"W-What are you doing here?" Noen stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Joris smiled, a cold, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, if it isn't my superstar, Noen..."
"Have you happened to see Ignaz or either of the other two?" Noen asked, his voice trembling. "I want to go hom—"
"You're not going anywhere," Joris interrupted.
Noen froze. "W-What do you mean?"
Joris let out a hellish laugh that echoed off the concrete walls. "You're my new wallet, kid! Today was just your premiere! Now the whole world knows that a loser like you actually exists." He began to circle Noen like a shark. "You're going to be the laughing stock of society. You'll be attending every event imaginable... ad deals, sponsors, and—"
"Why would I ever go along with this crap, huh?" Noen snapped, a spark of rage cutting through the fear. "You have no right over me!"
"Are you sure about that?" Joris pulled a document from behind his back and tapped the signature Noen had left in the training hall. "This was the third sheet, wasn't it?"
Noen took a deep, shaky breath.
"I knew you wouldn't read it," Joris sneered. "Why do you think I put you up against the strongest beast right at the start? To make you feel worthless. So you'd sign anything just to make the day end!"
Noen straightened his back. "Well, you thought wrong, Mr. Gantz. I'm only sixteen! That makes this contract invalid!"
Joris's smile turned revolting. "Oh, really?"
Noen hesitated. "Y-Yes...?" Suddenly, the realization hit him like a physical blow. —The laws changed last year. The government had lowered the age of adulthood to sixteen so they could draft high-rankers immediately.— He gnashed his teeth in silent fury.
"And don't even think about suing," Joris said, waving the paper. "You have zero evidence. You're just a kid!" He stepped closer and shoved Noen back down to the floor. "You're my money-child now."
Joris turned the corner, then popped his head back out with a provocative grin. "Oh, by the way... your flight to Canada leaves tomorrow morning at 4:30 AM. Don't miss iiiiiiiit!"
He vanished into the shadows.
Noen sat on the cold floor for a while, digesting the nightmare. The concrete beneath him felt colder than before, seeping through his palms and into his bones. The word Canada echoed in his head, distant and unreal. Tomorrow morning. 4:30 AM. His life had been rearranged in under ten minutes.
Finally, Ignaz appeared from behind. "Come on, Noen. We're driving you home." Noen stood up, his willpower drained. He followed them back to the car in silence.
The ride passed in a blur of streetlights and muted engine noise. No one spoke. The silence pressed heavier than any accusation.
When they arrived, his street was a war zone of white light. Reporters and camera crews swarmed his lawn. His mother was at the entrance, desperately trying to block the door.
The moment the car turned the corner, Noen saw it—the unnatural brightness cutting through the darkness of the quiet suburban street. Floodlights had been mounted on tripods, cables snaked across the pavement like black veins. News vans lined both sides of the road, their satellite dishes extended toward the sky like metallic parasites feeding on signal and scandal.
The air was thick with overlapping voices, the mechanical hum of equipment, the sharp beeping of reversing vans trying to reposition for better angles. Neighbors stood at their windows, silhouettes behind curtains, watching.
"What is wrong with you people?!" she screamed.
His mother's voice cracked with fury and desperation. She stood in front of the door like a shield, hair disheveled, hands shaking but unmoving. Microphones were shoved toward her face. Camera lenses hovered inches from her, red recording lights blinking mercilessly.
Noen stepped out of the car. "What the hell is this?!"
For one split second, everything paused. Heads turned in unison. Then chaos erupted.
The reporters surged forward like predators catching sight of prey. The sound hit him first—shouted questions colliding into a wall of noise.
"Is it true your system is an anomaly?"
"Is it really below FFF-rank?"
"How does it feel to be the weakest human alive?"
Flashbulbs exploded in rapid succession, blinding white bursts that burned into his vision. He raised an arm instinctively, but it didn't help. The brightness stabbed behind his eyes. Cameras clicked like relentless insects. Microphones nearly touched his face. Someone grabbed at his sleeve.
He felt exposed. Stripped. Like the arena all over again—but this time there was no monster to fight, only the world itself.
His mother pushed forward, shoving microphones aside. Her voice trembled but didn't break as she threatened legal action, police involvement, anything to get them off the property. Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to retreat. Vans shifted. Lights dimmed. The noise thinned into mutters and distant engine revs.
But the damage was done.
"Noen, are you okay?" she whispered, trying to fix the doorbell the reporters broke.
Her voice was softer now, barely audible. Concern replaced anger instantly.
Noen didn't answer. He pushed past her, his boots thundering on the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. He slammed his bedroom door and threw himself onto the bed, the tears finally breaking free. He buried his face in the pillow, sobbing for the life he had lost.
The pillow muffled the sound, but not the pain. His chest ached. His hands clenched into the fabric as if he could hold onto something solid—something that hadn't already been taken from him. Tomorrow he would be gone. His face would be everywhere. His name no longer belonged to him.
But then, out of the heavy, suffocating silence of the room, a voice drifted through the air.
"Hey... Nono... i think i can help you....."
Noen bolted upright, his breath hitching. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stared into the pitch-black, empty corners of his room. No one in sight, only darkness.
Noen trembled.
"W-Who is there?"