By the time the first weekend arrived, I still had no plan.
Others spoke confidently about profits and progress, but my mind felt blank. Every idea I considered collapsed almost immediately.
Should I start a small food business?
Too common.
Tutoring?
No one would trust me.
Repair work?
Too slow.
The pressure built quietly, pressing harder with every failed thought. By Saturday evening, it almost felt ridiculous. I laughed to myself, gave up thinking, and decided to walk instead.
The city was alive.
People crowded electronics stores, argued about features, compared devices, dreamed about technology they couldn't yet afford. It wasn't obsession—it was curiosity. Interest. Hope.
That's when it hit me.
I already understood this world.
By nightfall, I began collecting.
An old laptop. A damaged phone. Two other unused electronic devices. Most people gave them away easily. Broken things had no value to them anymore.
To me, they were pieces.
I didn't work inside the campus.
Outside the city stood an abandoned shed—rusted doors, dust-covered tables, and shelves filled with forgotten tools. It felt untouched, ignored by time. Perfect.
For two days, I barely slept.
I dismantled, rewired, tested, failed, and rebuilt. My hands moved faster than my thoughts. This wasn't new to me. I realized I had always been good at this—bringing order to chaos, forcing broken things to cooperate.
By the end of the second night, it was done.
Two identical devices.
A mid-air haptic hologram system, capable of projecting visuals that could be interacted with in open air. One was meant for sale. The other… I kept.
The auction went live quietly.
I didn't expect much.
But the numbers climbed fast.
Interest turned aggressive. Bids crossed limits I hadn't imagined. When it finally ended, the final bid stood at 2.5 million.
Three days of work.
That was all it had taken.
I didn't celebrate. I packed the second device carefully and walked back toward the campus. The pressure didn't disappear—it changed.
Because now, the system knew something about me.
And so did I.
Back in my room, I secured everything and stepped outside again. One by one, I crossed paths with the boys from the other groups. Conversations started naturally—short at first, then longer. Without planning it, we all drifted toward the same place.
The beach.
We sat on the sand, watching waves rise and fall. For the first time since the competition began, no one talked about rankings or money.
We talked about experience.
Failures. Small wins. Mistakes that taught more than success ever could.
Then someone said it.
"There are only weeks left."
Silence followed.
An idea formed—not from one person, but from all of us.
Why compete alone…
when collaboration could take us further?
What if we combined our skills and resources? One company. Equal shares. Equal responsibility. A team built by choice, not assignment.
The idea felt risky.
And right.
We agreed on one condition.
For now, everyone would continue individually. Each of us needed to prove something to ourselves first.
After one more week, we would come together.
That would leave two full weeks.
Two weeks to build something bigger than any one of us.
As night settled over the beach, the waves kept moving—steady and relentless. I realized this was the first real team I had ever been part of.
Not because a system created it.
But because we chose it.
And that choice felt heavier than any rule ever could.