When Lucen was younger—three, perhaps four—he played with his siblings like any child might. His laughter had been innocent then, his games filled with stumbling feet and childish giggles. He asked about them, shared his ration when he could, and even tried to sleep beside Draven during the coldest nights.
But that innocence did not last.
The change began around nine.
Lucen's classes at the Level 3 prep school began isolating him from his reality. Artificial intelligence modules trained him in logic, ambition, and hierarchical thinking. Teachers praised him in front of virtual audiences. His brain was a canvas for code to be painted upon—and the society's algorithms shaped him into the chosen one.
Every day, he returned home to a collapsing ceiling and flickering lightbulbs, his uniform still crisp and his posture straighter than it had any right to be for a child.
And he noticed things.
He noticed how his parents looked at him—like he was the sun that would burn away their filth. How Lisa gave him half of her own food on days when rations ran low. How John stopped shouting when Lucen entered the room. He saw the other children shrinking into corners, too starved or scared to speak.
Lucen learned his value quickly.
And children—they imitate what they see.
By the time Lucen turned nine, the transformation was complete. His playtime no longer involved dolls or scrap-toys.
It involved domination.
He had taken to assigning "chores" to his siblings, declaring himself "Commander Lucen" and forcing them to line up in military fashion. They were required to salute, speak only when spoken to, and polish the scavenged trinkets he'd stolen from class.
He did it with a smile.
At first, it was just pretend. A boy copying the behavior of superiority he saw every day. But then it became ritual. He began taking away the his other siblings blankets when they disobeyed. Telling lies to their parents about them. Watching with a grin as John raised his hand and Lisa threw spoiled soup at the crying children.
Draven, being closest to Lucen in age, became his favorite target.
Lucen didn't just mock Draven—he isolated him. He would plant stolen items under Draven's cot, then "discover" them in front of their parents. He would whisper threats at night, making sure Draven never slept peacefully. He would kick him under the table and steal from his bowl, daring Draven to protest.
The others learned to stay quiet. The older siblings knew better than to react—because reaction fed Lucen's delight.
Draven hadn't learned that yet.
The worst began when food distribution changed.
Lisa and John, driven by desperation and cold arithmetic, began allocating more of the limited food stockpile to Lucen. After all, he was the prodigy. He was the one attending a Level 3 facility. He was their ticket out.
Why waste nutrition on those who would never be anything?
Lucen was given nearly double portions, his plates cleaner, his soup thicker, sometimes even with meat. When he asked for more, they took it—almost always from Draven's share.
Draven never asked for more. Not because he didn't want to—but because he knew it wouldn't matter. Because asking meant being slapped. Asking meant being told to "be grateful you're even alive."
Over the next few months, Draven's frame became worryingly thin. His bones jutted beneath the skin, his clothes hanging like rags on a stick. The government's surveillance drones occasionally passed over the district, but malnutrition was common, expected. And enforcement was arbitrary.
Lucen began calling Draven "Twig."
"Twig's gonna snap," he'd snicker. "Maybe we'll use him for firewood next winter."
Lisa and John never stopped him. In fact, they laughed sometimes. As if it was all good fun. As if cruelty was now a form of bonding.
Draven said nothing. Not when he was shoved, not when he was mocked, not even when Lucen once urinated on his mattress and blamed it on him.
He learned to be silent.
But inside, something began to twist.
Draven wasn't stupid. He was just quiet. He watched. Observed. Endured.
And every time Lucen grinned, every time his mother turned her back on his hunger, every time his father praised his brother for stepping on him…
A part of him began to die.
Or maybe something darker was being born in its place.
Something cold. Something patient.
The days were long gone when Draven still sought his parents approval and love.
He had once been a child who smiled when Lisa patted Lucen's head, thinking maybe next time it will be me. A child who cleaned the cluttered floor after John's rage storms, believing maybe if I help more, they'll see I'm good too. A child who swallowed his cries when Lucen shoved him to the ground, because big brothers are supposed to act tough, right?
But the days of hoping had ended.
Now all that remained was hatred.
It grew, every time Lucen mocked him with his gleaming shoes and food-stuffed belly. Every time Lisa scooped the last of the soup and said, "There's none left, Draven. Lucen needs energy for school." Every time John glared at him like he was the burden weighing the family down.
He stopped asking for love. Stopped speaking altogether, if it wasn't necessary. The other siblings had long given up too—each retreating into their own corners of emotional frost. But for Draven, it was different. He didn't merely accept his insignificance.
He memorized it.
Every slight. Every look. Every slap. Each unfair cut in the bread loaf.
Like tally marks on the prison wall of his mind.
Lucen, of course, noticed the shift.
Where once Draven cowered and cried, now he stared back—silent, still, like a doll that might snap at any moment.
That unnerved Lucen more than he'd admit. The bullying didn't work the same anymore. The reactions weren't satisfying. There were no tears to drink from Draven's face. No quivering lips. No pleading for mercy.
Just those cold, observing eyes.
One night, Lucen whispered in his sleep, "Why are you always staring?"
Draven said nothing.
He just kept watching.
At Lucen's school , talks have been going on to further promote him to level 5 school.
But it also made Lucen feel invincible.
He came home one day wearing a badge shaped like a silver flame—the symbol of "probationary elevation." From now on, he wouldn't even need to eat the same rations as others. He would get private nutrient packs sent via drone delivery. Filtered water. Real protein.
Lucen waved the badge in Draven's face.
"This? This is why I matter. You? You'll always be a zero. You were born one."
Draven didn't flinch.
Later that night, Draven sat awake on the broken mattress with no sheet, no pillow. The only sound was the distant humming of drones. His stomach twisted with hunger, but it was a familiar ache by now.
He stared at the badge Lucen had thrown aside carelessly after showing it off.
It glinted under the flickering light—symbol of a world that believed one child's worth can outweigh five others.
A symbol of everything that broke him.