger pests… like a certain psychic bacterium named Sublime.
Mark's laugh was a short, sharp burst.
"Haha, dream on." He paused, letting the suspense build for a melodramatic second. "But… you actually did shockingly well. Of the initial print run of 15,000, sold 10,000 already. In this market? That's not just 'good'—that's a breakout success. Your first try, and you're already giving the industry trust issues."
I pondered that for a moment. Should I be surprised?
On one hand, this was a freaking success—champagne and confetti territory.
On the other hand… it was Death Note. The concept was brutally original, the moral dilemma was catnip for edgy teens and overthinkers alike, and my writing didn't suck. So really, the universe was just… correct.
"Honestly? That's very good," I said, trying to sound normal and not like I was already mentally drafting an empire. "So the era of Hollywood actresses wanting to 'heal their inner child' just to snag a role in my movies is, like, next Friday? Should I start charging for therapy sessions?"
On the other end, Mark's laugh was more of a snort. "Seriously, dude? Do I look like someone whose interests are exclusively… estrogen-based?"
A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. "Ohhh. Are we swinging for new dugouts now? Respect. But just FYI, while I fully support your journey, my own compass points stubbornly and boringly toward women. Solidarity, but not that much solidarity."
"F*ck you," he fired back, loud enough that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "I'm so straight I make rulers look crooked. I've probably slept with more women than you've had hot dinners with your entire friend group combined."
Well. That was a visual I didn't need before lunch. "Wildly specific. But okay, sure, let's go with that. Anyway, you didn't blow up my phone just to humble-brag about my own success, right? Let me guess, this is about one of those 'prestigious' New York invites that lands in your mailbox the second you stop being a total failure? The kind that screams 'network or die trying'?"
Normally, being a writer isn't technically a Hollywood job. But we're all swimming in the same shallow, chlorinated water of the entertainment industry. And the number one rule? Connections are currency.
It's a whole ecosystem: you hustle, you schmooze, you maybe sell a tiny piece of your soul—or, you know, sleep with a moderately powerful old guy who promises your book could be a film. The classic indie-to-blockbuster pipeline.
Unless, of course, your work actually blows up. Then the whole game flips. Suddenly, it's not you begging at the gates—it's Hollywood outside your door with a blank check and a pleading look, desperate for the adaptation rights.
Mark's laugh crackled through the speaker, dry and conceding. "Alright, fine, you caught me. It is an invitation. But this isn't one of the hundred cookie-cutter ones. This one's… weirdly specific. It's from your alma mater."
Out of all the possibilities that had flash-mobbed my brain—my story catching Tony Stark's eye, a cryptic email from SHIELD, maybe a Grammy nomination for my shower-singing—this was not on the bingo card. And yet, somehow, it was the most brutally realistic.
"Okay," I chuckled, the sound a little hollow. "So it's basically March Forum season. I just didn't expect the nostalgia to hit them so fast. I've only been gone a year, and they're already like a lonely ex texting 'u up?' Should I be flattered, or should I respectfully remember the oath I swore at graduation never to return unless it was to burn the place down?"
Well, yeah. I graduated last year.
No, I'm not a Stark, a Banner, or Reed Richards. I didn't spend my teenage years casually inventing world-ending tech or bending physics out of spite. This world is already overcrowded with freaks who had exaggerated academic performances and a God complex before puberty.
That said… graduating at eighteen is still a flex.
Even if it wasn't in the holy trinity of Biology, Engineering, or Anything That Comes with a Lab Coat.
My field was way more niche: Audience Psychology & Cultural Influence.
Not exactly something your aunt brags about at family dinners—but still something to be proud of.
And honestly? It's the kind of subject only a top-tier, closed-door institution like Atlas University would even dare to teach. The kind of place that doesn't just educate you—it subtly rewires how you look at people, crowds, and power.
"Well, at least your ex didn't call you again, if I remember correctly," Mark said, his voice already marinated in smugness.
I ignored him. Mostly.
Because in the span of those few seconds, I'd already made my decision.
This forum—this ridiculous, self-important gathering—was actually perfect.
University students. Alumni. People who'd already clawed their way into high society and were now pretending they hadn't stepped on anyone's fingers on the way up.
Logically speaking, university is one of the most defining choke points in a person's life. That awkward bridge between innocence and reality. The moment where people wake up to how the world actually works—but haven't yet been completely hollowed out by it.
They still have ideals.
They just now understand that ideals come with a price tag.
"All right," I said. "I'm in. We'll go together, and I'll also show you the draft of my new stories."
I didn't have a car yet. Mark did—courtesy of his dad's wallet. He understood exactly what I was implying.
Mark snorted. "Don't act like you don't know you'd burn that place down in a heartbeat if they asked politely, provided the gasoline, the matches, and a signed legal waiver."
He wasn't wrong.
Atlas University wasn't just an alma mater. It was a social experiment—pressure-cooking the gifted and driven until their idealism crystallized into something sharp, ambitious, and mildly terrifying.
"Fine," I sighed, only half pretending to be reluctant. "When and where is this circus?"
"Tomorrow night. Eight PM. Founders' Hall. Black tie suggested—which in Atlas-speak means 'wear a suit or be ritually shunned.' I'll pick you up at seven. And you will show me that draft. If it's even half as unhinged as the last one, I need time to mentally prepare."
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A little bit too much talk apperently, but I didn't even see it, but then again, there's slice of life tag so I suppose it's not too much, right? And don't forget to vote.