Philip went back to the hostel on legs that didn't feel like his own. Every sound - students chatting, the rustle of leaves, even his own footsteps seemed to loud, too sharp - like the world was mocking his confusion. Arbiter's words hung to his mind.Power, wealth, influence.....yours, if you do what Aeris cannotHe opened the door quietly, slipping in like a thief. Desmond was still hunched over his notes, earphones dangling, his attention buried in scribbled and diagrams. He looked up briefly, catching Philip’s uneasy expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost" Philip let out a forced laugh. "Maybe i did" tossing himself unto his bed, hiding his trembling hands. Desmond didn't push further, instead chose to focus on the scribbles and diagrams only he could understand. Philip looked at his friend, the one Arbiter called Aeris. If Desmond was Aeris, that means his offer meant betraying him.He thought to himself. But jokes on you Arbiter, I can't do that.The silence in the

It was exam week already and the whole hostel was unusually quiet for an exam week. Students could be found at every corner of the school with their heads buried in their books, jotters, handouts, whatever reading materials they used. But Desmond wasn't having all that, he was less concerned. Worried the Arbiter has gone suspiciously silent for about two weeks now, he's been on the edge. I wonder what he's up to now. I'm sure he's doing or planning something. I just have a feeling it's something big, dark, something we're yet to see.He left his room for the library to distract his thoughts with his notes, also because there was no electricity at the hostel - there was a fault with their school's power source. The library was run by big heavy generators. He opened his laptop, powered it on and started reading. Few minutes later, his screen turned black, he could hear his inner self screaming, Finally! - He already knew what was next. As much as he was excited for what was to pop up

It's been four days since that horrible night, Desmond sat in front of his laptop, motionless. Word had already spread round the school, the tragic passing of a student. The laptop's black screen stared back at him, lifeless. It had been days since Philip’s death, but he could still hear the echo — the gunshot, the scream, the way Philip’s body hit the ground.He hadn’t cried. He couldn’t. The grief refused to form tears; it just sat there — cold, heavy, pulsing behind his ribs.Everywhere he turned, he saw reminders of his roommate and closest friend - his old notepad still on the desk, his half-finished assignment on the drive they used to share. Even the faint smell of his cologne lingered in the room. Desmond almost spoke once, thinking Philip was there, before remembering he wasn’t. It's been a very tough period for him, it was tho he was getting mad gradually. He finally turned on the laptop looking at his sorrowful face."SYSTEM BOOTING...ALGORITHM — ONLINE"Desmond exhaled s

PROLOGUEThey say knowledge is power.But power — real power — corrupts the mind faster than any virus ever could. I wasn't always the Arbiter. That name came later — a scar, not a title. Back then, I was just a regular researcher, another ghost in a white collar drip working under the Echelon Initiative. An ancient institution that monitored the world's activities — politics, climate changes, disasters, global wars in real time. But that wasn't enough.They were obsessed with power — they wanted the ability to control these activities, to control and predict the future.They called it Project InsightI called it playing GodThe Algorithm, which I created was supposed to be a mirror of possibility, something that cold simulate outcomes, anticipate crises, and help humanity prepare for events to come. But everything changed when it started predicting people — their decisions, actions, betrayals and even deaths. They turned my creation into a weapon. And the world never even knew.

(Recording begins. Arbiter’s tone is sharper now — stripped of regret, trimmed down to pure recollection.)People used to think Echelon was a department.A government project. A black-budget unit buried somewhere under miles of bureaucracy.They were wrong.Echelon wasn’t born — it coalesced. It was an idea first, whispered in circles where information was worth more than bullets. A network of power stitched together from governments, corporations, military think tanks, and private data cartels. Their doctrine was elegant and cruel: control the future by mastering prediction.They called it Total Anticipation.I worked beneath them before I even knew they existed. Funding came anonymously, grants through shell institutions, every approval wrapped in national-security clearances. By the time I learned who was behind the money, it was too late. The Algorithm had already begun to work.It started predicting more than weather, more than markets.It began to predict people.That was the mo