Another day at Helios Institute of Technology. The students were rowdier than usual — all because of last night's announcement: the Dreamz gaming pods were finally available, but only as a limited edition.
Not just Helios — from Tier 1 cities to Tier 3 towns, the whole country buzzed with excitement. The news spread like wildfire, and chaos followed. People rushed online, desperate to get their hands on the pods. The site nearly crashed under the traffic. Transactions filled the air like wildfire — it was madness.
Some borrowed money from family and friends. Others took loans from banks or companies. All for a chance to enter the world of Dreamz early.
But the biggest shocker? It didn't even take an hour before every single pod was sold out.
Few rejoiced. Many despaired.
Sure, new pods would be released in two weeks — but that meant a two-week advantage for the lucky few who got theirs.
And among those lucky few were Carl and me. Just as Carl had promised last night, our delivery arrived early that morning.
"Our pod is finally here!" Carl shouted with excitement like a child opening his first present.
The delivery guys brought them straight to our room, and we made enough space to set both up. Surprisingly, they both fit. Maybe I'd just gotten too used to thinking my room was small after spending almost the entire year between here, class, and the lab.
'Come to think of it, the lab,' I thought, turning toward Carl to tell him I'd be heading there soon—there was still an unfinished project waiting for me.
"You're not going anywhere," Carl said, narrowing his eyes at me.
'Damn it, I always forget this guy can read my thoughts,' I grumbled internally.
"No, I can't," Carl said back immediately, making his way toward his pod.
'Yeah, he's lying,' I thought again, and, as if on cue—
"I'm not lying," Carl added, smirking.
Yep, he had psychic powers.
"But I've got to—"
"Not until you start this game with me," Carl cut in.
"How are you even sure the game's been released yet?" I asked, slightly annoyed.
"There's nothing bad in trying," Carl retorted. "Aren't you the one who always says, try something until it works, genius?"
"That's not how it works," I sighed. "Fine, I'll check. But if it doesn't work, I'm not getting in this pod for another week."
"You're joking, right?" Carl asked, grinning, half-annoyed, half-excited.
"You'll soon get your answer," I said, sliding into the pod. The seat was surprisingly soft—almost homey.
"Alright, let's get started!" Carl said, clearly pumped.
We activated the pods and went through the DNA scanning stage—so our personalities could be imprinted into the game. After that, the main event was supposed to happen: the game loading.
I wasn't exactly hopeful. Like I told Carl earlier, Dreamz hadn't even been released yet. So, I guessed that meant no entry for at least another week.
"What the hell!?" were the first words out of Carl's mouth as we both exited the pods.
"What kind of company releases the pods and a game guide without releasing the actual game!?" he groaned, rubbing his head.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't put too much hope in it," I said, stretching a bit. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be heading to the lab. Got a project to finish."
And just like that, I walked out of our room, leaving Carl behind still trying to process what happened.
Well, I couldn't really blame him. Aside from his obsession with women, Carl still had enough room in his heart for games. He's quite the gamer—though I rarely see him play.
As for me… I've never been that into games.
Invention—that's my world. Or maybe, it is my life.
The dim corridor leading to the robotics lab stretched ahead, bathed in soft amber light from the ceiling fixtures. My footsteps echoed faintly against the tiled floor as I took the less crowded path—a secret route most students avoided. The others said it was because of the eerie silence, but for me, it was the peace... and the guarantee of no ambush from those hawk-eyed girls who always seemed to appear out of nowhere.
I sighed, a crooked grin tugging at my lips. You'd think after last year they'd finally give up, I thought, running a hand through my hair. Guess love really does make people dumb.
Then it hit me.
"Dumb… Dom," I muttered, stopping mid-step. "Seriously? That's what I rhyme with now?"
The reflection of my smirk flickered in the glass panel beside me. Maybe I was some kind of walking charm—though even I didn't believe that.
My gaze softened.
"No," I whispered. "I already have my first love."
The faint hum of machinery grew louder as I pushed open the lab door. Rows of half-finished projects gleamed under white light—metal arms, servo motors, holographic screens flickering with data.
Inventing. That's what kept my world turning.
It all started when I was seven. I could still see it—tiny hands, greasy wires, a spark, a pop... and the moment I realized I could create life from lifeless things.
The smell of solder and electricity filled my nose even now. My heart beat faster at the memory.
"Yeah," I said under my breath, eyes glinting as I looked over the scattered tools on the desk. "This... this is where I belong."
I wasn't really your average kid. While other children were out chasing footballs or trading snacks, I was hunched over scraps of metal and circuits, tinkering away like a mad scientist in the making.
What began as a simple hobby—connecting wires, building toy cars that could barely move—soon became something more. A passion. A pulse that beat in sync with every spark, every hum of electricity that danced through my creations.
Maybe it was because of Dad's and Mom's work—two people whose lives revolved around innovation and discovery. Maybe it was just in my blood. Either way, I didn't fight it. If anything, I embraced it.
The scent of burnt metal and solder still carried me back to those moments. The glow of the workshop light spilling across the table. The tiny hum of a motor coming to life for the first time.
That's when I knew.
It wasn't just about building things. It was about understanding them—about discovering who I was meant to be.
And that answer came to me every time I picked up a screwdriver.
That time I got my very first private work lab… man, I was ecstatic. No, scratch that — I was possessed.
It wasn't big or fancy — just a small garage space Dad converted for me. But to me, it was heaven. Rows of tools neatly hung on the wall, the metallic scent of fresh steel, the low hum of my first 3D printer — it was everything I ever dreamed of.
From that day on, I practically lived there. Every afternoon after school, I'd toss my bag aside, roll up my sleeves, and vanish into my little world of circuits and gears. Dinner? Optional. Sleep? Negotiable.
Slowly, school started to feel… boring. Not because I was dumb — far from it. In fact, I was that kid teachers used as the example for others. The "smartest in his grade" kind of annoying. Some said I could even compete with the higher graders.
And maybe they were right — because before I knew it, I'd become a young businessman. Doing assignments and projects for lazy rich kids too proud to lift a finger but rich enough to pay handsomely.
While they partied, I built. While they played, I learned.
And while they spent their money — I made mine.
I didn't know why, but I began to see humans differently.
Not as friends, not as classmates — but as Homo sapiens, driven by want. Creatures willing to do anything just to get what they desired.
I started noticing it more in high school. Kids befriending others not because they cared, but because they needed something — an extra lunch, a seat at the cool table, a lackey to do their assignments and projects.
Smiles became tools. Words became weapons. Friendship? Just another transaction.
Sometimes I'd watch them — laughing, pretending, scheming — and wonder if I was the strange one for noticing… or if they were all just too blind to see what they'd become.
So yeah… you could say that affected my social life.
At a very young age, I had already seen through the glittering mask humans wore — their smiles, their words, their motives. I understood something most kids my age didn't: humans always wanted something.
So, I came to a conclusion.
Who needs humans when you have machines?
They were simpler, honest even. They didn't lie or fake emotions. They broke, you fixed them. They failed, you rebuilt them. That kind of honesty was rare.
From then on, I started pulling away. No clubs, no sports, no school gatherings. Why waste time with these malevolent beings when I could be at home… creating?
And speaking of home — Mom and Dad started getting busier. Always out early, always back late. I guess work was more important.
Sometimes it felt like even sitting down to have breakfast with me — with Saya — would slow them down.
Don't get me wrong — that's just how I saw it back then.
So, being the "genius" little me, I decided to help them. To relieve their stress. To make life easier. My grand idea? An automated baby-feeding machine.
Yeah, you heard that right. Quite the mind I had, huh?
I still remember the spark that morning — the excitement bubbling inside me like a soda about to pop. I even decided to skip school just to work on it. Not my proudest moment, but hey… innovation doesn't wait for anyone.
Mom and Dad didn't notice, of course. They were always gone before sunrise, their car headlights fading down the driveway while I sat by the window, sketching out circuits and gears. Funny thing — it used to be me leaving first. What a change.
Not that they were neglecting us or anything. They still tried — family dinners on weekends, small talks here and there. I guess… they just had bigger responsibilities. Bigger dreams.
Saya had a nanny. I wasn't really fond of her — not that I paid her much attention anyway. I had more important things to do. While she fussed over feeding schedules and bedtime stories, I was buried in wires, bolts, and sketches. Day and night, I worked. Every single day until… I finally finished.
The Automated Baby Feeder 1.0.
Man, the pride I felt that day — it was like electricity running through my veins. Mom and Dad's faces lit up when I showed them. That spark in their eyes… I thought it meant something. Like they finally saw what I was capable of. Like I had made it.
So, I kept going. Same routine. No School, lab, repeat. Days blurred into weeks — a perfect cycle of invention and isolation. Until that one evening.
They called me into the living room. The air felt heavier than usual — still, quiet, like the calm before a storm. I can still see it — that look on their faces. Disappointment. A rare expression, one I never wanted directed at me.
And I still remember their exact words…
***
The living room was unusually quiet that day. The air felt heavy—thick with something I couldn't name. Mom sat at the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly together, her eyes glistening but stern. Dad stood beside her, arms crossed, his usual calm demeanor replaced by something sharper… colder.
I walked in, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs. The hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound daring to exist in that silence.
"Sit down," Dad said, his tone calm but commanding.
I did. My throat went dry. The last time I saw them look this serious was when Saya almost swallowed a coin.
Mom's eyes met mine, and she exhaled softly, as if the words hurt to say. "We heard from your school today…"
My stomach dropped.
"You've been skipping classes."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. No yelling, no raised voices—just disappointment. That was worse.
Dad's gaze didn't waver. "You've always been bright, but brilliance without discipline…" He paused, then shook his head. "…it's wasted."
For a moment, I wanted to explain—tell them about the invention, the project, the reason. But something stopped me. Maybe it was pride. Maybe guilt.
The invention that made me feel special now felt like a crime.
Mom's voice softened. "We're not angry, sweetheart. We're just… worried."
Her words cracked something in me. I looked down at my hands—grease-stained and trembling.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was filled with everything I couldn't say.
School... oh, that word used to grate on my nerves. I couldn't even tell when the shift happened — when the thrill of learning turned into a dull, dragging chore. I used to love school. Maybe I still did, deep down. But once I found something greater — something that made my pulse race and my thoughts spin — everything else just... faded.
***
"Wasn't I just stubborn?" I muttered under my breath, a faint grin tugging at my lips.
The soft hum of machines filled the air, wires coiled around my feet like lazy serpents. My mind drifted again, lost in its usual whirl of circuits and metal — until the door creaked open.
That's when she walked in.
Sapphire eyes. Long, dark hair that shimmered in the lab light.
And just like that, my carefully built bubble of solitude cracked.