AustrianMogger
LTN from Austria 𝕯𝖝𝕯 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖜, #1 MGTOL
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Chapter Two – Crimson Shadows
The dormitory door groaned when Sikuti pushed it open. Inside was a narrow hall with six identical doors branching from it. The plaster on the walls was cracked in places, yellowing under strips of weak fluorescent light. A faint smell of damp fabric clung to the air, like laundry that never quite dried.
Each room belonged to another LowTierNormie, and as the newest arrival, he had been given the corner unit at the very end.
He dropped his single duffel bag on the bed and sat down. The springs complained under his weight. The mattress was thinner than anything he’d known before, the fabric scratchy against his palms. He could hear the sounds of other residents bleeding through the walls—laughter here, muffled arguments there, and once, the faint staccato rhythm of someone sobbing.
It felt less like a home and more like a holding pen.
The First Meal
The cafeteria sat at the base of the block, a cavern of gray metal tables under flickering neon lights. The smell of reheated starch and synthetic proteins hung heavy in the air.
When Sikuti entered, the room hushed for a brief second. Not because of who he was, but because of what he was: a newcomer, bracelet still shining with that freshly issued crimson glow.
He collected his tray of pale stew and bread and looked for a place to sit. Groups already formed at the tables—clusters of young men and women talking quietly, their crimson bands flashing in the light. None of them made room for him.
Finally, he found an empty spot near the corner and sat alone.
He ate slowly, the stew bland and lukewarm. At the table beside him, two boys were comparing scores.
“Forty-one. Just scraped into Normie,” one of them bragged, holding up his green bracelet.
The other whistled. “Lucky bastard. You’ll be able to go anywhere. Clubs, jobs, girls… Forty-one might as well be heaven compared to this shit.”
They both laughed, not cruelly, just obliviously. But each word was a blade for Sikuti. He pushed his tray away, appetite gone.
On the far side of the cafeteria, he caught sight of a group of girls, all crimson-banded like him. They huddled together, whispering and giggling. For a moment, hope sparked. Maybe here, among his own tier, he could find some connection, some fragile kind of companionship.
But when one of the girls noticed him looking, she leaned to whisper in her friend’s ear. The group erupted in laughter, sharp and unkind. One even pointed at his hairline, mimicking a receding sweep with her hand.
Sikuti looked down at his stew until their laughter dissolved into the general noise.
He didn’t try to look again.
The Bracelet
That night, Sikuti experimented with the bracelet. It wasn’t optional—removing it was impossible without security clearance—but it had apps that defined every part of his new life.
The Housing App restricted his movement: a red map of Kilicia marked the boundaries of the LowTierNormie district. Anything beyond that shimmered gray and locked.
The Commerce App showed what he could buy: the cheapest foods, the dullest clothes, recycled electronics. Anything fashionable or premium was crossed out, tagged Tier Restricted.
But it was the Social App that hit hardest. A dating interface automatically activated once his Index was official.
Profiles scrolled past—faces of girls his age, some crimson-banded like him, others from higher tiers. Under each name was a simple “Match” option.
Sikuti pressed it once.
The notification came instantly:
“Match invalid. LowTierNormies cannot initiate with higher tiers.”
He scrolled further, finding a crimson-banded girl from his own district. Her picture was plain, unsmiling, her own Index a 37.
He tapped “Match.”
The screen flashed again:
“Rejected. User has filtered out lower-tier males.”
His chest tightened. He tried another. And another. Each attempt ended the same: filtered, rejected, ignored.
By the tenth rejection, he closed the app with trembling hands. The bracelet had not lied—romance was closed to him. Not just unlikely, not just difficult. Closed.
In Kilicia, even the unwanted did not want the unwanted.
The Streets
Days blurred into one another. The LowTierNormie quarter stretched like a concrete labyrinth, all the buildings identical, all the streets painted with the same tired neon. The air smelled faintly of rust and stale oil.
Sikuti wandered the streets after his shifts at the recycling plant—a mandatory assignment for crimson bands. The work was repetitive: sorting scrap, hauling bins, feeding plastics into churning machines. His body ached constantly, but at least the stipend covered food.
Above the quarter, the sky was a distant strip of gray, almost always hidden by the overhang of higher tiers. Sometimes, if he squinted, he could see the glimmer of the upper levels—golden lights, glass balconies, music drifting faintly down from Chadlite parties.
But down here, life was muted. People moved with lowered eyes, shoulders hunched, their crimson bracelets glowing like brands in the dim light. Conversations were rare. Friendships rarer. Everyone seemed to carry the same quiet shame, the same suffocating knowledge that they did not count.
Sikuti sometimes caught his reflection in a darkened window: the soft jaw, the crooked nose, the thinning hairline. He’d look away before the ache in his chest grew too sharp.
Nights Alone
At night, he lay in his narrow bed, listening to the sounds of the dormitory. Sometimes he heard laughter—rare, but it cut deepest. More often, he heard the muffled cries of neighbors. One night, the girl in the room beside his sobbed for hours, the sound echoing through the thin wall.
He never knocked. He never spoke to her. In the crimson district, even comfort felt forbidden.
Instead, he stared at the ceiling until his eyes blurred, wondering what it would feel like to be desired. To be seen. To not have his worth decided by a number burned into glass.
But no answer came. Only the hum of neon outside, the city’s indifferent heartbeat.
And so the days stretched on: gray, silent, loveless.
Sikuti had been in Kilicia for less than a month, and already the weight of it pressed him into the ground. He was eighteen. His life had only just begun.
And yet, somehow, it felt already finished.
----------------------------------------------------
Part 1:
Blackpill Utopia Chapter 1
Chapter One – The Sorting The assessment hall was vast and silent, a cathedral of glass and steel. Rows of booths lined the chamber like confessionals, each glowing with the pale hum of biometric scanners. Dozens of eighteen-year-olds shuffled forward, their nervous whispers swallowed by the...
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