The training dome hummed with containment fields.
It was a massive, circular chamber — all smooth alloy walls and force-dampening floors, with transparent observation decks spiraling high above. Cameras clicked into place along every surface, drones hovering with silent precision.
Hernan stood in line, wrists already magnetically bound with suppression cuffs. Cold metal against his skin, pulsing with microcurrents. They weren't painful — just limiting. Like being smothered by a warm, invisible blanket.
He watched the students around him fidget.
Some cracked their knuckles. Others whispered prayers.
Power Suppression Evaluation.
No powers. No gadgets. No gear.
Just your instincts. Your body. Your mind.
It was the Academy's way of separating the lucky from the skilled.
Two students entered the ring at a time. Sparring matches. Point-based. No injuries allowed — in theory.
The instructor, a wiry man with sunken eyes and a voice like chewing gravel, barked out names in pairs.
"Rai, Makel. Ring three."
"Guen, Vasquez. Ring one."
Then—
"Vale, Sparks. Ring four."
Hernan stepped forward.
A murmur rippled through the group. Not because of him.
Because of her.
Aya Sparks was already walking to the platform, her jacket tossed over one shoulder, boots slamming with purpose. White hair in a tight braid. Eyes sharp. The faint scent of ozone clung to her like perfume.
She didn't wait for him. Didn't acknowledge him.
He liked that.
They met in the center ring as the suppression field activated — a low hum of power rising around the combat circle.
Aya rolled her shoulders.
"So," she said, cracking her neck. "You gonna make me work for this, or just fold and look pretty?"
Hernan tilted his head slightly. "Do you usually flirt during combat?"
That got a smile. Thin. Dangerous.
"Oh good," she said. "You're one of the smug ones."
She dropped into stance — wide, flexible, precise. Her knees bounced once. Her eyes never left his.
He didn't mirror her. Just stood there, hands loose at his sides.
Waiting.
"Begin!" the instructor barked.
Aya moved instantly.
She didn't hold back. She never did. Two strides in, and she launched into a spinning knee aimed straight at his head. Quick, explosive, brutal.
Hernan didn't dodge.
He pivoted with it. Caught her shin with one forearm. Redirected the force, stepped through her stance, and pushed.
She stumbled.
Regained balance fast. Spun low. Went for a sweep kick.
He jumped it easily.
More murmurs from the students watching.
Hernan saw everything — the way her balance shifted half a second before her weight did, the micro-tightening in her shoulder before each strike, the flaw in her recovery rhythm after combo bursts.
Not because he'd trained to see it.
Because someone else had — and he'd taken that from them.
Aya came in again, this time feinting high and jabbing low.
He caught her wrist. Not hard — just enough to stop her.
Held it.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're not even trying."
"You want me to try?" he asked quietly.
"Obviously."
He twisted. Not cruelly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her that she'd opened herself up.
Then he let go.
She stepped back, lips pressed into a flat line.
A long pause.
The instructor raised his hand. "Match ends. Points to Vale."
Hernan gave a small bow, then turned and walked back toward the platform wall. He could feel her eyes burning into his spine the entire way.
After the final match, the students were allowed to rest — water, food tablets, biometric scans.
Hernan sat on the bench farthest from the others.
His breath steady. Heartbeat calm.
He watched a screen across the wall display names and early evaluations.
Combat Instinct: High
Tactical Awareness: Exceptional
Power Profile: Unknown / Muted
Emotional Readings: Suppressed / Flatline
He swiped the screen off.
"You held back."
The voice came from behind him — soft, curious. Not confrontational.
He turned.
A girl stood near the edge of the bench — auburn hair in a braid, faint scar under her chin. The same one from orientation.
She looked… tired. Not physically. Something deeper.
"I saw your stance," she said. "It changed halfway through. You weren't just countering. You were reading her."
Hernan said nothing.
She didn't push. Just sat down beside him, one seat over.
"Tessa," she said after a moment. "Tessa Rye."
"Rook."
She nodded like she already knew.
They didn't speak again.
But he remembered the way she watched him.
Not like he was a mystery. Not like he was a threat.
Like she saw through him — and hadn't decided yet what that meant.
Later, as the students filed out of the dome, one of the instructors tapped a commlink and muttered something quickly.
In the surveillance room above the training hall, a man in a long black coat watched the feed.
He didn't speak. Just zoomed in on the boy in gray who never flinched.
The assistant beside him frowned. "Another prodigy?"
"No," the man said.
"Then what?"
He stared for another moment before turning off the feed.
"Just someone worth watching."