The alarm buzzed at 5:47 AM. Elijah didn't hit snooze. He never did
Not because he was disciplined, or some morning-grind motivational zombie. No. He just didn't sleep well. He never did. When the world treated you like furniture with a pulse, your dreams had a tendency to be either empty or cruel.
He sat up in bed, bare feet touching cold tile. A one-room apartment with peeling walls and a flickering ceiling bulb. The air stank faintly of mildew and instant noodles. His mom hadn't come home last night again—probably at a factory shift or passed out at someone's place. No note. No message.
Didn't matter.
He washed his face in the rust-stained sink and stared at the mirror. The reflection didn't blink for a second.
Elijah Cole. Seventeen. Nigerian. Poor. Acne-pitted skin. Sunken eyes. Lank frame that looked allergic to protein. A nose just wide enough to be called "gorilla" by classmates. Hairline like it was already in its thirties.
He didn't bother brushing his teeth. What was the point? He barely talked to anyone.
His school uniform was a faded hand-me-down—shirt a little too short at the wrists, pants tight at the thighs from a growth spurt that only made his gangly limbs more awkward. He wore the same black hoodie every day to try and vanish.
District 9. South end of Lagos Megazone. Overpopulated, underfunded, always gray even when the sun was out. Rich zones like Victoria Core had glass towers, green domes, and drone-delivered lunches. Elijah's school had mold in the ceiling tiles and a metal detector that didn't work.
He stepped outside. Rain from the night before had left the streets slick and full of trash. Buses were already honking. Men shouted over meat fires. Women carried crates on their heads, lips pressed in tight lines.
Elijah walked fast, head down, like prey.
St. Augustine Technical High — "the place where dreams go to die."
The school gate guard didn't even glance at him. He wasn't one of the troublemakers, the drug kids, the local gang recruits. He was just... invisible.
Inside, the halls reeked of sweat, broken AC units, and cheap perfume. Crowds moved like blood through veins, flowing around the big names, the pretty faces, the rich kids.
They never flowed around Elijah. They walked through him.
"Yo, check it—roaches got legs today," someone snorted behind him.
He didn't turn around.
That was Kuda. Real name Kudakwashe Chigumba. Tall, dark-skinned Zimbabwean with abs he flashed on TikTok, fake designer sneakers, and a follower count that could turn teachers into fans. His voice carried the confidence of someone who'd never been ignored in his life.
Next to him was Jayvon Adeyemi, his right-hand man. Lighter skin, dyed-blonde curls, lip ring. They called themselves the Apex. It wasn't even a joke. In this social food chain, they were apex predators.
Elijah didn't hate them. That would've required emotional energy. He just observed. Like he always did.
Observing was his only real power.
He noticed things. The way Chiamaka—class president, queen bee, and daughter of a telecom exec—tilted her chin five degrees higher when pretty boys passed. How teachers gave better grades to students with better skin. How the security guard called the fat kid "sir" but ignored him completely.
The world was a rigged game.
And Elijah Cole was the loading screen nobody waited for.
Class 3B — the Slums of the Academic World
He sat in the back corner. Always. It gave him a clean view of the whole room. He knew who cheated on tests, who texted during lectures, who traded small bags of weed under the desks. Nobody noticed him. Not even teachers.
Mr. Bako was yelling about quadratic equations today. Spit flying. Sweat darkening his armpits. Half the class was on their phones.
"Eyes up, dammit! You think you'll survive out there with C grades? Society will eat you alive!"
Too late, old man, Elijah thought.
When class ended, he got up without a word. No one acknowledged him. Not a glance. Not even when he brushed past people. To them, he didn't exist.
But he saw everything.
He saw Adanna, the shy girl with burn scars, slipping anxiety meds into her water bottle.
He saw Bayo, the chunky comic nerd, forced to laugh at jokes that tore him down just to stay in the group.
He saw the janitor, old and bent, pausing to cough blood into his sleeve before mopping it up like it was just dust.
This place broke people in slow motion.
Lunch Time — The Coliseum
The cafeteria was where the real war happened.
The Apex ruled the center tables. Fit kids. Rich kids. Light-skinned kids. Pretty kids. It was a zoo, but the animals ran the show.
Elijah took his tray—dry rice, a hard-boiled egg, and some mystery stew—and sat in the far corner.
He watched.
Kuda was mocking someone today. A new transfer. Pale-skinned. Fat. Soft-voiced.
"You from Zone 14?" Kuda sneered. "Didn't know they exported farm pigs now."
Laughter. Phones recording.
The kid blinked fast. Humiliated. But he nodded and walked away. That was the smart move.
You couldn't win a war with no armor.
But Elijah's fingers tightened around his fork.
He wasn't angry for the kid.
He was angry at how normal it all was.
After School — The Gym Graveyard
He didn't go home.
He never did right away. His real home was a forgotten storage room in the school gym. Broken weights, cracked mirrors, and a cheap bench press no one used.
Here, he trained.
Alone.
Push-ups until his arms trembled. Sit-ups until he tasted blood. Chin-ups on the doorframe. No routine. No trainer. Just rage and repetition.
He didn't want to be strong. He just didn't want to feel weak.
Sometimes he'd look in the cracked mirror and imagine a different version of himself. One with broad shoulders. A perfect jawline. Clear skin. White teeth. A version that people saw. That girls smiled at. That teachers listened to.
But mirrors don't lie. Not really.
And he was still Elijah.
Still invisible.
Still caged.
That Night
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rain pattered against the roof like the world was tapping out Morse code.
His phone buzzed once.
A message from an unknown number:
Do you want to be seen?
He blinked.
Before he could respond, another message popped up.
Tomorrow, the mirror breaks.
And then his phone went black.