His fist rose and fell. Over and over again.
Phil's head snapped sideways with each strike. Blood smeared across his lips. Across his chin. Across Newton's fingers.
"Stop! Stop!"
Newton did not hear him. His own breath was too loud. Too harsh. A broken rhythm sawing in and out of his chest.
He struck again.
Even when his knuckles began to burn. Even when the skin over them peeled back and the sting sharpened.
Even when his wrist trembled from impact. He didn't stop. Phil's voice cracked into something smaller. "Please! Please!"
Newton's fist came down again. The hall around them was a chorus of agony. Bodies rolling. Furniture splintering. Someone was coughing up something thick and wet. Someone was laughing hysterically.
Newton's world held only one shape beneath him.
Phil's voice shifted. "I beg you in the name of God," he choked. "Please don't kill me."
Newton's fist halted midair.
The words cut through everything.
IN THE NAME OF GOD!.
They did not sound like the system's voice. They did not glow blue and cold.
They sounded human, and fragile. His arm hovered, trembling above Phil's bloodied face.
The name. God.
It struck deeper than any punch. For a second, the hall disappeared. The screams faded. The metallic smell dissolved into something else entirely.
He saw a small kitchen. Sunlight through thin curtains. His mother standing over a pot, wooden spoon in hand, turning to look at him with that firm, steady gaze.
Never involve yourself in violence..Her voice was not loud. It never needed to be. Violence leads to murder.
His fist began to shake.
Remember the commandment:
THOU SHALL NOT KILL.
"Oh my God," Newton whispered. The rage that had carried him drained all at once, leaving behind a hollow ache. His hand dropped uselessly to his side.
He slid off Phil's body and fell backward onto the floor, palms scraping against sticky tile.
"What have I done?"
His chest rose and fell violently. Air scraped into him like sand.
Phil curled onto his side, coughing, blood dripping from his ruined nose. He did not try to stand. He just lay there, shuddering.
Newton dragged his hands over his face. They came away red. He stared at them. His hands.
His mother used to hold these hands when they crossed the street. Used to rub them when he scraped his knees as a child.
Now they were coated in someone else's blood. "Oh my God," he said again, voice breaking.
He folded forward, elbows on his knees, and covered his face.
A sound rose out of him before he could stop it. A sob. It tore from his chest, raw and uncontrolled.
He imagined her finding out. He imagined her standing at the door of this place, somehow stepping into this nightmare and seeing him kneeling over another boy, fists raised.
The disappointment in her eyes. Not anger. But it would be worse. She would be hurt.
His shoulders shook. "I just committed violence," he whispered into his palms, as if saying it softly would make it smaller.
"Please forgive me God. The devil made me do it."
Around him, the hall was no better. Students lay scattered across the floor like discarded dolls. Some curled into themselves, clutching ribs. Some stared blankly at the ceiling. A few crawled weakly toward the walls, leaving faint streaks behind them.
Someone whimpered continuously, the sound thin and animal.
A boy near the overturned tables tried to stand and collapsed again, hands slipping in a dark pool beneath him.
The air was thick. Breathing felt like swallowing rust. Newton lowered his hands slowly.
Phil was still alive. He could see the faint rise and fall of his back.
Relief and shame collided inside him.
Then, a familiar blue glow washed over the room.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
The letters materialized above them, crisp and indifferent.
YOU HAVE BEEN CREDITED FIFTY NINJA COINS.
No applause. No triumphant music. Just text.
Newton stared at his wrist. The number flickered:
Fifty.
The same reward which was offered at the beginning. The same number that had turned neighbors into predators.
A few students lifted their arms weakly, checking their own displays. Some let out hoarse, exhausted laughs. Not joyful. Just relieved.
Fifty Ninja coins meant food. Fifty Ninja coins meant another day.
One girl tried to cheer, but the sound came out as a cough.
Brian pushed himself upright against a wall, face swollen, lip split. He glanced at his wrist and nodded once, like confirming a transaction.
Theo lay on his back, fingers wrapped in torn fabric, eyes half closed. Andy sat slumped nearby, chest heaving, dried blood dark around his mouth.
No one celebrated. They were too drained for that.
Slowly, one by one, bodies began to move. Not toward each other. But toward the show glass.
The robots rolled forward again, perfectly aligned, as if nothing had happened. As if the floor were not smeared with the cost of their task.
"Stretch your wrist to purchase food." Voices were too tired to argue this time.
Students extended trembling arms. Coins deducted. Trays dispensed.
Hands shook as they carried plates away.
Some sank to the floor immediately and began to eat with frantic, mechanical movements. Food disappeared into mouths that were split and swollen. Rice stuck to blood.
No one waited. No one shared. Newton remained seated for a moment longer.
His head throbbed. His eye had begun to swell shut. Each breath pulled at his bruised ribs.
He looked once more at Phil. Phil had managed to roll onto his stomach. He was crawling away slowly, leaving faint red smears behind him.
Alive.
Newton swallowed hard. He forced himself to stand. His legs trembled but held. He walked to the show glass.
The smell of food hit him again, warm and cruelly normal. He raised his wrist. The robot scanned it. Coins deducted. A tray slid forward.
Newton took it and moved away from the others, finding a space against the wall. He lowered himself carefully, wincing as his back touched cold concrete.
He stared at the food for a long second. Then he began to eat. Slow at first. Then faster.
His hands shook. Rice fell from his fingers. He did not bother picking it up.
Around him, some students who had finished eating dragged themselves toward another corridor.
The clinic.
A white sign glowed above its entrance.
Treatment available.
Coins required: five Ninja Coin.
One boy limped inside, holding his arm at an unnatural angle. A girl with blood matted in her hair followed, pressing cloth against her scalp.
Coins would vanish there too.
Newton watched them go. He looked down at his wrist again. The number was higher now.
Safer.
For the moment. He imagined stepping into that clinic. Lying on a clean bed. Letting someone stitch the cut above his eyebrow. Letting someone wrap his ribs.
But each treatment would subtract from the number.
Subtract from food.
Subtract from survival.
He lifted another bite to his mouth instead. The pain pulsed steadily behind his eye. He chewed. Swallowed.
The world had made its rule clear. Coins decided who ate.
Coins decided who slept warm.
Coins decided who received care. And he wasn't ready to spend it on minor things.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tasted iron again.
Around him, the hall slowly quieted. Groans softened into low murmurs. The robots stood still, waiting for the next transaction. The blue glow of the system faded from the air.
Newton leaned his head back against the wall. His body hurt everywhere. His hands throbbed. And beneath it all, something else hurt more quietly.
But he kept eating.
Unknown to him, pairs of eyes watch them from afar.
"It is time to activate phase two," the old voice said slowly."
The others nodded. "Yes, master."