Clickbait

Dr. Weiss has the stopwatch. That's how I know it's time. Not the buzz. Not the flicker. Not the humming overhead. That's just background, the warm-up band.

No. It's the stopwatch. That holy click. That sharp little blessing. That's for me. Thirty seconds to sweet oblivion. Any longer and I'll be asking the floor if it remembers my name again tonight.

I stretch. Loosen the shoulders. Flex the spine. I'm ready. Limber. Loose. Electric. King of the course. Maestro of muscle memory. Nobody moves like I move. Nobody wants it like I want it.

He clicks the button, crisp, clean, indifferent, and I'm off. I fly. Dart left. Juke right. Pivot, slide. Every move has meaning. Every angle is instinct.

I was built for this. Wired for it. The puzzle lives in me. Whatever he sets, I solve. Fast. My body is a live wire. No, a Stradivarius. And I'm playing it blindfolded at full volume. I don't even look where I'm going anymore. That's how tuned-in I am. That's how deep this goes.

I feel the reward before I see it, the sweet electric promise just hovering in the air like ozone. Oh yes. Here comes the juice.

Dr. Weiss watches. Stern. Silent. Corporate as hell. Never cheers. Never claps. Never smiles. Just checks his clipboard like I'm a stat on a spreadsheet. But still, he sees me. I think. I hope.

He respects the game. And I do it for the game. For the love of the game. And, okay, yeah, also for the rush. The glorious mind-melt of euphoric clarity that slaps me straight into ecstasy and makes me believe I invented speed.

But mostly the game. Probably. Maybe like... 60/40. Good enough.

I beat the timer. Every time. Almost. Pretty much. You get the point.

I'm a winner. And when I win, it hits like pure light through a pinhole. My limbs go jelly. My brain sings opera.

I bit myself once. Just to see if the high would flinch. It didn't. Didn't even blink. Just stared back at me, teeth out, claws sharp, and said, "Buckle up."

Then it dragged me through my own brain like a rollercoaster with no brakes, sparks flying off the rails. My heartbeat felt like applause. The air tasted like color.

I swear the lights had halos. The corners of the room were too sharp. I saw a shape that might've been God, or maybe just the insomnia playing critic, staring like he had notes.

Then I licked the floor. Don't ask why. The universe moved me. And for one brief, shimmering moment, I understood everything.

The others can't keep up. They shuffle. They hesitate. They look around like this is new to them.

Please. This isn't a test. This is prime time. This is a performance. And I deliver. Every time. I don't solve puzzles. I headline them. Every turn is a beat. Every mark I hit? Applause. I'm a solo act in a sold-out arena, baby.

And Dr. Weiss? He knows I'm the main attraction. I mean... he hasn't said it. Or looked at me. But come on, you don't keep giving someone stage time if they're not bringing down the house.

So when the light blinks on again, when I hear that sweet little click, I'm ready. I leap. I dart. I pivot. I press.

Click.

...And nothing.

Something's off. Not with me. I'm sharp. Nimble. Primed. But the button clicks... and nothing.

I wait. That's fine. I can wait. Delay makes the flavor richer. Everyone knows that. I stretch. Shake it out. Loosen the joints. Get the flow going. And again, execute the run perfectly. Nail the angle, the pivot, the sweep.

Click.

Nothing.

Alright. A hiccup. A wrinkle. A little misfire in the great machine. Classic Weiss, probably keeping the good stuff under wraps. Holding out on me to see if I flinch. That guy, always keeping me on my toes. I play along, voice light, like this is still fun: "You got me good buddy, but I forgive you."

Then I run it again. Not for the reward. For the form. For the beauty of it. The crowd would've lost their minds, if there'd been a crowd.

Click.

Still nothing.

Okay. Okay. So this is the test. Right? Loyalty assessment. Final level. I'm in the control group. Makes sense. "Love of the game," I mutter. "This is about love of the game."

A new face appears. Not Weiss. Some blank-eyed assistant with gloves and a clipboard. Doesn't even look at me.

"Where's Weiss?" I ask. "He'd never miss a run. He respects the craft."

No response, just scribbling.

I try again. And again. I throw in a flourish. A spin, even. A little signature move I'd been saving.

Click.

No love.

They must be watching. Evaluating. Maybe the assistant is a scout. Maybe I'm being promoted. Or maybe Weiss got promoted. Or reassigned. Or retired. Or — did he betray me?

I shake it off. I'm not a conspiracy guy. I'm a doer. A pusher. A performer. But the light seems different today. Dimmer. Like they replaced the bulbs with something less... forgiving.

I press the button again. Again. Again. I stop. Breathe. Run it one more time, crisp, clean, beautiful.

Click. Still.

I hunker down in the corner and press my cheek to the floor, just for a second. It's colder than I remember, crisp like truth. Maybe the reward is internal now. Maybe that's the next phase. Enlightenment. A higher tier of training.

I mumble, "I still got it. Watch this." Then I stumble through the routine, knees shaky. Sloppy. No click this time.

"Fine," I say to no one. "You want loyalty? I'll run until my legs forget how."

I do.

After a while, I stop checking for the sound. I just press the button because it's there. Because that's the rhythm. That's the game.

I am the game.

And the game goes on.

Eventually, I lose track of how many times I've run it. The movements blur together, not messy, not yet, just... automatic. Like background music in my own head.

No Weiss. No clipboard. No reward. Just me. Just the loop.

It's fine. I can go without. For a bit. For the discipline. For the story I'll tell when this is over. "Remember that time you left me dry for three whole days, Doc?" I'll say. "Had me running on fumes and sheer charisma."

He'll laugh. He'll shake his head. "You're a machine," he'll say. "Didn't even crack."

That'll be a good day.

So I keep going. Not for the reward anymore, but for the legacy. For the respect.

For Weiss.

Because any minute now, he'll walk through that door and give me the nod. The "attaboy." Maybe even a double dose for being such a champ.

Any minute now.

Any second... Right?

I mean, the door is still there. Someone's keeping the power on. There must be somebody watching. They wouldn't just let me run blind, would they?

Would they?

Maybe they're compiling the footage. Maybe there's going to be a ceremony. A highlight reel. A cake. With frosting. Chocolate. Or strawberry. No both. Swirled.

They'll play the best runs and say, "That one. That's the moment we knew." And Weiss will grin and say, "He's got the stuff." Any second now.

Then the light comes on.

Bright. Sterile. Footsteps. Not Weiss. The assistant again. This time with a bag.

He opens the door. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

I feel the cold pinch at my tail.

Lifted.

Carried.

Bagged.

Guess the show's over.

Tough crowd.