Fake It Till You Ace It

Iverson pushed open the heavy oak doors of the O'Neal estate. The light from the massive crystal chandelier in the foyer hit his eyes, making him squint. The air smelled of lemon polish and expensive floral arrangements. It made him sick. Doris, the head maid, stepped out of the dining room. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Mr. Iverson, dinner is being served in the main dining room." "Not hungry," Iverson muttered, not breaking his stride as he headed for the grand spiral staircase. He reached the second-floor landing. Brandon O'Neal was leaning against the railing, wearing a perfectly pressed cashmere sweater. He looked down at Iverson's scuffed shoes and messy hair. Brandon let out a loud, theatrical snort of disgust. "Smells like the garbage truck just rolled in." Iverson didn't stop. He didn't look at Brandon. He just walked right past him, his shoulder brushing violently against Brandon's arm, forcing the older boy to stumble back a step. Iverson reached his bedroom door, stepped inside, and slammed it shut. He reached down and twisted the deadbolt. Click. The silence of the room wrapped around him. The room was massive, filled with antique furniture and silk curtains. He hated every inch of it. He grabbed the collar of his gray hoodie, the same one stained with the grime of the Blackwater District, ripped it roughly over his head, and threw it onto the floor. He walked over to his mahogany desk and grabbed his black backpack, which he had tossed there yesterday. He yanked it upward. Because he hadn't zipped it properly, the bag tipped. Three heavy textbooks spilled out, crashing onto the Persian rug. A glossy, folded poster slipped out from between the pages of a math book and fluttered to the floor. Iverson crouched down to pick up the mess. His hand stopped hovering over the poster. It was a promotional flyer. In the center, printed in bold gold foil, was the logo for Apex Academia, the world's most elite, underground academic competition app. Iverson stared at the gold logo. In that single second, the slouch in his shoulders vanished. The lazy, rebellious fog cleared from his eyes. His gaze sharpened into something terrifyingly focused, cold, and brilliant. The mask of the idiot fell away, revealing the apex predator underneath. He picked up the poster, stood up, and sat down in the heavy leather chair at his desk. He opened his laptop. It was a top-of-the-line Alienware rig. His mother thought he used it to play mindless shooting games all night. His fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a 32-character alphanumeric sequence that would have locked out a government firewall. The screen went black. A hidden partition booted up. He clicked on a blank, unnamed file on the desktop. The webcam flashed a red light, scanning his iris. Beep. The screen exploded into a sleek, dark interface filled with complex algorithms, global leaderboards, and real-time academic bounties. A mechanical voice whispered through the speakers. "Welcome back, x.786_Null. Rank: 1." Iverson leaned back in his chair. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face. Here, he wasn't the Rust Belt trash. He wasn't the disappointment. He was a god. He dominated the smartest minds on the planet without breaking a sweat. Suddenly, a bright red notification box popped up in the center of the screen. It was a direct challenge. The sender's name glowed in silver: The Oracle. Rank: 2. His eternal rival. Iverson clicked the message. It was one sentence. The regional joint exams are coming. I am going to drag you off that throne, Null. Iverson's smirk widened into a genuine, dangerous smile. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed a single word in response. Try. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside his room. Bang. Bang. Bang. "Iverson!" Adelina's voice was muffled through the thick wood, tight with anger. "Open this door right now! Do you think what you did today is just over? We are not finished talking about your reckless behavior!" Iverson didn't flinch. He reached onto his desk, picked up a pair of heavy, black noise-canceling headphones, and slid them over his ears. The sound of his mother's anger vanished completely. The faint blue light from the monitor illuminated his sharp jawline and his intensely focused eyes. The real world was gone.