[Malach]
The needle left his arm with a soft click.
Malach watched the attendant seal the vial, the dark red inside catching the faint lamplight of the study. The room was quiet, too quiet, as if even the walls of his family's estate were waiting for the verdict.
His nineteenth birthday had passed barely a week ago. Another chance to see whether anything inside him had changed. Another reminder that everyone else his age was climbing higher, stabilizing, growing into the strength that would carry them through life.
He sat still, expression calm, hands folded on his lap.
Inside, a small ember of hope flickered the way it always did during these retests. Faint. Irrational. Persistent.
Orvell reentered the room with the quiet, measured steps Malach had grown up hearing. The man held a thin envelope, already opened, his eyes scanning the neat rows of numbers.
Malach straightened unconsciously.
"Well," Orvell began, clearing his throat. "Your results have come in."
The hesitation was answer enough.
"Average strength. Average control. Slightly lower amount and sensitivity. But..." He glanced at the paper again, as if checking. "Your complexity remains excellent."
Average. Again.
The word settled on Malach's shoulders like dust.
He managed a nod. "I see."
Orvell watched him for a moment, as though searching for a reaction that Malach refused to give. Satisfied, the attendant bowed his head politely and stepped out.
The door closed.
Malach exhaled slowly, letting the silence wash over him. Only now did he let his mind drift, not to the test results but to Orvell himself. The man had been by his side since he was eleven. Before that there had been someone else. A woman with soft eyes and steady hands. He could picture her face perfectly, but her name remained lost somewhere in childhood fog.
His thoughts broke as the door opened again.
"Should I inform your parents?" Orvell asked gently.
Malach hesitated. A long second passed.
"No," he said finally. He forced a small smile. "Nothing changed from last time. Better not trouble them over it."
Orvell accepted the answer with a faint bow and stepped out once more, closing the door quietly behind him. His footsteps receded down the hall, each one growing softer.
When the last echo faded, something inside Malach snapped.
He rose abruptly, grabbed the framed painting of New Birmingham from the wall, and hurled it onto the floor. Glass shattered, scattering across the carpet. His chest tightened, breath sharp as he seized the papers on his desk and flung them through the air.
They fluttered down slowly, uselessly, like snow that chose the wrong place to fall.
Only then did he stop.
Malach pressed his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold floorboards. He buried his face in his hands.
He had not advanced. Not even a little.
Still average. Still behind. Still him.
And every year the gap between him and his family only grew wider.
He let the silence swallow him whole.