Humming with a sterile, white glare, the fluorescent tubes overhead made Linda’s eyes ache. She stared at her wooden desk, tracing the deep scratches left by previous students. Manila’s oppressive afternoon heat clung to her skin, ignoring the weak breeze of the wall fan in the corner of the classroom. Sweat pooled at the collar of her starch-white uniform, making the fabric stick to her collarbones. She gripped her mechanical pencil so hard the plastic barrel creaked. Her knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white, matching the blank paper sitting mockingly before her. Around her, classmates whispered in anxious, high-pitched bursts. Some laughed, a fragile, desperate sound that grated on her raw nerves. Today was the final reckoning, the day the online portal would reveal their fate at St. Jude’s Academy. "Portal is officially updated, class," Mrs. Santos said, her voice cutting through the chatter like a dull blade. She adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen. "You may check your final standings now." Panic surged through Linda's chest, hot and violent. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird seeking escape. She had spent the last ten months sacrificing sleep, skipping family dinners, and drinking lukewarm instant coffee at three in the morning to prevent this exact moment. She had to get a ninety-five average. Nothing less would satisfy her father. Nothing less would keep her scholarship at this prestigious academy, where every student was a shark waiting to devour the weak. Her thumb hovered over the screen of her cheap smartphone. Moisture from her palm left a smudge on the glass. She wiped it on her pleated green skirt, her thigh shaking beneath the fabric in a rhythmic, uncontrollable tremor. "Did you get it, Linda?" whispered Bea from the desk next to her. Bea’s eyes were wide, already shiny with tears of relief. "I got a ninety-two. I’m safe from summer remedial." Linda couldn't answer. A tight knot formed in her throat, swallowing any words she might have offered. She tapped the refresh icon, her vision blurring at the edges. Loading screens were always agonizingly slow. The circular icon spun, a mocking wheel of fortune. It felt like a countdown to her execution, each rotation stripping away another layer of her sanity. Black digits loaded on the white background. Eighty-nine percent. A cold weight dropped into the pit of her stomach, heavy as lead. She blinked, hard, expecting the numbers to correct themselves. Surely it was a glitch. She zoomed in, her fingers trembling. The screen didn't lie. 89%. Everything inside her went entirely numb. The air left her lungs in a quiet, ragged gasp. Her hands began to shake, the phone trembling so violently the screen blurred into a smear of light. "No," she whispered, the sound lost in the sudden cacophony of her classmates' cheers and groans. "No, this is wrong." An eighty-nine meant no high honors. It meant she was off the list entirely. The relentless cycle of the past year—the endless performance tasks, the sleepless nights, the constant pressure—had resulted in this. Memories of her father’s stern face flashed behind her eyes. *'A Walker does not settle for line of eight, Linda.'* His voice echoed in her mind, cold and demanding, a physical weight on her shoulders. Since then, that pride had morphed into an unyielding cage. Every ninety-eight she brought home was met with a nod and a question of why it wasn't a hundred. She had accepted the challenge, turning herself into a machine that ran on anxiety and self-doubt. But machines break. During the third quarter, the first cracks had appeared in her perfect facade. She would sit at her desk for hours, staring at a blank document, her brain feeling like wet cement. She began to ignore the minor performance tasks, telling herself she would make up for it later. Laziness was what she called it, but in truth, it was a slow, agonizing burnout. Her soul was shutting down, exhausted from carrying the weight of everyone's expectations. Now, the bill had come due. Look at her, a whisper seemed to hiss from the back row. Linda didn't look back to see who said it. She could feel their eyes on her, sharp and probing, waiting for the academic titan to finally tumble from her pedestal. Desperate to avoid their gazes, she stared at her desk. Her mother had spent hours ironing her uniform, whispering prayers over the fabric, hoping it would bring her daughter luck. Now, all of it felt like wasted effort. "Class, please remain in your seats," Mrs. Santos called out, but her voice was drowned out by the rising tide of murmurs. Linda’s hands shook so violently she almost dropped her phone. She stood up, her chair legs scraping against the floor with a screech that silenced the room. "Excuse me," she choked out, not waiting for permission. She bolted. --- Running down the corridor, she kept her eyes glued to the floor. The glossy tiles reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, making her feel like she was running through a tunnel of knives. Outside the school windows, the sticky Manila air carried the faint scent of diesel exhaust from passing jeepneys. Past the main lobby, she caught a glimpse of the ranking board. The gold letters of the top ten students seemed to mock her, knowing her name would be stripped from the board by tomorrow morning. She pushed through the heavy wooden door of the restroom, desperate for a place to hide. Cool tiles greeted her as she burst into the girl's restroom. She locked herself in the end stall, leaning her back against the metal door. Inhale. Exhale. Her lungs refused to cooperate. Air felt thin, useless. She slid down the door until her knees hit her chest, clutching her phone to her ribs. Tremors wracked her entire frame. She was hyperventilating now, small, desperate gasps escaping her lips. The stark light of the single bulb overhead cast long, distorted shadows on the concrete floor. Why had she bothered? For months, she had felt the burnout creeping in. She had started ignoring the minor performance tasks. She had let her notes pile up, too tired to organize them. Weight from the constant pressure had grown too heavy, turning her mind into a desert of exhaustion. She had gotten lazy because she was simply too tired to care anymore. Yet, seeing the actual failure written in digital ink hurt worse than she could have imagined. It was a physical blow. "You're useless," she whispered to herself, pressing her forehead against her knees. "Just useless." Tears finally spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast. They dripped onto the screen of her phone, blurring the offensive number. She had spent her whole life being the smart girl. The one who always had the answers. The one who never struggled. Without her grades, who was she? Just Linda. An ordinary girl with nothing special to offer. A sudden chill swept through the small bathroom stall. The air pressure seemed to drop, making her ears pop. She stared down at the glowing screen, her breath hitching. The water droplets magnified the harsh black digits. 89%. Her vision tunneled. The hum of the school outside faded, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in her ears. Then, the screen flickered. It wasn't a normal glitch. The light behind the LCD screen didn't just dim; it deepened, turning a strange, bruised purple color. As the panic tightens its grip, the numerical digits on the screen ripple and shimmer, briefly revealing an ornate, unblinking eye symbol that seems to look directly at her before vanishing.

Chapter 1: The Crushing 89