The gates of Myers Academy stood before him like a promise or a threat. Hard to tell.
Grann finished his sandwich, carefully folded the aluminum foil, and tucked it into his pocket. Not out of politeness – out of habit. Pockets were made for that.
Around him, the other entrance exam candidates bustled about like ants in a shaken anthill. Some were doing sophisticated stretches, others recited mantras under their breath. A guy was doing push-ups on the steps. A girl stared into space with unsettling intensity.
Grann watched it all, then looked at his empty hands.
He hadn't brought anything.
No equipment. No mantra. No stress.
Just him.
———
The first test was an urban combat simulator.
A corridor the size of a football field, filled with obstacles, moving targets, and traps programmed to "injure without killing" – well, that's what the examiner had said with a smile that wasn't entirely reassuring.
Candidates went one by one. Stopwatch in hand. The average time to complete the course was four minutes thirty.
A candidate with a banana – literally, a banana in his hair, a yellow streak standing up on his scalp – finished in three minutes fifty. He came out of the simulator screaming with joy.
Another – a girl with an empty stare – finished in three minutes forty-two. She didn't scream. She didn't smile. She sat on a bench and closed her eyes.
Then came Grann's turn.
He entered the simulator. Looked at the environment. An alley. Windows. Moving targets that looked like shadows. Traps on the ground.
He didn't analyze. He didn't plan. He looked, one second, two seconds…
And he moved forward.
Not running. Not crawling. He walked. But his steps landed only where there were no traps. His hand rose at the exact moment a target appeared – one tap, disabled. He ducked, without looking, precisely when a laser swept through the space where his head would have been.
He wasn't thinking.
He was sublimating.
Every movement, every decision, every reaction to what presented itself to him – everything instantly became the perfect version of itself. Not because he was strong. Because he couldn't do otherwise. It was his nature.
Exiting the simulator, the examiner looked at the stopwatch.
Two minutes eighteen.
The silence in the gymnasium was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The banana-haired guy had stopped screaming. The empty-stared girl had opened her eyes.
Grann pulled out a second sandwich from his pocket and took a bite.
———
A reinforced metal block. A cubic meter of composite steel, designed to withstand the impact of a truck.
Each candidate had to strike it. One attempt only. Power was measured by sensors.
The banana-haired guy struck. The block emitted a dull sound. 78% structural damage.
The empty-stared girl struck. 82%. She went back to sit down.
Other candidates filed through. The average hovered around 65%.
Then Grann approached.
He didn't take a running start. He didn't clench his fist. He just placed his palm flat on the metal, closed his eyes for a second, listened to something no one else could hear.
Then he struck.
Not a punch. A flick. A simple tap of his index finger, precise to the millimeter, at the exact spot where the metal's structure was most fragile – the resonance point his body had sublimated without him needing to understand.
The block exploded into dust.
Literally. Into dust. As if it had been waiting its whole life for someone to touch it in the right place so it could finally disintegrate.
The examiner opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the sensors displaying "ERROR". Looked at Grann.
Grann finished his sandwich.
———
A rescue scenario. Actors played victims of a collapse. The injured, screams, smoke, chaos.
The other candidates rushed in, scooping up the wounded, carrying them one by one to the safety zone. That's what was expected of them. That was "heroic."
Grann watched the scene for two seconds.
Then he walked to a wall, lifted a beam blocking an emergency exit, opened a door no one had noticed, and in three minutes and twelve seconds, everyone was outside via the shortest route.
No spectacular rescue. No heroic poses.
Just pure efficiency.
The actors, who were paid to play victims, looked at him with a mix of gratitude and frustration – they'd barely had time to scream.
———
Leaving the gymnasium, Grann took a random corridor. He was looking for a water fountain. Or a sandwich dispenser. Or a bench. He wasn't picky.
That's when he saw her.
A girl with pink hair – not candy pink, pink like a sunset over a ruined city, a soft and fragile color – stood at the other end of the corridor.
She was looking at him.
Her eyes were large, too large, as if she were trying to absorb the whole world in a single glance. A bandage peeked out from her sleeve, on her forearm. She looked… not injured, but damaged. Like someone who had been through something too big for her.
Their eyes met.
For one second, just one, Grann saw something in her eyes. Not fear, not curiosity – recognition. As if she too was looking for someone who would stay without asking for anything.
Then she panicked.
Her eyes widened further, she took a step back, turned, and disappeared.
Not "ran away." Disappeared. Literally.
She pressed a spot on the wall that looked completely ordinary, a panel slid open without a sound, and she slipped inside like a shadow. The wall closed behind her.
Grann blinked.
He stood there, motionless, staring at the wall.
He had never seen anyone run that fast. And he had never seen anyone be that afraid of him when he'd done nothing.
Weird.
He shrugged and continued looking for a fountain.
———
The amphitheater was packed. New admits, their families, teachers, cameras from local channels – Myers recruited the best, and the best drew attention.
On the stage, a man waited for silence.
Mr. Sébastien.
He was tall, elegant in his midnight blue three-piece suit, not a single white hair out of place, not a crease on his tie. He radiated something timeless – you'd think he'd always been there, would always be there, welcoming generations of heroes with the same calm smile and the same intensity in his gaze.
When he spoke, his voice filled the amphitheater effortlessly, as if made of velvet and steel.
"Welcome to Myers Academy."
A murmur ran through the crowd – excitement, respect, fear too.
"You have passed the entrance exam. Congratulations. But do not confuse succeeding with arriving. You have not arrived. You have merely crossed the first door. Behind it, there is a corridor. And at the end of that corridor, there is a second door. And a third. And so on, until you understand a simple truth: one never arrives. One moves forward, or one moves back. There is no stopping."
His eyes swept the room, pausing a fraction of a second on each face. When they met Grann's, there was something – a spark, a recognition.
"You have efficiency, young man," Sébastien said, without looking away. "But efficiency without elegance is merely brutality. We shall see if Myers can teach you elegance."
Grann didn't reply. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure he understood.
But something, deep inside, registered the phrase.
Elegance.
———
After the ceremony, Grann explored the academy.
Myers was a labyrinth. Corridors that led nowhere, staircases that stopped in the middle of a wall, doors that opened onto empty closets or abandoned classrooms. The architect, clearly, had issues.
It was by pushing open a door that wasn't supposed to exist that he found the garden.
A green space, hidden between two buildings, visible from no window. Ancient trees, wildflowers, a stone bench worn by time. And in the middle of it all, sitting on the bench, alone…
The pink-haired girl.
She was reading an old book, her fingers trembling slightly on the pages. She hadn't heard him arrive.
Grann stopped short.
He could have approached. Talked to her. Asked why she'd run. Why she hid. Why she trembled.
But he did none of that.
He took a step back. Then another. And he sat on the ground, at the garden's entrance, far enough not to frighten her, close enough for her to know he was there.
He took out his last sandwich. He took a bite. He looked at the trees.
He would say nothing. He would demand nothing. He would just stay there.
For the first time in his life, Grann expected nothing from anyone. He was just present.
And that was enough for him.
———
On the second floor, a silhouette stood behind a window.
Viper.
He had seen it all. The encounter in the corridor. Pinky's flight. And now this newcomer – this "phenomenon," this guy who'd crushed the exams – sitting at the garden's entrance, watching her as if she were the only interesting thing in the world.
Viper gripped the windowsill so hard the wood creaked.
He had known Pinky forever. Since childhood. He'd seen her smile, cry, grow up. He'd seen her break after the kidnapping, close up like an oyster, disappear into the walls. He'd wanted to help her, protect her, talk to her.
But he'd never had the courage.
And this guy, this Grann, showed up one day – one day – and already he was sitting near her as if he had the right.
Viper felt something cold form in his chest. Something that felt like hate. Or jealousy. Or maybe both.
He didn't know yet what he would do. But he knew he would do something.
———
The next morning, Grann found his locker tagged.
One word, painted in red, dripping like blood:
GET OUT.
Grann looked at the tag. Then he looked around. The other students averted their gazes, embarrassed. No one said anything.
He shrugged, opened his locker, and put his things away.
He already knew who'd done it. Didn't take a genius. The look from the window, the way Viper stared at him in the halls – it was him.
But Grann didn't care.
He wasn't there to make friends. He wasn't there to fight. He was there to learn elegance, or something like that.
And to see the pink-haired girl again.
———
As Grann headed toward the classrooms, a hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned.
A man in his thirties looked at him with a tired smile. Messy hair, crooked tie, wrinkled jacket – you'd think he'd just come from a fight or a three-day nap, hard to tell.
"Grann, right?"
"Yes."
The man nodded. "Mr. Jayol. Head teacher. You'll be in my class." He pulled out a tablet, scrolled through data. "So, let's see… Speed record broken. Power record shattered – literally, the metal block is dust, the janitor cried. Rescue record broken. Bottom line, you're a monster."
"Thanks."
"Not a compliment. An observation." Jayol put away his tablet. "Now, I have two things to tell you. One official, one unofficial."
He glanced around, lowered his voice.
"Official: welcome to Myers. You've got potential. Work hard, and you'll go far."
Grann waited.
"Unofficial:" Jayol leaned in. "The pink-haired girl, in the garden. You saw her."
Grann didn't answer. But his eyes didn't blink.
"Her name's Pinky. She went through something not cool recently – kidnapping, confinement, the whole package. Since then, she hides. Not metaphorically, literally: she hides in the walls. Myers has secret passages everywhere, no one knows why. The architect was nuts. She knows them all. She lives in them."
Jayol took out a piece of gum, chewed it for two seconds, then continued.
"Why am I telling you this? Because I saw you, yesterday. At the garden entrance. You just stayed there, without moving, without speaking. Just… present."
He spit the gum into a wrapper and pocketed it – bad habit, but consistent with his wrinkled jacket.
"Most people would have run after her. To talk to her, help her, feel useful. You just waited. That's rare. That's even…" He searched for the word. "…elegant."
Grann blinked. That was the second time he'd heard that word in two days.
"Now, the annoying part." Jayol crossed his arms. "The tag on your locker, 'GET OUT.' That's Viper. He's been in love with Pinky for three years. Never approached her, never spoke to her, never anything – he just watched her from afar. Now that you're here, he's going to make your life hell. So watch your back."
He shrugged.
"There, said it. Have a good first day. Oh, and Grann?"
"Yeah?"
"If you ever get lost in the hallways – which you will, the architect was clearly on substances – look for the damp spots. They always lead to an exit. Or a classroom. Or a closet with a skeleton. We don't know, we're afraid to check."
He turned away, his wrinkled jacket flapping behind him, and disappeared around the corner.
Grann stood alone for a moment.
Then he took a sandwich from his pocket and bit into it.
He was hungry. And he had a girl not to frighten.