The cafeteria of the Ability Users Academy opens at a fixed time.
No bell signals it.
The system pushes the time uniformly.
All student terminals light up in the same second.
Cold screen light ignites across different locations in perfect sync.
Light reflects across tables and floors.
Numbers flicker.
11:59:59.
The next instant—zero.
The doors slide open.
The track emits a faint mechanical glide.
Air pressure shifts slightly.
Airflow redistributes.
The indoor temperature control system runs steadily.
Vent output remains uniform.
The air carries the scent of steam and heated protein.
No grease smoke.
No spice.
Nothing that stimulates the senses.
Nutrition takes priority over taste.
Seven enters the cafeteria with a constant stride.
The sound of his soles meeting the ground is low and even.
He does not speed up for food.
He does not slow down deliberately.
Two years ago, when he first entered the academy, he would arrive thirty seconds early.
Not out of anticipation.
Out of habit.
A year on the streets trained him to secure position in advance.
Advance meant initiative.
Delay meant passivity.
Back then, arriving early was a defense against uncertainty.
Now, it is unnecessary.
Trays are stacked neatly.
Cold metallic light reflects the overhead lamps.
Edges aligned.
Each tray's weight variance is controlled within a minimal range.
He takes one.
The touch at his fingertips is steady.
The metal is slightly cooler than body temperature.
He no longer checks thickness.
His body remembers.
The serving lines are arranged in straight sequences.
High-protein section.
High-carbohydrate section.
Fat supply section.
Vegetable and fruit section.
Supplement section.
No overlap.
No congestion.
Students maintain distance.
The line flows evenly.
No chatter.
No cutting.
Eating is a recovery process.
Seven takes his food in order.
Two portions of chicken breast.
Uniform thickness.
Clean-cut edges.
Muscle fibers visible in cross-section.
Moisture sealed within.
No excess oil on the surface.
One portion of rice.
Standard: 180 grams.
Steam rises slowly.
Grains distinct.
He does not request more.
He does not reduce.
Dark vegetables, appropriate amount.
Uniform cuts.
One spoon of fat.
Placed beside the rice.
Liquid seeps slowly between the grains.
He moves to a seat against the wall.
Solid wall behind him.
Surface cold.
Field of vision covers the entrance and main passage.
A residual structure.
Not tension.
Inertia.
He sits.
Spine straight.
Shoulders natural.
At this time last year, his shoulders would slightly draw inward.
Collarbones protruding.
Rib lines visible.
That was not malnutrition.
That was sustained high expenditure.
During that year on the streets, his daily output exceeded his intake.
Not because food was unavailable.
He could hunt.
Small animals had no second chance in front of him.
Efficient movements.
No wasted energy.
Those who tried to take his food had no second chance either.
The problem was not acquisition.
It was stability.
He could hunt today.
Tomorrow might yield nothing.
The day after might require long movement.
In that environment, the body chose compression.
Growth was delayed.
Resources prioritized bursts.
Neural reflexes took precedence over skeletal extension.
He takes his first bite.
The meat fibers separate cleanly between his teeth.
Bite force is even.
The jaw does not snap.
The tongue pushes the meat toward the molars.
Chewing count is fixed.
During swallowing, the motion of his throat is steady.
No rapid ingestion.
No guarding posture.
Two years ago, the moment the first bite reached his stomach, a brief tension would form.
An instinct—confirming whether he would be interrupted.
Now, it does not happen.
No sudden contraction in the stomach.
The cafeteria's ambient noise is even.
The sound of trays landing is low-frequency.
Utensil contact carries no sharpness.
He swallows the second bite.
Breathing remains even.
No urge to accelerate intake.
Food is replenishment.
Not competition.
Shoulders settle naturally.
No tension.
Back does not hunch.
Feet fully grounded.
Weight evenly distributed.
Internal temperature rises gradually.
Not explosive energy.
Steady input.
The tray empties.
No leftovers.
Not frugality.
Efficiency.
He stands.
Knees extend smoothly.
Heel contact produces a low sound.
The glass window reflects his outline.
No longer a boy ready to flee at any moment.
But an individual in development.
Height: 156 cm.
Six centimeters taller than last year.
Not a sudden stretch.
But release after prolonged suppression.
Weight: 45 kg.
Evenly distributed.
Wrists no longer skeletal.
Shoulder muscles fill the gaps.
His steps feel more grounded when he walks.
Not heavier—
but no longer suspended.
He lifts the empty tray.
Returns it to the collection slot.
Precise movement.
No extra sound.
He leaves the cafeteria with a steady pace.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Environmental safety confirmed.
The body has entered a growth phase.
Seven offers no thanks.
No reflection.
He simply accepts.
Accepts that growth has begun.
＿＿＿＿＿＿
After leaving the cafeteria, Seven does not return to the dorm immediately.
The cafeteria doors close slowly behind him.
The metal frame meets the latch with a soft click.
The scent of disinfectant and protein lingers in the air.
He does not look back.
The corridor lighting is cold.
Ceiling lights embedded overhead.
Brightness constant.
Footsteps are absorbed by sound-dampening material.
Only faint echoes remain.
He returns to the dorm.
The academy has assigned him a single room.
The door unlocks automatically after recognition.
The electronic tone is clean.
The space is not large.
Four walls, light gray.
Flat surfaces.
No decorative patterns.
No dust in the corners.
The air is still.
Bed. Desk. Storage cabinet.
The bed is neat.
Corners sharp.
Pillow centered.
The desk is by the window.
Frosted glass filters the light.
No harsh shadows.
The cabinet doors fit perfectly.
Items arranged in order.
The desk is clear.
No papers.
No notes.
No photos.
No medals.
No personal markers.
At the center of the desk lies a ballpoint pen.
Standard model.
Plastic shell.
Transparent barrel.
Ink level visible.
Very light.
He sits.
The chair makes a brief friction sound.
No deep breath.
His chest rises steadily.
He extends a hand.
Fingers hover above the pen.
No contact.
The air beneath his fingertips shifts slightly.
The pen does not move.
He waits.
Not for a miracle.
For confirmation.
Psychokinesis is not an explosive ability.
It is more like a newly formed neural pathway.
It needs stimulation.
First attempt.
His awareness presses forward.
The pen trembles slightly.
Minimal amplitude.
Second attempt.
His focus shifts to the center of mass.
The pen rolls half a centimeter.
Stops.
Third attempt.
The tip lifts.
A thin gap forms.
Suspension—
then it falls.
Seven watches.
No expression.
This is not transformation.
Just emergence.
He tries again.
Hands resting at his sides.
Gaze fixed on the pen's center.
He constructs a structure in his mind.
Not push.
Not pull.
Lift.
Intent moves upward.
The pen leaves the surface.
One centimeter.
Two centimeters.
Air fills the gap.
It hovers.
In that instant, the air does not move.
The pen rotates slightly—almost imperceptible.
Time: about one and a half seconds.
Consciousness maintains the structure.
Neural signals continue output.
A faint tension forms at his temples.
Then instability.
The pen tilts.
Falls.
The sound remains soft.
Pressure builds at his temples.
Not pain.
Load.
Like an uninsulated wire briefly carrying current.
He stops.
Does not continue.
The ability is confirmed.
Existence is enough.
Seven stands.
He places the pen back into the holder.
Movement steady.
Psychokinesis cannot yet be applied in combat.
Unstable.
High consumption.
But it exists.
And existence—
is enough.