But as Jimmy stood patiently in the ever-crawling line, something began to feel... off.
At first, it was just the slow pace—normal, perhaps, for something this hyped. But then a man in a grey cloak emerged from the ticket booth platform, his voice amplified by a hovering speaker drone that buzzed like a glass bell.
"Only thirty seats left! After that, registration will close until the next Dawn Mirage cycle!"
A surge of anxiety ran through the crowd.
Jimmy's fingers tightened around the hem of his coat. He quickly did a mental count—he was at least thirty-five or thirty-sixth in line. Just outside the threshold. So close... yet not enough.
Then—chaos.
Several people at the far end began shouting, trying to bribe their way forward. A few even broke the line entirely, elbowing others as they tried to cut ahead. The orderly tension collapsed into a flurry of movement and stress.
But before things spiraled out of control—
Police Whisp Units arrived.
A squad of uniformed officers materialized from the alley shadows and corners of buildings, forming a half-circle around the commotion. In the centre of them was a tall woman in silver-blue police clothes with badges, holding a baton with glowing rings around its head.
Beside her floated a Whisp—Drolam, a jellyfish-like psychic Whisp with translucent skin and long, ribboned feelers. It pulsed with a gentle purple glow, sending out calming waves of emotion that washed over the crowd like a breeze in spring rain.
Yelling stopped. People blinked, dazed but soothed.
The officer in charge raised her voice.
"Those who disturbed the line have been marked. Disorderly conduct during Dawn Mirage protocol will not be tolerated."
A dark-colored Tree-type Whisp resembling a sprout with shadowy bark and ghost-like leaves slithered forward. Its name glowed faintly on a floating hologram: Absol Rootshade.
Dozens of miniature clones of Absol Rootshade unfurled around the perimeter like creeping vines, each with a single wilted leaf shaped like a hand. One by one, they reached up and gently touched the heads of the disorderly individuals, marking them with a thin violet line across their forehead.
Then came another wave of Absols—these larger, more solid ones whose wooden eyes gleamed red. They emerged from the shadows and swiftly, but carefully, escorted the troublemakers out of the line. A few protested. Some looked humiliated. But most just looked defeated.
Within five minutes, order had been completely restored.
A glowing barrier ring formed around the official line, locking it down. No one else could enter.
Jimmy looked around—only sixty people remained.
He quickly glanced at his position again. Where once he had been thirty-five or worse… now he was number twenty.
A long, relieved sigh escaped his lips. Saved.
No tricks. No bribes. Just… quiet patience.
Outside the barrier, dozens of excluded people hovered in frustration, some begging the officers, others pacing or leaving in anger. Jimmy ignored it. He knew how rare this moment was. How close he had come to losing it.
But something else caught his eye.
Among the disqualified, Jimmy noticed several people wearing similar shoes—smooth black with a golden sigil printed along the side. The shoes looked new, almost too clean. Their outfits varied, but that identical footwear stood out.
Odd.
He kept watching. These individuals didn't seem particularly angry to be thrown out… in fact, some were smiling quietly, as if they were actors who had completed a scene.
Jimmy's mind raced. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to scratch his cheek while focusing through his half-blind senses. Were they fake participants? Volunteers planted to incite trouble and weed out the impatient?
He tried to look for more clues—wristbands, patterns, affiliations—but came up short. Still, the shoes were the only common thread.
Suddenly, Luna tugged at his hood with a soft boop from her tail.
"It's moving! Go forward, Jimmy. We're almost there!"
Snapped out of his thoughts, Jimmy stepped forward as the line crept closer to the ticket booth. He passed a tall man who reeked of expensive cologne and a tired woman holding a child-sized Whisp in a scarf.
As he moved, his eyes caught the edge of the volunteers' shoes again—this time, on one of the staff members at the booth, just barely peeking from beneath the hem of their robe.
Jimmy stiffened.
Same shoe. Slightly altered colour. Volunteer and official…? Same network?
He narrowed his eyes behind the blindfold, filing the information deep into memory. Something strange was happening beneath the surface of this lottery. The system had been designed not just for security, but perhaps for observation.
Was this really just about luck? Or were they being watched for something else?
Still, this was not the time to question too much. Luna was humming nervously. The booth was just a few people away now.
Jimmy took a slow breath and focused.
..................................
Jimmy's heart beat fast as he neared the front of the line. All around him, hopeful whispers and murmurs of luck filled the air, but he barely heard them. His focus was sharp—only thirty or so people remained between him and the front.
And then, he made his move.
He didn't speak. He didn't shout.
Instead, Jimmy simply shifted his foot forward, just slightly, so the smooth sole and emblem of his academy-issued shoe were visible—not too obvious, just enough for someone trained to notice. Then use his hand to show near volunteer's shoe and distance volunteer shoe's; only the receptionist can see.
The receptionist behind the ticket booth—a tall man with a sharp jawline and tired eyes—glanced up.
Jimmy saw it. That flicker of recognition.
But then something unexpected happened.
The man's face twisted into a scowl. He slammed a stamp on the desk, leaned forward, and barked loudly so the crowd could hear:
"Are you here to mock us, boy? Showing off your fancy shoes? You think this is a joke?"
Gasps rippled through the line.
The nearby volunteer's Whisp—a dark green Absol with vine-like fur—sprung forward at the command. Its leaves wrapped gently but firmly around Jimmy's shoulders and pulled him out of the line.
People laughed. Some jeered. A few others whispered under their breath, delighted at the drama. "What a fool…"
Jimmy was dragged from there there, stunned. His chest tightened. He had been so close. So close.
"Even after coming this far," he thought, "am I really going to lose my chance?"
But then… something odd happened.
The receptionist gave a subtle nod to the Absol from distance.
It stopped. But they came to near by small door.
The vines didn't tighten.
Instead, the Absol paused beside him, eyes gleaming with quiet intelligence, as if… waiting.
Jimmy looked back at the receptionist—and for a moment, their eyes met. That same sharp-eyed man who had publicly scolded him now wore a look Jimmy couldn't quite name.
Was it… satisfaction?
Confusion?
Approval?
Then the receptionist muttered quietly—so only Jimmy could hear:
"You're the first one to find it."
Jimmy blinked.
He didn't understand.
The man straightened his back, cleared his throat, and said loudly for all to hear, "NEXT!"
Jimmy was guided gently to the door —not out, not disqualified, but toward a smaller desk, marked "Data Verification."
There was no line here.
Just one seat. One man standing.
Waiting.
And a strange silence.
Luna whispered on his shoulder, "on ononnonnn ... what just happened?"
Jimmy didn't answer.
He didn't know.
But something told him that he'd passed a test— one; no one told him existed.
And somewhere above, in an office behind tinted glass, someone watching the lottery floor made a note beside Jimmy's name:
"Candidate passed secret signal protocol. Proceed with Phase 2."