Weak Class of Anti-Hero

I didn’t move. My gaze shifted from the blond to my belongings scattered on the floor. A cold anger began to rise in me.

"What do you want?" I asked. My voice was lower than usual. Steadier, too.

The blond raised an eyebrow, surprised that I dared to speak to him.

"What do we want? A little welcome tax. To protect you," he said with a wink. "Here, everything is paid for with points. Academy points. They’re used for everything: upgrading your room, getting better meals, accessing training facilities."

He took out his terminal, a much more modern and expensive version than mine.

"The system allows points to be transferred between students. It’s convenient. So, you’re going to quietly transfer us your starting points. All the newbies get them."

I knew what he was talking about. We had been credited with 100 points upon arrival. Not much, but it was the bare minimum to survive the first month.

I shook my head. "No."

The word came out on its own. It was short, final.

The blond’s smile vanished. His face hardened. "What did you say?"

"I said no."

Silence fell in the room again. This time, it wasn’t a silence of pity. It was a tense, heavy silence, thick with threat.