Riley's bunk was the middle one. Always the middle. It was like being stuck in purgatory—too low to feel like you'd made it, too high to pretend you weren't there at all. The top bunks were for the lucky ones, where you could lie back and pretend the orphanage wasn't closing in on you. The bottom? That was for the ones who couldn't climb. But the middle? The middle just existed like a living compromise.

  Today, though, none of that mattered. Today was graduation day.

  The hall was dead quiet, except for the whispers. All the usual noises, like the clatter of trays or the shouting over card games, had vanished. Even the younger kids had stopped playing. Instead, everyone crammed themselves among the bunks like spectators at some grim coliseum. Everyone was here to see who'd make it out and who'd be left behind.

  The LiteNet Pod stood at the center of the room, gleaming like a cruel joke against the orphanage's scuffed floors and peeling paint. It was sleek, metallic, and alien, like someone had dropped a fragment of another world into their drab existence. Above it, a holographic display buzzed softly, casting shimmering light across the room.

  The LiteNet was Helix Orphanage's gateway to the InfiNet, but it wasn't the real thing. Not even close. The InfiNet was a boundless and fully immersive digital universe where users could wield magic, defy gravity, and command armies. It was a place where gods, ghosts, and demons were part of the everyday fabric, like a playground of endless possibility. But for most of the orphans, the InfiNet was a still distant dream.

  The LiteNet, on the other hand, was a stripped-down, child-safe version designed to teach the basics. It was functional but shallow, like a hollow echo of the real thing. The textures were too smooth, the edges too soft, and the movements just a fraction of a second too slow. Still, it was enough to simulate a test, and on graduation day, that test was everything.

  The scenario was set by the guild recruiters, and it showed. It was less a test of skill and more a filter for the kind of people they wanted. It was easy to tell by the scenario they provided. The battleground wasn't a fantastical arena or glowing grid. It was a realistic urban setting: a run-down neighborhood of crumbling buildings, flickering streetlights, and abandoned vehicles. The kind of place enforcers were expected to navigate in the InfiNet.

  The rules were simple—clear out the threats and survive. But the threats weren't built for balance. They were relentless, fast, and strong. Success wasn't about strategy or adaptability but brute force, raw power, and holding your ground when everything came crashing down.

  Riley's name had been called first.

  He stepped forward, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him. The LiteNet Pod stood at the center like an altar, its sleek metallic surface glowing faintly under the flickering overhead lights. The scuffed floors and peeling paint of the orphanage made it look even more like something that didn't belong there—just like him.

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  The pod doors slid open with a soft hiss. Riley hesitated for half a second, then climbed inside. The interior was cold and uncomfortably rigid beneath him, and the hum of the machine as it powered up was deafening in the silence. The hatch door closed, sealing him in.

  A display screen in front of him blinked to life, showing a basic outline of his avatar. The equipment list appeared beside it: standard enforcer gear which included combat boots, reinforced armor, and a heavy baton.

  The countdown began. Riley swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. Three… two… one.

  The world around him dissolved, replaced by the simulation. He found himself standing in the middle of a crumbling urban battlefield. Broken buildings loomed on either side of a cracked street littered with burned-out cars, jagged chunks of concrete, and twisted metal. The air was thick with smoke, and faint echoes of distant machinery reverberated in the background. The realism penetrated down to the faint smell of burning rubber and the grit beneath his boots.

  Riley gripped the baton awkwardly. It felt wrong and unbalanced as if it belonged to someone much bigger, someone built for this. His armor, though sturdy, restricted his movements. He took a few hesitant steps forward, scanning the shadows for movement.

  The first adversary emerged from behind an overturned car, its faceless form sprinting toward him with terrifying speed. Riley swung the baton reflexively, the blow connecting with a dull thud. The adversary staggered but didn't go down. Panic surged in his chest as two more appeared, their movements were relentless and coordinated. He tried to backpedal, nearly tripping over a chunk of debris.

  They didn't give him time to think.

  Riley swung again, this time catching the second adversary across the torso. It crumpled, its form dissolving into pixelated light, but the first was already on him. A heavy blow struck his side, and he stumbled, his armor absorbing most of the impact but doing nothing to ease the shock. The baton felt heavier with every swing, and his arms burned as he struggled to keep up with the speed of combat.

  The final wave hit like a tidal surge. Riley barely managed to stay on his feet as the adversaries closed in, their strikes coming faster than he could react. His vision blurred, the simulation's brutal realism overwhelming his senses. A misstep sent him sprawling to the ground sending his baton clattering out of reach. He glanced up in time to see a crowbar descending on his head.

  The world faded to black, and the simulation ended.

  Riley sat frozen as the pod doors slid open, the cool air of the orphanage snapping him back to reality. He stumbled out, his legs shaky, his breathing uneven. Above him, the holographic display blinked to life, showing his face hovering in unforgiving clarity. His blonde hair looked messy as always, the freckles on his nose standing out even more under the light. But his eyes—his eyes didn't look like his. They weren't curious or bright or even hopeful. They looked like someone had snuffed out the light behind them.

  And then the number blinked to life.

  It was bad. Worse than bad.

  He didn't wait for the whispers to start. He didn't need to. They were already crawling up his spine, settling in his ears. Riley walked back to his bunk, keeping his head down. The middle felt like the right place for him now. He climbed up, pressed his back against the wall, and stared at the flickering projection of his failure. It wasn't just hanging in the air—it was carved into his chest.

  The evaluators didn't even look at him as they moved on to the next candidate. Riley didn't care. He didn't need to see their clipped nods or hear their murmured judgments to know what they thought of him. His score had told the whole story, loud and clear.