The next morning, something felt different in school.
Even the air seemed sharper, like it was watching me.
During homeroom, the teacher announced a surprise activity:
"Pair up for a challenge," she said.
I froze.
The other boy was called too.
Of course, we ended up together.
He looked at me, raised an eyebrow.
"You again?" he whispered.
"Seems like it," I replied.
The challenge was simple but strange:
We had to solve a riddle on the board.
The trick?
We had to answer without speaking, only writing.
I glanced at him.
He smirked.
I smirked back.
We worked in silence, scribbling notes, passing them under the desk.
A few students peeked.
Some whispered.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Observe. Do not interfere.
I laughed quietly.
Too late, I typed.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
We finished the riddle correctly.
The teacher looked surprised.
"Excellent teamwork!" she said.
The other boy shrugged.
"Guess some people just get lucky," he muttered.
I noticed his hand tremble slightly.
Not out of fear.
Excitement. Tension. The same pressure I had felt.
After class, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
You are ready.
I stared at the screen.
Ready for what?
No reply.
I smiled quietly.
Doesn't matter. I'll figure it out.
Because I finally understood:
The test wasn't about him.
Or me.
Or anyone else.
It was about how I reacted when the system watched—and when I wasn't forced to act.
And this time, I had chosen my own way.