Everybody has a string.
A string that connects them to their fated one. This truth has never been in question.
But what about me? What happens when your string gets cut? Can the broken ever be mended?
—
It was definitely a movie.
I remember sitting in the dark, a massive glowing screen in front of me. On it, two leads were caught in a confrontation under pouring rain, shouting, hurting—until the moment snapped, and they kissed. Hard.
Cheers and squeals erupted around the theatre.
But I was stuck—caught in the image of the two of them.
Because I could see it.
The red strings between their fingers, tangling, tightening, glowing.
And I wasn't the only one.
That same afternoon, I was diagnosed with my secondary gender: recessive submissive.
I didn't understand what it meant then. But in that quiet, sterile consultation room, the dread on my parents' faces said enough. I was only ten, but I knew—it wasn't anything good.
—
In our world, gender exists in two layers:
Primary — male, female, androgynous.
Secondary — dominant, recessive, and submissive.
Secondary gender affects more than biology—it shapes behavior, compatibility, even societal roles.
It all started decades ago, with a virus that swept the globe. Desperate for a cure, governments rushed to create a vaccine. It was released within half a year. A miracle.
Or so we thought.
Side effects emerged years later.
That's when secondary genders appeared.
The terms—dominant, recessive, submissive—weren't new. But applying them biologically? Socially? That was a different matter.
Here's how it works:
Dominants carry the Y chromosome.
Recessives carry the X.
Dominants can impregnate. Recessives can conceive.
Submissives? Balanced. They can do neither.
In rare cases, a submissive can shift toward one side under extreme external influence—but it's unpredictable. Dangerous.
You'd think people would react with fear, discrimination.
And they did—for a while.
But then the strings appeared.
People began seeing glowing red strings around their pinky fingers.
Strings that tied recessives to their fated dominant partners.
Submissives could see them too—but they had no strings of their own.
Then came another revelation:
Dominants didn't just have strings.
They held the ball of thread.
They could cut, tie, untangle, or reconnect strings based on their strength. Recessives could only stretch or shorten theirs. Submissives? Their interactions were inconsistent, almost chaotic.
That changed everything.
Suddenly, secondary gender wasn't just about biology—it became a hierarchy.
Dominants at the top.
Then: primary gender (male/female/androgynous)
Then: submissives.
And at the very bottom... recessives.
Bloodline became everything. The secondary gender is inherited. Dominants only come from dominant parents. Same for the rest.
And that's where Akane comes in.
—
Both of Akane's parents were "normal."
So when their third son manifested as a recessive submissive, the shock rippled like a tidal wave.
By the time he reached university age, his parents were already divorced.
They told him it wasn't his fault.
But Akane had already read enough in the villa library to know better.
His maternal grandparents had opposed the marriage from the start.
When he manifested, their disapproval made sudden, brutal sense:
His parents had zero dominant blood.
If that fact leaked, both prestigious family lines would face public shame. And in a society where fame meant power, that was unacceptable.
So the "divorce" was a political maneuver.
Rumors were allowed to spread—an affair, an adoption, some bizarre genetic anomaly. Anything to cover his existence.
Still...
His brother once followed his parents at night and saw them meet in secret. His brother later told Akane about this rendezvous.
He understood then: their separation was a necessity, not a choice.
He accepted that.
What came next was simple —solitude.
At age ten, Akane was sent to live alone in the family's secluded mountain villa.
Private tutors came and went. Nannies delivered groceries and stocked the pantry. Neither parent visited again—not once during the divorce.
Most kids would've broken. But Akane wasn't like most kids. He didn't throw tantrums or cry. He read. Studied. Grew.
At least in the quiet of the mountains, he had freedom. By age seventeen, he was... surprisingly well-off.
One grandfather gave him an apartment in the city. The other offered any wheeled vehicle he wanted. Akane chose a trailer home—and designed it himself.
Everyone in the family praised his practicality.
His mother handed him shares in her company. His father opened a private investment account for him.
Even his brothers joined in:
Eldest brother: Ten years of unlimited first-class flights.
Second brother: A private boat.
Akane hadn't asked for anything. But his family gave him gifts anyway. That's when it hit him—how deeply loved he really was.
He accepted everything quietly.
They even sent trainers to teach him how to use it all properly. That's when he learned the property had been transferred to him in his grandmother's will.
By eighteen, Akane could afford to take a year off to explore.
He'd been saving since childhood—trading, gambling, all under the quiet mentorship of his brothers.
Financially? He was set.
But emotionally?
All he wanted...
Was a simple, ordinary life.
Which is why he chose a seemingly average university.
What he didn't know:
That "normal college" was a haven for the elite of elites. It just didn't look the part on the outside.
In Akane's mind, he was off to enjoy regular dorm food and campus life.
This is a boy raised by twelve AI home robots.
His family, naturally, was panicking.
They wondered:
How would their naive, soft-hearted, airheaded Akane possibly survive in the real world?
...That was a mystery to them.
And to Akane himself.
