THE GENIUS WHO COULD SEE SKILL EVOLUTION

A DAY WITHOUT TOMORROW

The accident happened on a Thursday.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the morning.

Oliver woke up late.

He burned his toast.

His mother complained about the bathroom light.

His father left without remembering his lunch.

Daniel sent him a photograph of a badly drawn face with the caption:

This is what you look like when you concentrate.

Oliver replied with an insult.

Then he went to school.

If somebody had told him that it would be the last ordinary morning he would ever experience, he would probably have laughed.

Life rarely announces the moments that will divide it.

The inter-class assessment began at eleven.

Oliver's opponent was a student named Marcus Bell.

Marcus possessed a relatively common ability called Surface Compression.

He could temporarily increase the density of objects he touched, including his own skin.

His fighting style was straightforward.

He absorbed attacks and returned them with greater force.

Oliver knew he couldn't overpower him.

So he didn't try.

The opening exchange was uncomfortable.

Marcus advanced aggressively.

Oliver maintained distance, reinforcing his legs in short bursts.

He avoided two punches and redirected a third.

His opponent attempted to grab his shoulder.

Oliver twisted away.

For a moment, Marcus overextended.

Oliver struck the exposed side of his torso.

The impact wasn't particularly powerful.

But it was enough to disrupt his balance.

Marcus stumbled.

Oliver followed with a second strike.

The instructor called the match.

"Victory, Oliver Grant."

Oliver stood still.

He hadn't expected to win.

Not because he considered Marcus unbeatable, but because he was accustomed to losing against students with more powerful abilities.

The result was modest.

A single victory in a relatively unimportant assessment.

Yet something inside him shifted.

He looked towards the viewing area.

Daniel was standing with both hands raised.

His expression was ridiculous.

Oliver laughed.

For the first time in years, he felt genuinely proud of himself.

His parents arrived late.

Eleanor apologised repeatedly.

Arthur claimed responsibility, although Oliver suspected his mother had simply taken longer than expected to leave work.

They watched the remaining matches together.

Afterwards, Arthur shook his son's hand.

"Well done."

Oliver smiled.

"Thanks."

Eleanor hugged him.

"You looked wonderful."

"Mum."

"What? You did."

Daniel approached.

"Mrs Grant, I believe Oliver has finally discovered the meaning of athletic competence."

Oliver pushed his shoulder.

"Go away."

Eleanor laughed.

She invited Daniel to dinner.

He accepted immediately.

Arthur shook his head.

"That boy has no shame."

"He's hungry," Eleanor replied.

"He's always hungry."

They walked towards the academy's main exit together.

The weather had deteriorated.

Heavy clouds covered the city, and rain had begun falling in thin, uneven sheets.

Arthur suggested they take the eastern road.

It was shorter.

Oliver initially wanted to remain with Daniel, but his mother insisted that he come home with them.

Daniel waved.

"See you tomorrow."

"Don't be late."

"That's rich coming from you."

Oliver smiled.

Then he left.

The first explosion occurred at 5:42 p.m.

It was heard across three districts.

A section of the city's eastern energy infrastructure had suffered a catastrophic containment failure.

The facility supplied stabilisation energy to several public transport systems and residential districts.

When its central regulator malfunctioned, the resulting discharge tore through the surrounding industrial complex.

The authorities later described it as an unfortunate chain of mechanical failures.

The official report would mention inadequate maintenance, delayed emergency responses and a structural weakness in the facility's containment system.

It would also mention casualties.

Dozens of them.

Arthur Grant was among the maintenance technicians working near the regulator when the first warning sounded.

He had been scheduled to finish his shift early.

He had not.

Eleanor was travelling home when the eastern transport corridor was shut down.

She left her vehicle near the road and attempted to reach the emergency shelter.

The second discharge struck before she got there.

Oliver learned about the accident through a notification on his phone.

At first, he didn't understand.

He was sitting in his room, reviewing the recording of his assessment.

His phone vibrated.

Then again.

Then repeatedly.

He opened the first message.

Emergency alert: Industrial containment incident reported in eastern district. Residents advised to remain indoors.

He opened the second.

Transport services suspended.

The third was from Daniel.

Daniel: Are your parents in the eastern district?

Oliver stared at the screen.

He called his father.

No answer.

He called his mother.

No answer.

He tried again.

Then again.

By the fifth attempt, his hands were shaking.

The emergency centre was crowded.

People stood beneath harsh fluorescent lighting, clutching phones and asking questions that nobody seemed capable of answering.

Oliver pushed through the entrance.

He showed his identification to a security officer.

"My parents. Arthur and Eleanor Grant. They were in the eastern district."

The officer consulted a tablet.

"Please wait."

"I've been waiting."

"Sir, we're processing—"

"Just check."

The officer looked at him.

Something in his expression changed.

He stepped away.

Oliver stood motionless.

He could hear crying somewhere behind him.

A child was asking for her father.

An elderly man was shouting at a medical worker.

Someone dropped a glass bottle.

It shattered against the floor.

Oliver barely noticed.

Eventually, a woman approached him.

She wore a dark emergency services uniform.

"Oliver Grant?"

He nodded.

"My name is Doctor Hensley. I was asked to speak with you."

His throat tightened.

"Where are they?"

The woman paused.

That pause was enough.

"Your father was recovered from the facility shortly after the initial discharge."

Oliver felt his stomach turn.

"Is he alive?"

She looked down.

"I'm sorry."

The words seemed to arrive from very far away.

Oliver shook his head.

"No."

"Oliver—"

"No. My mother was travelling. She wasn't there."

Doctor Hensley remained silent.

"She was supposed to be somewhere else."

"We recovered her near the eastern corridor."

He stared at her.

She continued speaking, but the words became indistinct.

There were procedures.

There were injuries.

There were no survivors from the second discharge.

Oliver didn't remember sitting down.

He didn't remember the doctor leaving.

He only remembered looking at his hands.

The same hands that had reinforced his forearm that morning.

The same hands that had held his mother's shopping bags.

The same hands that had received his father's congratulatory handshake.

He looked at them for a long time.

Then he began to cry.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

He simply bent forward and covered his face.

The funeral took place four days later.

Rain fell throughout the ceremony.

Oliver stood between two wooden coffins.

He couldn't remember what the priest said.

He couldn't remember most of the people who attended.

He remembered Daniel.

His best friend stood beside him, wearing a black suit that was slightly too large.

Daniel didn't attempt to make him smile.

He didn't tell him everything would be fine.

He simply remained there.

When the ceremony ended, Oliver approached the graves.

He placed two small flowers beside the headstones.

One for his mother.

One for his father.

Then he stood silently.

The world continued around him.

Cars moved along distant roads.

Birds settled on the surrounding trees.

Someone nearby was laughing.

It seemed offensive that ordinary life could continue.

Eventually, Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on."

Oliver didn't move.

"Oliver."

"I don't want to go home."

Daniel looked at the graves.

Then at his friend.

"All right."

He remained beside him.

They stayed until the cemetery staff began preparing to close the grounds.

That evening, Oliver returned to an empty house.

The kitchen light was still broken.

His father's tools remained beside the television.

His mother's shopping list was pinned to the refrigerator.

A half-finished crossword puzzle lay on the dining table.

Oliver walked through every room.

He opened cupboards.

He touched furniture.

He stood in the kitchen for nearly twenty minutes, staring at the wooden spoon his mother had left beside the sink.

Then he sat on the floor.

And for the first time since the accident, he allowed himself to scream.