Admitted or Eliminated

The morning starts with an empty fridge. Jonathan opens the door and sighs: no sign of ham. Just a jar of jam, forgotten in a corner, with a sticky lid.

He resigns himself, quickly spreads jam on a slice of bread, covers it with another, and wraps it in a napkin.

— No time, no time...

He puts his backpack on one shoulder and rushes toward the door.

— Bye, Mom! he shouts over his shoulder.

— Take care, Jonathan...

But he's already gone. His feet run toward the bus stop, clutching the jam sandwich in his hand.

He arrives at the stop just as the bus screeches to a halt. Jonathan puckers his lips and sprints, sandwich in the corner of his mouth, like in a Sunday morning anime. He weaves through sleepy students, hurriedly climbs the bus steps, and throws his glasses toward the back seats.

There he sees him. Connie. Chubby, with cheeks red like angry peaches and his backpack always unzipped. He takes up one and a half seats and greets Jonathan with a wide smile and a handful of crumbs.

— Almost missed the bus!

— Nearly, I only had jam.

— Pfff, poor you. I ate pancakes. With chocolate. Three.

Jonathan rolls his eyes but smiles. He sits next to Connie and stuffs his backpack under the seat. The foggy morning windows create a light haze inside, and the bus engine growls like a bear waking from hibernation.

— Did you watch last night's episode of Demon Slayer? Connie asks, mouth full.

— Of course! Dude, how he cut that guy!

— And that music... damn! I got chills.

— Feels like a movie. This isn't anime anymore, it's art.

They look at each other and nod approvingly. In their world, anime was more than cartoons. It was a lifestyle.

— You know what? Connie says. Let's do a marathon tomorrow. I'll come to you, bring chips. Or you come to me, whichever you want.

— I can come, but I have to get my homework done fast.

— No problem, I'll help. I know how to copy efficiently.

— Connie...

— Just kidding! (short pause) Or maybe not.

They both laugh. The bus passes by the neighborhood park where leaves had started changing colors. Autumn was quietly making its way. Outside, a few people walked their dogs, and an elderly woman watched the bus pass, leaning on a cane.

Behind the laughter and anime plans, Jonathan still felt a strange unease in his chest. He didn’t know why. Maybe because the teachers had been acting weird lately. Maybe it was that dream he had last night — an empty classroom and a test without questions.

— Tomorrow is Friday, right? Jonathan asks.

— Yep. And then... weekend, dude!

— Do you feel something weird at school lately?

— Hmm? What could it be?

— I don’t know… maybe it’s just me.

The bus approached the school gate. Students were already standing, crowding the hallway, shouting their after-school plans. Jonathan tightened his backpack and bit into the jam sandwich as if trying to postpone his thoughts.

But in his stomach, the feeling didn’t leave: something was about to change. Radically.

The school building looked the same as every morning — gray walls, halls smelling of detergent and wet shoes, teachers’ voices faintly echoing from classrooms. But today... something was different.

Jonathan felt a chill run down his spine the moment he passed through the gate. Instead of the usual bustle of students and teachers, everything was... too quiet. No laughter, no greetings, only silent steps and empty stares.

At the entrance, three teachers stood in a row. All wore identical black suits, no ties, no badges. Their faces — expressionless, almost pale. Man or woman, they looked like clones.

Jonathan and Connie entered the classroom. On each desk lay a blank sheet and a brand new black pen. No other materials, no notebooks, not even a schedule on the board.

Their history teacher, Mr. Ionescu — although Jonathan wasn’t sure if it was really him anymore — entered the room, wearing the same black suit and the same dead stare.

— Everyone, sit down. The test begins. You will write why you deserve to stay in this school.

— And if we don’t write? a classmate from the back asked, forcing a smile.

— You will be eliminated, the teacher said. Simple.

A nervous murmur ran through the class. Connie slumped in his chair, huffing lightly.

— What is this, a bad joke? he whispered.

— I don’t think so... Jonathan answered.

Connie stood up.

— I don’t care about your test. I’m going to the bathroom.

All eyes turned to him. The teacher said nothing, just stared. Motionless.

Connie headed for the door. He reached for the handle.

Touched the metal. A sharp click.

Then suddenly — a strange noise, a sort of gurgle. Connie stopped.

— Wha... what...?

He began coughing. Slowly, then harder and harder. He brought his hand to his mouth — blood. He spat. Again. Then he collapsed to his knees, gasping.

Students screamed. Some stood up. Jonathan froze.

Connie fell on his side, writhing, eyes wide open, bloodshot. He reached his hand toward Jonathan, but the next second, his body disintegrated. As if he had never been there.

No trace. No stain. Just an empty chair and silence.

The teacher said, without blinking:

— Whoever does not respect the test, is eliminated. Write.

Jonathan stayed frozen. The pen trembled in his hand. Connie’s voice still echoed in his ears, full of rebellion, of life. But Connie was gone.

And now, he was alone.

Jonathan tried to breathe deeply, but the air seemed too heavy for his lungs. The classroom, once a mundane place, had become a glass cage. An execution pit.

The pen in his hand trembled. On the sheet before him, the pure white seemed to mock him. Write. Why do you deserve to stay in this school.

To his left, a girl with long tied-back hair — a classmate he hadn’t known well but always saw alone — started writing. She wrote quickly, with large, pressing letters. Then suddenly, she stopped.

Jonathan glanced at her sideways. The girl lifted her head slightly, looked at the paper, then sighed. With a whispered, almost resigned voice, she said:

— I don’t deserve anything. I haven’t done anything special. It doesn’t matter if I stay or leave. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here.

She put the pen down.

The next second, the same reaction.

First, trembling. Then coughing.

Gurgling. Gagging.

A bloodstain formed at the corner of her mouth. Her face suddenly reddened, her neck tensed like a bowstring. She stood up scared, trying to say something, but no coherent sound came out.

Every student moved as far away from her as possible.

Within seconds, her body fell to the floor and, like Connie, began to disintegrate. Not in a scientific way, but... impossible. Her skin turned to dust. Her bones seemed to evaporate. Her eyes melted away.

Where once stood a person, there remained only trembling air and a blank sheet of paper.

None of the teachers reacted. They neither moved nor blinked. They seemed like human statues.

A sinister silence fell over the classroom. Someone started crying softly.

A boy in the front — Radu, the one always with his phone in hand — discreetly pulled out his phone from under the desk. Jonathan watched him closely. Radu opened Google and quickly typed:

“What to write when you don’t know what to write in an essay about yourself?”

He scrolled. Entered a forum. Opened a link with ideas.

He barely got to read one sentence: Be honest, but show your best.

Then the phone heated up in his palm. As if it caught fire.

“Ahhh!” Radu screamed, throwing the phone away.

Blood dripped from his neck. Not like the others, who spat blood. No. For him, it seemed like his skin was peeling off on its own, as if an invisible scalpel had cut him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and he fell face-first onto the desk.

Jonathan took a deep breath and clenched his knees with his hands under the desk. His heart pounded chaotically like a broken clock.

Radu disappeared.

His phone fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.

The teacher in front cleared his throat.

“Phones are forbidden.”

“Are you crazy?!” someone shouted from the back. “What is this? What kind of test is this? Why are people dying?!”

The teacher didn’t answer. He looked at him. The student collapsed onto his desk, hands trembling.

Jonathan stared at his sheet. He hadn’t written anything. Two classmates and his friend had already died. He knew there was no time. He knew he couldn’t cheat.

But... what should he write so he wouldn’t die?

What does it mean “to deserve to stay”? Who decides that?

Images flashed in his mind. Him, his mother at the table, Connie laughing on the bus, pancakes. Ordinary things. Vivid memories.

He was alive. Still. But for how long, he didn’t know.

Time seemed to stretch in the classroom. The air was heavy, smelling of sweat, blood, and fear. The blank sheet before each student had become a sentence, a weapon, a bullet temporarily stopped mid-flight.

Some students began trembling uncontrollably. Others cried softly. A boy at the back — small, just entered high school — hid under his desk, as if he could escape the absurd rules of this place.

In a corner, a girl with large, wet eyes suddenly screamed. Her heart, weakened by panic, gave out. She fell forehead-first onto the desk and lay motionless.

“She… she didn’t cheat!” someone shouted. “She didn’t cheat! She just got scared!”

The teacher didn’t respond. None of them moved. Only silence answered now.

The girl’s body didn’t disappear. It stayed there, inert, mouth open and eyes vacant.

Then another. And another. Hearts breaking under pressure.

The classroom was becoming a silent grave, a museum of fear.

Jonathan slowly lifted his pen and wrote one sentence:

“I want to live.”

That was all.

Then he stopped. His hand froze mid-air. He looked at the sheet, at that simple, human sentence. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t an elaborate excuse. It was just his raw, unfiltered truth.

He felt a strange warmth in his chest. He breathed. He was still alive. One moment, two, ten.

Then, a rustle behind him.

Two students exchanged their sheets. One extended a hand, the other took it. They glanced quickly at what the other wrote. They smiled, as if encouraging each other.

And instantly, their bodies contorted.

Screams. Blood. Bones breaking from the inside.

They fell to the floor at the same time, dead. They weren’t eliminated. They died. Blood trickling through the cracks in the floor.

Another, a guy with glasses, glanced over his classmate’s shoulder for just a second. He didn’t even get to read what was written. He collapsed on his desk, stiff, head tilted in an unnatural position.

Another student hadn’t written anything for ten minutes. Trembling. Staring at the sheet, then the pen, then the sheet again. Trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, he stood up and tried to get out of his desk.

“I can’t… I can’t write! I don’t know what to write!”

The next second, he collapsed to the floor silently. Like a rag doll.

Jonathan gritted his teeth.

The classroom had become a cemetery. One alive, but dying.

Only the rustle of pens and quiet sighs still filled the air.

Jonathan looked again at his sentence. “I want to live.”

Would that be enough?

Or maybe it wasn’t about what you write. But how.

And why you write it.

Minutes passed slowly, like molten lead. The clock on the wall ticked, but no one heard it anymore.

The teachers stood motionless, in the same black suits, with the same empty stares, as if forgetting they were human. Or... maybe they weren’t anymore.

Only about twelve students remained in the classroom.

Jonathan looked again at his sentence:

“I want to live.”

He was honest. But was it enough?

Then, suddenly... something changed.

The air became heavier. Much heavier.

An invisible pressure pressed down on Jonathan’s chest. He struggled to breathe. His heart raced, too fast. He looked around.

Another classmate in front of him grabbed his throat with both hands and started choking. His eyes widened, veins bulged on his neck.

Another, on the right, fell face-first onto his desk, spitting blood.

Jonathan stood up, scared, but a wave of dizziness pulled him down.

He fell to his knees. Held his throat. Couldn’t breathe anymore. His lungs were closing.

Death was coming.

“No! No! No! What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong?!”

His eyes stopped on the sheet. His sentence felt… too short. Too vague.

He yanked the pen from the desk and started writing blindly, with his last breaths of air:

“I deserve to stay because I want to learn. Because I have dreams. Because I can become someone. Because I have a mother at home waiting for me. Because I haven’t lived yet. Because I care.”

The last words he wrote trembled, smudging the edge of the paper with ink.

Then, as the final period settled on the page…

Everything stopped.

Air rushed back into his lungs all at once. Jonathan took a deep breath, like a drowning man surfacing for oxygen.

He breathed in ragged gasps, hand over his heart. He was alive. He was… alive.

He lifted his gaze.

Around him… only one other boy remained. Sitting on the last desk, hands on his paper. Calm. He’d written something. He didn’t look affected. He stared straight at Jonathan, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Everyone else… was fallen. Dead. Eyes wide open, bodies twisted into strange poses. Some with blank sheets. Others with sentences too short or meaningless.

The classroom smelled of ink, sweat, death.

The teachers moved for the first time.

One of them, the one in front, stepped toward the blackboard. Wrote in big letters:

“THE TEST IS OVER. ONLY THOSE WHO UNDERSTOOD REMAIN.”

He turned, looked at Jonathan and the other boy, and said:

— Continue.

Then disappeared.

Literally. He disintegrated into thin air, like dust swept away by the wind.

Jonathan turned to the only classmate left. A boy with black hair, deep eyes. He didn’t know him. Or… maybe he just didn’t remember.

— What’s your name?

The boy smiled faintly.

— My name? I don’t think it matters anymore. But… soon we’ll find out what comes next.

Jonathan and his companion looked around, still shocked but alive.

From a school of 1,200 students, only 56 had been allowed to stay. The rest… had disappeared or been killed.

That meant 1,144 of them would never see the light of day again. Never see school. Never see the future they dreamed of.

Jonathan felt a knot in his throat.

This was more than a test. It was a cruel selection. A fight for survival.

But now, among the 56, he and the mysterious boy had a chance.

A chance to find out what came next.

And deep inside, a strong determination began to grow: he would not let this system destroy his dreams.

Because…

They deserved to live.