Chat-GPT calibration

Morning. The cruelest invention of human existence.

My alarm buzzed, its shrill tone digging into my skull like a determined mosquito. I cracked one eye open to glare at the offending device. 6:15 AM. Too early for anyone to be awake. Too early for me, for sure.

I groaned and buried my face back into my pillow. Maybe if I ignored it long enough, the universe would take pity on me and grant me another hour of sleep. But no, the buzzing continued, relentless as a teacher handing out pop quizzes.

I reached out, fumbling blindly until my fingers found the alarm clock. I smacked it, silencing the noise, but the damage was done. My brain, traitorous as ever, had accepted that I wasn't going back to sleep.

Dragging myself upright felt like trying to lift a cement block. Every muscle protested, demanding to know why I was subjecting them to this torture. I slumped back down. Nope. Too much effort.

So, I did what I always did: rolled out of bed. Literally.

Gravity did most of the work, pulling me into a graceless heap on the floor. The cold tiles shocked me awake a little, but at least I was out of bed. Step one of the day, complete. Barely.

Now came the real challenge: actually standing up.

I grabbed the bedframe for support, groaning as I hauled myself upright. My knees popped in protest, as if I were some old man instead of a teenager. Great start to the day.

Step two: the bathroom. My feet shuffled along like they had a mind of their own, one that hadn't fully committed to being awake yet. The cool splash of water on my face helped a bit, jolting me out of the last dregs of sleep. I stared into the mirror, my reflection looking as thrilled about the morning as I felt. Bedhead? Check. Half-closed eyes? Check. A faint scowl that screamed, "Why am I doing this?" Triple check.

Still, I wasn't one to dwell too long on my appearance. Function over form, right? Besides, I had a more pressing mission: something warm.

Downstairs, the kitchen greeted me in its usual silent indifference. I grabbed the electric kettle, its smooth plastic handle cool against my fingers, and filled it with water. As I set it back on the base, I reminded myself—carefully, very carefully—to press the button. The last time I forgot, I stood around for ten minutes wondering why nothing was happening.

I hit the button with a satisfying click, the faint hum of the kettle starting up like a promise. Victory. Step three, complete.

With the kettle doing its thing, I plopped myself down at the dining table. Waiting wasn't exactly exciting, but at least it was an excuse to sit.

I pulled out my phone, the screen lighting up like a beacon of distraction. First stop: Messenger. A quick scroll showed… nothing. No new messages, no sudden group chats, no unexpected drama. I nodded to myself. That was good. Unexpected changes? Bad. Unexpected changes meant having to deal with things, and dealing with things wasn't my strong suit.

Next, Reddit. A couple of memes about procrastination and cats made me chuckle. It was the kind of mindless humor that fit perfectly with mornings like this. Swipe, scroll, repeat.

Finally, I opened Royal Road. Now, this was where the real treasure was. A few of my favorite web novels had updated overnight, and I dove in, losing myself in fictional worlds filled with overpowered protagonists, dungeons, and magic systems that made no sense but were cool anyway.

The faint rumble of the kettle brought me back to reality. It wasn't quite done boiling yet, but it was getting there. I glanced at the time. Still a few minutes to kill. Perfect. Back to the latest chapter of "The Overpowered Alchemist Reincarnates as a Dungeon Core."

A loud snap broke the quiet, signaling that the kettle had finished its job. The button had popped back into place, and with it, my mission was clear.

I stood up, stretching briefly before walking over to the counter. Grabbing a cup, I poured a bit of cool water in first—habit—and then carefully added the freshly boiled water. Steam curled up in delicate spirals as I swirled the mixture.

The first sip of warm water ran down my throat, soothing and refreshing at the same time. I let out a quiet sigh. Simple, but effective. Sometimes, the small things in life really were the best. With the last traces of sleep officially washed away, it was time to face the day.

Back upstairs, I grabbed my uniform and quickly got changed. The fabric felt stiff, as it always did, but I'd stopped noticing it after a while. Then came my backpack. I checked it for the essentials: notebooks, textbooks, and a pen that I hoped wouldn't run out of ink halfway through a lesson. All set.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and glanced at the clock. Still on time. Barely.

Stepping outside, I pulled the door shut behind me and reached for the lock. One twist. Two twists. Three. Then I jiggled the handle for good measure.

This neighborhood wasn't exactly dangerous—far from it, actually. But when both your parents are police officers, habits like triple-checking locks get drilled into your brain early on. Better safe than sorry, they'd always said. It stuck.

Satisfied that the door was locked, I set off down the street. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and the occasional whiff of someone's breakfast. The sunlight hadn't yet turned blinding, which was a blessing.

A short walk later, I arrived at my favorite pho place. It was a little street-side spot with plastic stools and tables that wobbled if you leaned on them too hard. But I didn't come here for the decor—I came here for the food.

The steaming bowl of pho arrived quickly, as it always did. The broth was just the way I liked it: a little salty, rich with flavor, and the kind of warmth that made you feel like everything would be okay. The meat was tender, practically melting in my mouth, and the noodles were perfectly cooked.

I leaned back after the last sip, feeling full and content. A great bowl of pho, affordable, and enough to make the rest of the morning seem a little less daunting. Not a bad way to start the day.

With breakfast done, I continued on my way to school. The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of calm you only got in the early morning before the city fully woke up. There weren't many vehicles yet, but the ones that were out moved fast—too fast, in my opinion.

I reached the first street and paused, scanning for a gap in the flow of motorcycles, cars, and the occasional bike. Timing was everything. The key was to walk steadily and let the drivers adjust around you. At least, that's what everyone said.

As I stepped into the street, I thought about how tourists were always complaining about crossing the roads here. "Chaotic," they called it. "Dangerous." Yeah, I couldn't argue with that. Even as someone who'd lived here my whole life, I wasn't exactly a fan.

Halfway across, a motorcycle zipped past just a little closer than I would've liked. My heart jumped, but I kept walking, resisting the urge to panic. That was the real danger—not the drivers, but the people who froze or bolted at the wrong moment. Statistically speaking, drivers here were pros at weaving through pedestrians. Still, I wasn't about to let my guard down.

By the time I passed the last street, I let out a small sigh of relief. The most dangerous part of my day was officially over. The rest? Just routine.

With the streets behind me, I let myself relax a little as I continued walking to school. Now that I didn't have to focus on dodging vehicles or avoiding sudden heart attacks, my mind had room to wander.

Monday. The start of a brand-new week and, naturally, one of the worst days on the schedule. Literature class loomed ahead like a storm cloud. I'd never understood it—why pick apart poetry and prose like it was a lab experiment? Just enjoy it or don't, right? But no, apparently, metaphors and symbolism were "important."

At least the day started with Math. That was easy—straightforward problems, formulas, answers that made sense. Numbers didn't try to trick you with hidden meanings.

In the afternoon, things got even better. Information Technology and Physical Education. IT was a breeze. Physical Education? Well, let's just say my enthusiasm didn't match my performance, but it wasn't complicated.

As I walked, I mentally checked my backpack again. Math notebook and textbook? Packed. Literature? Unfortunately, also packed. IT and PE? Both covered. I couldn't remember forgetting anything, but I double-checked anyway. Habit. If I had to survive Literature class, I might as well come prepared.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sharp, metallic scent of blood. Turning to my left, I noticed the butcher shop had just opened, its signboard glinting faintly in the morning light.

It wasn't a big place—just a narrow storefront with a faded awning and a display counter stocked with cuts of meat that were fresh enough to gleam under the flickering fluorescent light. This shop was a familiar sight on my walk to school, nestled among a row of small businesses that catered to the constant flow of students and workers passing through.

I'd never seen the place crowded, but it never seemed empty either. This wasn't the kind of shop people went out of their way to visit. It was more of a convenient backup plan for those who'd forgotten to buy meat at the market or decided last minute that they needed something fresh for dinner.

It was a steady kind of business—nothing spectacular, but reliable. The owner might never see the place bustling with customers, but they'd also never face an empty day. Consistency. Stability. In a way, it was admirable.

I glanced at the butcher himself, busy sharpening his cleaver with a practiced rhythm. He didn't notice me, but then again, he probably didn't need to. He knew his customers would come eventually.

I shifted my attention to the crowd up ahead. A group of people, loud and unsteady, spilled out of a karaoke bar, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mix of laughter and slurred words. They were calling for taxis, which were already lined up by the curb like vultures circling a fresh meal. Not surprising. Karaoke nights like these were a goldmine for taxi drivers; partygoers were rarely stingy with their tips.

As I approached, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of jobs these people had. Flexible schedules, decent pay, and enough free time to party on a Sunday night—lucky them. Maybe they had it all figured out, or maybe this was just their way of escaping whatever stress they carried. Either way, good for them.

Walking past the group, I caught a wave of the dense, sour smell of alcohol hanging in the air. It was almost enough to make me wince, but I kept moving. None of them seemed to be driving, though, and I silently nodded in approval. A drunk driver was a deadly one—for themselves and everyone else unlucky enough to be nearby. At least these folks had the sense to stick to taxis.

The noise faded behind me as I continued on my way, the scene already shifting into a distant memory.

I kept walking, eventually reaching the overpass. It was a welcome sight—it meant I wouldn't have to cross another street. Climbing the stairs, I glanced down at the traffic below. Motorbikes whizzed past in neat chaos, and I couldn't help but feel grateful for the barrier between me and them.

As I descended the other side, the school gate came into view. It was already bustling with activity. Motorbikes idled in front of the entrance, parents dropping off their kids, and students streamed through the gates in loose clusters. The air buzzed with chatter and the hum of engines, but it wasn't overwhelming. Not yet, anyway.

I checked the time. Twenty minutes to spare. Early enough that the scene was still manageable, far from the chaos that erupted closer to the start of the school day.

I remembered the one time I'd been almost late. That morning had been a mess. The street leading up to the school had turned into a gridlock of honking motorbikes and panicked students running to make it in time. My dad had been dropping me off, but it was clear we weren't getting anywhere fast.

In a flash of desperation—or brilliance, depending on how you looked at it—I'd jumped off the motorbike and navigated the chaos on foot. Squeezing between parked bikes and weaving through clusters of students, I'd made it through the gate just as the bell rang. Not exactly a moment of glory, but I'd felt strangely proud of my quick thinking.

Today, though, there was no rush. I blended into the steady flow of students heading toward the entrance, already settling into the rhythm of the school day.

Stepping into the schoolyard, I was greeted by the familiar sight of students milling about under the morning sun. Today was Monday, which meant one thing: the weekly flag-raising ceremony. It was a routine I'd long grown used to—standing in neat rows, enduring speeches, and pretending to listen to the national anthem without fidgeting too much.

Before all that, though, there were stools to deal with. Since I lived close to school, I usually helped prepare for classmates who lived farther away. I made my way to the storage room where the plastic stools were kept, weaving through the crowd of students already gathering for the same reason.

The storage room was a hub of quiet activity. Students shuffled in and out, their arms loaded with stacks of colorful stools. I spotted one of my few friends in the corner, wrestling with an ambitious pile of stools that was clearly too much for him to handle.

"Need a hand?" I asked, stepping up beside him.

He grunted, refusing to look up. "I've got it."

To his credit, he did manage to lift the pile—just barely—before the inevitable happened. One stool slipped, knocking the others out of alignment and sending the whole stack teetering. He caught it in time, but the look on his face told me he wasn't as confident as he sounded.

"Maybe don't try carrying a week's worth of stools in one trip," I suggested, smirking.

Reluctantly, he sighed and handed a few of the stools over to me. "Fine, but only because it's Monday. Any other day, I'd be fine on my own."

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. My friend was proud of his strength, and I wasn't about to take that away from him, even if his pride got in the way of practicality sometimes. Together, we carried the stools to our class's designated spot in the yard.

By the time we set them down, the sun was already climbing higher, and the crowd in the schoolyard had thickened. The ceremony would be starting soon, and I could already hear the faint hum of the loudspeaker crackling to life.

Time slipped by as I scrolled through the latest web novels. The stories were decent—nothing groundbreaking, but good enough to keep me occupied. Eventually, I glanced up and realized twenty minutes had passed. The schoolyard, once a relatively calm scene, was now bustling with activity. Students were rushing to their seats, their voices blending into a lively hum of chatter and footsteps on concrete.

I turned my attention to my own class. Most of us had already settled into our designated rows, but I noticed two glaring absences. Two students were late—not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it was a minor blemish on our class record.

In Viet Nam, classes were graded weekly on discipline, with points deducted for things like tardiness or disorderly conduct. The class representative was usually the one keeping an eye on such matters, but then I noticed something odd. One of the two late students was... the class representative herself.

I couldn't help but smile at the irony. If anyone would take this lapse seriously, it was her. Still, it wasn't as if we were in danger of losing our standing. Our class consistently ranked in the top three for discipline, though whether that spoke more to the leniency of the punishments or the strictness of the rules was up for debate. Probably both, I thought.

With a light sigh, I shifted my focus back to the front of the yard, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

The loudspeaker crackled to life, signaling the start of the flag-raising ceremony. At that moment, the two late students finally appeared, dashing to their seats just in time. The class representative looked frazzled, her hair slightly out of place—an unusual sight for someone normally so composed.

As the ceremony began, I stood up along with the rest of my class, facing the flagpole at the front of the yard. The flag was slowly raised, its fabric fluttering faintly in the morning breeze. I saluted alongside my classmates, my arm stiff but not entirely enthusiastic.

The opening notes of the national anthem began to play, and we all sang. My voice was barely audible, more of a mumble, but I made an effort to move my lips in time with the music. Out of habit, my eyes wandered toward the school gate, where a handful of unlucky latecomers were lined up. They were busy scribbling their names and class designations onto a punishment sheet under the watchful eye of a teacher.

Poor souls, I thought. It was a harsh way to start the day, but I supposed it was necessary to maintain discipline. Or morale. Or something.

When the anthem finally ended, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The ceremony might have dragged on longer than I wanted, but I supposed it served its purpose. Probably.

With the formalities over, we sat back down, waiting for the next part of the morning routine to unfold.

The loudspeaker crackled again, this time announcing the weekly class rankings. I wasn't particularly invested, but I listened out of habit.

"As of last week," the voice droned, "Class 12A2 is ranked second place."

No surprise there. Our class was consistent if nothing else. Still, considering how many students from the other classes were late today, it wasn't exactly an achievement worth celebrating.

I tuned out as the speaker rattled off the rest of the rankings, waiting for the inevitable lecture about fire safety, traffic safety, or whatever else they decided was important that week. But, to my mild surprise, it seemed today wasn't one of those days. Instead, the ceremony wrapped up without any additional speeches.

With the formalities over, the students began tidying up. As usual, we gathered the plastic stools into two neat piles. I'd helped bring them out earlier, so I wasn't part of the group tasked with taking them back. That job went to two other classmates, who grumbled half-heartedly as they hoisted the stacks of stools and carried them toward the storage room.

Free of further responsibilities, I stretched my arms and made my way toward the classroom. The morning air was still crisp, but the sun was starting to climb higher, hinting at the heat to come.

The classroom was finally settling down. People were chatting, flipping through textbooks, or scrolling on their phones. I rested my head on the desk, letting the muffled noise around me blend into the background. Then, without warning, the sunlight pouring in from the windows dimmed, like someone had flipped a cosmic switch.

I sat up, frowning. Was there an eclipse today? I didn't remember anything about one. Curiosity got the better of me, so I walked over and opened the window.

And then I saw it.

It wasn't an eclipse.

A massive white moon hung in the sky, far too close to be real. Its surface glowed faintly, the craters visible even from here. It blocked out most of the sun's light, and everything outside looked dull and washed out, like the world had been thrown under some strange filter.

Gasps and whispers rippled through the room, but I couldn't focus on them. How could something so massive get this close without any warning? Wouldn't astronomers have spotted it? Satellites? Governments? It didn't make any sense.

I was still staring when a flash of white appeared beneath my feet. My head snapped down, and I staggered back as the light spread. It wasn't just below me; it was everywhere.

Someone screamed. A few of my classmates made a break for the door, but it didn't matter. The light swept through the entire room, pouring in from the hallway. There was nowhere to go.

I barely had time to think before the brightness overtook everything, swallowing the colors, the shadows—everything.

And then, just like that, everything went black.