A couple of weeks later.

  Michael’s terrace — Evening

  Below, the city: scattered lights, distant traffic, a constant hum like a sea of metal.

  Two garden chairs. Michael smokes. Jason is sweaty, drying off with a towel, like even that motion costs him discipline.

  He stares at the horizon and says it like it’s already decided.

  “I’m thinking about trying to get into OPOM.”

  Michael raises an eyebrow, just a fraction.

  “Come on… why?”

  Jason doesn’t look away.

  “Because I want to do something big.”

  “Help the world.”

  “Use this strength for something that makes sense…”

  Pause.

  Then he tilts his head slightly and lets the rotten side of honesty slip out, with a half-smile.

  “…and I won’t pretend I hate fame, money, and… girls.”

  Michael studies him.

  Long drag.

  Silence.

  Then, no sugar:

  “Then do it. If that’s really what you want…”

  Pause.

  “But remember one thing, kid…”

  His voice hardens.

  “OPOM isn’t God.”

  “They’re not angels.”

  “And they’re not your friends.”

  Jason tightens the towel. His hands tremble just a little, like he’s holding something else back.

  Michael goes on—no lectures. Just truth.

  “They’re an organization.”

  “And organizations feed on power, control… and convenience.”

  Jason frowns.

  “But… they still do good, right?”

  Michael nods slightly.

  “Often, yes.”

  “Other times, they do what’s convenient.”

  A beat.

  Then the part that actually weighs.

  “You’ll be the one choosing whether to follow orders…”

  “…or do what you know is right.”

  The cigar burns down. Long ash, hanging there, ready to fall like a patient threat.

  “And when that moment comes…”

  “there won’t be time to think.”

  Michael looks straight at him.

  “If you want into OPOM… go in as a warrior.”

  “Learn.”

  “Improve.”

  “Prove you’re the best.”

  Jason answers with his eyes before his voice.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Fire. Hunger. Pride.

  “You can count on it.”

  “I’ll become one of the best… among OPOM’s Elite.”

  —

  Living room — Next day

  Jason’s on the couch with a laptop. Official OPOM page open. Slow scroll. Focused stare.

  On the screen: dry, bureaucratic excerpts.

  Cold.

  “Formal application.”

  “Genetic certificate.”

  “Theoretical and practical tests.”

  Jason murmurs, already turning it into a plan.

  “Formal application… okay.”

  “Genetic certificate… obvious.”

  “Theoretical and practical tests… yeah, sure.”

  Pause.

  His eyes land on that line again.

  Genetic certificate.

  Jason stops scrolling.

  A beat.

  “…wait.”

  He leans back slowly. One hand hangs over the trackpad.

  He already has the mandatory certificate. From when he was a kid. The basic one. Generic.

  Shrimp.

  The full one… no. That one costs money. That’s the test you take when you really want to know what’s inside you—when you stop settling for labels.

  And he took it.

  And he knows what it says.

  Pistol Shrimp.

  Jason feels the skin tighten over his ribs.

  Not fear. Clarity.

  If he attaches that… it’s not a document.

  It’s a beacon.

  An invitation.

  One you can’t turn off.

  Jason lowers his gaze, like he’s choosing between two knives.

  “If I send the full one… they’ll lock onto me immediately.”

  A beat.

  “And they won’t let go.”

  He sees it without wanting to: serious faces, questions, weighted looks. The word anomaly in some file.

  Jason inhales.

  Then decides.

  The basic certificate has one massive advantage: it makes him small.

  Harmless.

  A little shrimp.

  Not worth the trouble.

  His fingers return to the trackpad. This time they don’t shake.

  “Low profile.”

  Pause.

  “At least until I decide when to be seen.”

  CLACK.

  Jason snaps the laptop shut.

  “Okay… let’s get to work.”

  Cut.

  Shouts.

  Sweat.

  Endless reps that never really end. They change the exercise and start over.

  Jason pushes past the limit, then past the limit of the limit. Muscles burning. Breath clawing at his throat. Then that dense silence, where all you hear is your heart pounding and your body begging you to stop.

  He doesn’t.

  Then the reading starts.

  Laptop open. OPOM page. Public regulations. Codes of conduct. Requirements. Tests. Official videos cut to hell, stolen clips, forums full of bullshit with two good lines buried inside.

  Jason takes it all and chews it until it’s his.

  Underlined pages. Post-its everywhere. Notes scattered like shrapnel. Concepts repeated until they wear down: criteria, protocols, psychology, limits.

  Michael walks behind him, cigar in his mouth, peeks at the screen like he’s watching a nature documentary.

  Snorts.

  “Look at this guy… studying to be a little soldier.”

  Jason doesn’t even look up.

  “I’m studying so I don’t get fucked.”

  Michael chuckles low. Not a kind laugh.

  Approval, disguised.

  “Good.”

  A beat.

  “Because they smile at you… while they’re slipping the leash on.”

  Jason closes the laptop.

  Cut.

  Back downstairs.

  To the bag.

  To the body.

  To control.

  Seated, slow breathing. The hand vibrates slightly… but it doesn’t explode.

  Not anymore.

  Jason’s room — Night before the exam

  Almost total darkness.

  Jason sits on the floor, legs crossed. Hands in front of him, suspended like they’re holding something invisible. Something heavy.

  Fingers twitch.

  Under the skin, a live tension. Not a tremor—pressure. Presence.

  Slow inhale.

  Long exhale.

  In his head, Michael’s echo—not a memory. An order carved in.

  “If you want into OPOM… go in as a warrior.”

  “Prove you’re the best.”

  Jason closes his eyes.

  Doesn’t smile.

  Isn’t afraid.

  When he opens them, his gaze cuts into the dark like a blade.

  Calm.

  Heavy.

  Ready.

  Pistol Boy.