Technology everywhere.

  Biomechanical implants. Plates under the skin. Artificial fibers pulling muscle like cables. Metal and flesh mixed without shame.

  Two guys in tech suits talk like it’s nothing. That’s what makes it disgusting—because it’s real.

  “Without this I’d snap myself in half.”

  “My dad paid a private lab.”

  And between them… Jason.

  Simple clothes.

  No tech. No tricks.

  A candidate steps closer. Lean build. Sharp eyes—curious more than hostile.

  “Hey… you’ve got nothing on you. At all.”

  Jason looks at him. Calm.

  “No.”

  Half-smile from the guy. A flicker of respect, almost by accident.

  “Either you’re crazy…”

  Pause.

  “…or you’re interesting.”

  Jason doesn’t answer.

  He doesn’t need to.

  —

  First Demonstration — Exterior, Yard

  Outside, the air changes.

  Wind. Open space. Concrete reflecting every sound.

  Candidates lined up. Uneven rows. Tight shoulders. Eyes that don’t want to miss a thing.

  Tense silence.

  A name circulates before the guy even moves.

  Alessandro steps forward with a confident stride and an arrogant grin. The kind that trains in front of mirrors.

  Low voices behind him.

  “That’s Vercelli.”

  “The speedster?”

  “Real talent. Total fucking egomaniac.”

  Alessandro lifts his face to the sky like applause is already coming.

  “Watch closely, you peasants! This is the difference between me and you sorry nobodies!”

  His legs—veins lighting up.

  Compressed aura.

  Then the sprint.

  BOOOM.

  The air detonates. A sharp blast that shoves the wind aside.

  For a split second he looks like a human bullet—too fast, too clean, too sure.

  Eyes widen across the crowd.

  And then—

  CRACK.

  A wrong sound.

  A human sound.

  His body collapses like a cut puppet.

  Brutal detail: his legs are destroyed.

  Blood.

  Shattered bone.

  Flesh that can’t hold.

  Reactions are short. Merciless. Like it’s just data.

  “Without a suit…”

  “What an idiot.”

  “Better this way. He’d have been a problem.”

  OPOM moves instantly. Staff and medics grab him and drag him off while he screams. A scream that bounces off the concrete and breaks in the wind.

  Jason watches him from the side.

  Silent.

  The earlier guy steps half a pace closer, low voice, sealing the lesson.

  “See?”

  “The code isn’t enough.”

  “If you can’t handle it… it kills you.”

  Jason answers with a neutral sound. Almost a swallowed cough.

  “Hm.”

  —

  EXAM BEGINS

  The interior atrium of the OPOM Selection Center goes dead quiet.

  Like someone just squeezed the throat of the noise.

  In front of a massive screen, an OPOM officer stands still. Straight back. Hard jaw. Uniform perfect—no crease betraying a human underneath.

  Flat voice. No emotion.

  “Who you are doesn’t matter here.”

  A next-gen digital board lights up. Items appear one by one, clean as hammer blows.

  — Theoretical test

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  — Physical trials

  — Defense / evasion

  — Offensive output

  The screen shifts again.

  Three symbols.

  Three colors.

  — White Flames

  — Red Flames

  — Black Flames

  The officer doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.

  “White Flames.”

  Pause.

  “Standard operatives. Structure. Patrol. Field order.”

  A white icon lights up: grids, urban maps, procedures.

  “Red Flames.”

  “Special forces.”

  “Rapid response. High-risk missions. High operational value subjects.”

  The red icon: scenarios, hot zones, alerts.

  Then black.

  The screen seems to darken.

  “Black Flames.”

  A fraction of a second.

  “The elite of special forces.”

  A beat.

  “Limited units.”

  “Strategic deployment.”

  “When Reds aren’t enough… they go in.”

  On the display, dry and slogan-free:

  ELITE — LIMITED UNITS — STRATEGIC DEPLOYMENT

  The officer continues, unchanged.

  “If you’re not ready to be useful…”

  “you’re not ready to be OPOM.”

  Then back to the tests, like he didn’t just drive a nail into everyone’s skull.

  “What matters is how long you hold.”

  Pause.

  “And how much utility you can produce under pressure.”

  A fraction of a second.

  “Skill.”

  “Potential.”

  “Control.”

  The screen behind him shifts again: icons, graphs, empty bars waiting to fill.

  An OPOM attendant enters with a flat case. Opens it calmly, methodical.

  Inside: transparent strips, two fingers wide, sterile-clean.

  The officer speaks without changing tone.

  “Each of you will now receive a special biotechnological implant.”

  Pause.

  “Similar to a patch.”

  The attendant moves through the rows.

  Jason feels a hand at the back of his neck. The base of the skull.

  The strip presses down.

  A soft click.

  Then a pinch.

  Micro-needles.

  The discomfort lasts a moment. Then only the sense of something adhering too perfectly.

  “The micro-needles interface with your central nervous system.”

  “Encrypted telemetry.”

  “Real-time monitoring: vitals, stress, micro-trauma… and genetic code activation.”

  A low murmur ripples through the candidates.

  The officer cuts it off.

  “Activation doesn’t mean ‘how strong you are.’”

  Silence.

  “Activation means how much of your personal potential you’re actually using.”

  “It’s the faucet.”

  “Not the bomb.”

  A bar appears on the display, filling and draining. Stable. Cold.

  “Two candidates can show the same activation… with incomparable results.”

  Pause.

  “Because the code changes everything.”

  The voice stays flat, but the meaning turns electric.

  “If one of you is a monster, he’s a monster.”

  “And a monster can tear you apart even at low activation.”

  A beat of silence.

  “We don’t reward who ‘lights up.’”

  “We reward who’s useful to the cause.”

  Jason swallows once.

  Says nothing.

  His eyes stay locked. Clear.

  Like that sentence just gave him a direction.

  —

  The Trials

  Theoretical Test

  Classroom.

  White lights. Dry air. A silence that scrapes nerves.

  Hundreds of tablets glow like a field of eyes.

  Jason hunches over his. Still.

  Only his jaw moves—clenched, tight, ready to crack.

  On-screen, words scroll that weigh more than iron.

  Law.

  Strategy.

  Logic.

  Jason sweats. A drop slides down his temple. He doesn’t look up.

  He grinds his teeth like he could bite the questions apart.

  Like he could break them by force.

  They don’t break.

  —

  Physical Trials

  Running.

  Jason launches hard.

  The first burst is clean, aggressive. Shoes hammering concrete. Controlled breathing. The body working like a machine that knows its purpose.

  Then the suits arrive.

  Candidates with exoskeletons and supports pass him like he’s dragging chains.

  They streak by in metal and arrogance, not even looking.

  Jason doesn’t change his face. Keeps going. Steady pace.

  He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t beg.

  At the finish he’s gasping. Mid-pack.

  Not a victory.

  Not a failure.

  Just a data point.

  Then—

  Cut.

  Weights.

  Massive loads. Metal on metal. Every lift a crash of steel and tendons, a primitive language in a high-tech place.

  Jason grips.

  Lifts.

  Controls.

  No yelling. No theatrics. Just technique and bones that hold.

  A female candidate watches him, words dying halfway out of her mouth.

  “But that guy…”

  Jason doesn’t see her. Or pretends not to.

  Cut.

  Pull-ups.

  Here, Jason dominates.

  Arms pulling. Back tightening. Body rising and falling with vicious precision. Rep after rep, no showmanship. No need to prove anything to anyone.

  Around him, whispers multiply like flies.

  “Without a suit…”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “No supports? Is he insane or trying to die?”

  “What grade is he? Class?”

  Jason keeps his eyes forward. Focused.

  Like inside a bubble.

  And inside that bubble… there’s only one thing.

  Endure.

  Pistol Boy.