Murmurs, gasps, and yells rippled through the crowd gathered around the massive screen in Ashdrift Arcade.
"Traditional entrance exams are suspended," she announced, her voice carrying an authority that silenced even the rowdiest gamers. "Instead, all applicants will undergo a comprehensive evaluation of their potential. Quirk registration is no longer a prerequisite for consideration."
Mateo's heart pounded against his ribcage. Had he heard correctly? His fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the edge of the counter where he'd been restocking prizes.
"We seek not just power, but courage. Not just ability, but resolve. Those who pass evaluation will begin accelerated training immediately." The headmistress's expression hardened, the lines around her mouth deepening. "I will not sugarcoat this reality: the path will be dangerous. Not all who enter will complete the program. But those who succeed will stand as the next generation of heroes our society desperately needs."
The screen shifted to display application information—locations, dates, requirements. The Atlas Academy campus itself would process applicants from the capital region beginning tomorrow. No entrance fee. No pre-registration. Just show up and be evaluated.
"For those with concerns about qualifications," the headmistress continued, as if sensing the questions forming in millions of minds across the country, "know this: history's greatest heroes are often forged in unlikely circumstances. Come as you are. We will determine your potential."
The broadcast concluded with contact information and emergency protocols for those traveling to evaluation centers. As the screen reverted to the interrupted game tournament, the arcade erupted in excited conversation.
"They're drafting civilians now," someone muttered nearby, a lanky teenager with scaled skin. "Must be worse than they're telling us."
"My cousin has a melting quirk," another chimed in. "He's definitely applying."
"You'd have to be insane to volunteer," a third voice countered. "Did you see the casualty numbers they flashed? They'll just use you as cannon fodder."
Mateo barely registered their voices. His mind raced with possibilities, processing the implications of what he'd just heard. No entrance fee—the 300 dollars he'd been saving wouldn't be needed. No quirk prerequisites—the barrier that had seemed insurmountable was suddenly gone. Just an evaluation of "potential." Whatever that meant.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Shinji asked quietly, appearing beside Mateo at the counter. The older man's weathered face was unreadable as he turned slightly toward him.
"I have to try," Mateo replied, his voice barely audible above the arcade's electronic symphony.
Shinji studied him for a moment. "You lost someone to a villain too, huh."
A heavy silence fell between them, the weight of unspoken grief filling the space.
"Yeah," Mateo finally admitted. The word felt inadequate to capture the magnitude of what had happened—his brother's death, the system's failure, his own helplessness.
"Mateo..." Shinji hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Just be careful. This isn't about entrance exams anymore. They're looking for soldiers."
Something hardened in Mateo's expression. "I know exactly what they're looking for," he replied, his voice steady despite the tremor in his damaged hands. "That's why I have to go."
The remainder of his shift passed in a blur. Customers came and went, games pinged and flashed, but Mateo's mind was already at Atlas Academy, imagining the evaluation, the training, the path that would finally allow him to fulfill his promise. By the time the clock approached closing, he had formulated a plan.
Shinji approached as Mateo was counting out the register at 4:45 PM.
"Too bad I won't be seeing you tomorrow, Mateo," the older man said, his tone casual but his eyes watchful.
"Yeah, I'll be taking the day off." Mateo tried to keep his voice neutral, though inside his heart was racing with anticipation and anxiety.
Shinji chuckled, a rough sound like stones grinding together. "Been expecting this since they started letting news of the breaches leak. You're not the only one who'll be missing work." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled envelope. "Your pay. Plus a little extra."
Mateo started to protest, but Shinji held up a calloused hand.
"My son would have been your age." The confession came unexpectedly, catching Mateo off guard. "He didn't have a power either, but still, he always stood up for his friends when they got bullied, then got beat up himself. Always in trouble, that kid." Shinji's voice, usually gruff, softened with memory. "He was in the Eastern District when the first wave hit. No warning, no evacuation order."
Shinji placed a weathered hand on Mateo's shoulder. "You're a little like him. I don't know how you're going to be a hero without a quirk, but... promise me you won't push yourself too hard out there."
Mateo nodded, unable to articulate the mixture of hope and dread churning inside him. The promise was a lie. If becoming a hero required everything he had—and more—he would give it without hesitation.
Seeming satisfied with the silent response, Shinji nodded and began packing up his small bag containing the day's profits. He slung it over his shoulder and grabbed the ring of keys hanging by the back door. The arcade was unusually empty for this time of day—most of Mateo's colleagues hadn't shown up, likely due to the announcement. Only a handful of dedicated gamers remained, their eyes red-rimmed from hours of play, fingers mechanically tapping controls.
Glancing at the worn wristwatch on his left wrist—he couldn't afford a phone—Mateo noted the time: 5:00 PM. Despite the exhaustion settling into his bones from this morning's fight, he needed to maintain his routine. The gym session couldn't be skipped, even after everything that had happened today.
"All right, scram you kids! I'm closing!" Shinji yelled suddenly, waving his arm wildly as if shooing pigeons from his front lawn. A few gamers looked up in confused protest, but most remained engrossed in their digital worlds.
"Closing?" Mateo frowned, checking his watch again. "It's only five. You usually close at eight."
Shinji sighed—a strangely contented sound rather than one of frustration. "That's because I'm closing for good," he announced, a hint of satisfaction coloring his words. "I'm moving from this dead town! Now that I've saved up enough, I'm going to the Capital to live out the rest of my life!"
"Really?" The question slipped out before Mateo could stop it. Over the past two years in this dump, he'd never thought of Shinji as anything more than the arcade owner—a fixture of the place, like the faded posters on the walls or the sticky floors beneath the machines. The revelation that Shinji had his own dreams, his own escape plans, caught him off guard. He realized with a pang that he rarely considered how others lived their lives, too consumed by his own goals and grief.
"Yes, really." Shinji laughed, the sound echoing in the increasingly empty space as he moved toward the front doors. He flipped the master switch, plunging the arcade into semi-darkness. Only the neon glow from still-active game screens illuminated the space now, casting eerie blue and red shadows across the floor. "Leaving the arcade is a rough financial decision, sure, but I'm sure I'll find something to do."
"Besides," he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the distance where, through the front windows, they could see a plume of dust and debris erupting skyward like an angry fist. The impact sent dull vibrations through the building—a stark reminder that the war zones were creeping closer to civilian areas each day. "It's only a matter of time till this ghost town is obliterated and turned into a battle zone. I'd rather struggle with heavy expenses in the Capital than fight for my life here. You get me?"
"I get you, Shinji." And he did, more than he'd expected to. Each of them was fighting for their future in their own way—Shinji by escaping to safety, Mateo by running toward danger. Different paths, same desperation.
"Since those rascals don't want to leave," Shinji muttered, stepping outside into the dusty evening air, "they can just deal with the consequences."
With swift, practiced movements, he pulled down the metal security gate and secured it with a heavy padlock. The finality of the action seemed to represent more than just the day's closing—it was the end of an era for Ashdrift Arcade.
They shared a brief laugh as the first muffled shouts of realization began to emerge from inside, gamers discovering they'd been locked in.
"Goodbye, Mateo," Shinji said, his expression softening momentarily.
"Goodbye, Shinji." Mateo hesitated, then added, "Maybe we'll see each other in the Capital."
Shinji's smile suggested he didn't believe it, but he nodded anyway. "Maybe we will."
As they parted ways—Shinji heading toward the residential district and Mateo toward the old commercial zone where The Underground gym was located—the pounding on the arcade doors intensified. Mateo didn't look back. That chapter of his life was closed now, just as firmly as the padlocked gate.