My name is Arthur.
I’m eighteen years old, a freshman at a university that believes it can teach people how to become adults.
I don’t get along with people.
That’s the polite version.
The truth is considerably less flattering.
I have always found human beings exhausting.
Their need for approval.
Their obsession with belonging.
The way they gather around one another not because they actually care, but because being alone reminds them of how little they know about themselves.
Put enough of them in one place, and eventually the same patterns emerge.
Friends become tribes.
Opinions become identities.
Attention becomes currency.
And everyone pretends they’re choosing freely.
I call it a human zoo.
The first day of university was no different.
I sat in the last row of the classroom, where nobody had any reason to look at me, and watched.
The loud ones found each other first.
Within minutes, the room had divided itself into familiar categories.
The confident.
The nervous.
The desperate.
The ones already trying to impress people they had known for less than an hour.
It was almost impressive.
Almost.
Three weeks later, nothing had changed.
If anything, the patterns had become easier to predict.
That was when I noticed her.
She sat alone.
Not because she disliked people, judging by the way she occasionally looked toward the others.
She simply hadn’t found her place yet.
That made her interesting.
And vulnerable.
Her name was Evelyn.
I learned that before she ever introduced herself.
I also noticed something else.
She was constantly checking her belongings.
Phone.
Notebook.
Wallet.
Phone again.
An anxious habit.
People reveal more when they think nobody is paying attention.
The first move required almost no effort.
During lunch, I walked behind her as we entered the cafeteria.
When she stopped near the entrance, I reached into the outer pocket of her bag and removed her wallet.
She didn’t notice.
I walked several steps ahead and slipped it beneath the edge of an empty table.
Then I took my seat.
I waited.
Evelyn eventually reached the counter, ordered her food, and reached into her bag.
Her expression changed immediately.
Confusion.
Then concern.
Then panic.
She searched the same pocket twice before checking the others.
I watched without moving.
Three seconds.
Five.
Seven.
Exactly as expected.
I stood.
“Did something happen?”
She looked at me.
“I… I think I lost my wallet.”
Her voice was already beginning to shake.
I glanced toward the counter.
“I’ll cover it.”
Her eyes widened.
“No, you don’t have to—”
“It’s fine.”
I paid before she could argue.
Then I turned toward the tables.
“Let’s look for it.”
We searched for less than a minute.
I stopped beside the table where I had hidden it.
“Is this yours?”
I picked up the wallet.
Her face changed instantly.
Relief.
Then gratitude.
Then something slightly more interesting.
Trust.
“Oh my God…”
She took it from my hand.
“I thought I actually lost it.”
“You’re lucky.”
She looked at the food.
Then at me.
“You paid for me too.”
“It’s not important.”
“But—”
“Really.”
I walked away before gratitude could become a conversation.
That was the point.
You shouldn’t give people enough time to question why you’re being kind.
Just enough to make them remember that you were.
Back in class, Evelyn looked at me several times.
I ignored her.
Not completely.
Just enough.
People are curious creatures.
If you give them nothing, they forget you.
If you give them too much, they become suspicious.
But if you give them just enough…
They start filling in the blanks themselves.
The final bell rang.
I packed my things and left.
I had barely reached the university gates when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Hey.”
I kept walking.
“Arthur.”
I stopped.
Evelyn caught up, slightly out of breath.
“I’m Evelyn.”
“I know.”
She blinked.
“You… know?”
“You’ve been sitting in front of me for three weeks.”
A small smile appeared on her face.
“Right.”
She hesitated.
“I just wanted to thank you again.”
“You already did.”
“I know, but…”
She looked down at her wallet.
“I don’t usually meet people who would actually stop to help.”
I said nothing.
She seemed to interpret my silence as permission to continue.
“You seem different.”
That sentence made me look at her.
Different.
People said that when they couldn’t explain something.
Sometimes it was an insult.
Sometimes it was curiosity.
Sometimes it was the beginning of attachment.
I gave her the safest answer.
“Maybe.”
She smiled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Probably.”
She walked away.
I watched her disappear into the crowd.
The experiment had worked.
Not because I had stolen her wallet.
That part was trivial.
The important part was what came afterward.
She now had a reason to approach me.
A reason to trust me.
And, more importantly, a reason to wonder about me.
People rarely become attached to someone because of what that person actually is.
They become attached to the version of that person they construct in their own mind.
I understood that better than most.
Because I had spent years watching people do exactly that.
That night, I lay on my bed in the state dormitory and stared at the ceiling.
The room was silent.
For a few minutes, I let the silence remain.
Then I closed my eyes.
Who am I?
That’s a simple question.
The answer isn’t.
I wasn’t raised like an ordinary child.
I don’t remember much about my biological parents.
They abandoned me when I was young enough that their faces became meaningless before I was old enough to resent them.
The state placed me somewhere they called a specialized institution.
It wasn’t really an orphanage.
That was simply the word they used when someone asked.
Inside, children were evaluated constantly.
Physical ability.
Memory.
Pain tolerance.
Stress response.
Problem-solving.
Emotional control.
Every weakness was recorded.
Every reaction was measured.
We were taught to fight.
To observe.
To adapt.
To remain functional when ordinary people would panic.
Some children couldn’t handle it.
Some broke.
Some disappeared.
I learned early that asking where they went was pointless.
Nobody answered.
Nobody ever did.
I survived.
That was all that mattered.
Eventually, I was transferred into another life.
A new household.
A new name.
A new set of people who were supposed to teach me what normal life looked like.
My adoptive father was wealthy when I met him.
By the time I understood him, most of that wealth was already gone.
Gambling.
Debt.
Alcohol.
Anger.
He had a talent for turning every failure into someone else’s fault.
Usually his wife’s.
She was different.
She was kind.
Perhaps too kind.
She had wanted a child badly enough to fight for adoption.
And once I became her son, she treated me like one.
Even when her husband didn’t.
I remember the sound of doors slamming.
I remember arguments becoming screams.
I remember her telling me to stay in my room.
I remember the bruises.
And eventually, I understood something important.
She wasn’t protecting herself.
She was protecting me.
One night, I walked into the living room and found her on the floor.
She was badly injured.
My adoptive father stood over her.
He looked at me.
Not with fear.
Not with guilt.
With calculation.
He needed money.
And somehow, in his mind, I was supposed to find it for him.
He thought he had control.
He was wrong.
What happened later that night became the reason I was sent away.
At fourteen, I entered a state correctional facility.
Years later, I was placed under government supervision and transferred to a university.
They called it rehabilitation.
They called it reintegration.
They called it an opportunity.
People love giving beautiful names to ugly things.
They believe changing the label changes the truth.
It doesn’t.
I know exactly what they expect from me.
Attend classes.
Make friends.
Follow the rules.
Learn how to become ordinary.
They’re waiting for me to adjust.
They’re waiting for me to become someone they can understand.
The problem is…
I was never designed to be understood.
And the people who created me made one mistake.
They taught me how to survive inside their system.
They never taught me what would happen if I decided to stop playing by their rules.
I looked at the ceiling for a while longer.
Then I smiled.
Tomorrow, I would see Evelyn again.
And she still believed she had simply met a kind stranger.
She had no idea she had already become part of my experiment.
It’s clear that Arthur won’t remain a mere “observer” in this school for long.
So, where does Evelyn—his primary target under strict government surveillance—fit into his grand design?
And most importantly…
exactly when will the monster inside his mind demand to be unleashed?
In the next chapter, the rules of the game change entirely.
Stay tuned