After Mikey and Tobi's conversation, Mikey sits alone in the waiting room. The room had fallen into silence. Mikey sat on the cot, the hum of the fluorescents above pressing down on him. His head buzzed with everything that had happened today—every bruise, every word, every face he'd seen in the haze of the tests. This was it, the last phase, the final chance. If he failed… the Bloody Mist. Banishment. If he passed… Savior. His parents' friends. The Hit Squad. His chance to prove himself worthy of them.
Someone had dropped off his daggers earlier. They sat cold in his hands now, steel kissed by the pale light. He turned them over, wrists rolling, studying the familiar weight.
'This is it. Mom, Dad… be with me.'
He pressed one blade against the other, drawing steel on steel in long, slow scrapes. The sharp whine filled the room, cutting through the silence. The rhythm calmed him, steadied the pulse hammering in his chest. The intercom crackled to life.
"Michael Grant. Head to the stage for the final phase of the test. Phase Three."
Mikey drew in a long breath. His knees popped as he rose, stretching his legs, squatting down to loosen himself. He exhaled, jaw tight.
"I wonder what bullshit they're gonna throw at me this time…"
He slid the daggers back into their thigh sheaths. Walking toward the door, he paused at the cracked mirror. His reflection stared back—lip split, eyes swollen and bloodshot, ear puffed, nose crooked like it might've snapped. He snorted through the pain.
'Damn Blood Bear…'
He cupped a handful of water from the bucket and splashed it across his face. The cold shocked him awake, cleared the haze. Then he set his jaw, cracked his neck, and pushed open the door. The tunnel stretched long and shadowed, the sound of his boots echoing against the damp concrete. At the end, the light of the dome spilled through. He stepped into it. The crowd was back. Thousands, though not as many as before. Some couldn't stomach watching anymore. He'd heard the faint rumble of underground trains an hour ago; some had chosen to leave instead. Still, a thousand pairs of eyes burned into him as he entered. Their voices were hushed, tense.
Mikey exhaled, scanning the first row. There they were—his people. Bobo leaned so far over the railing he looked like he'd tumble off, yelling words of encouragement that got swallowed by the dome's roar. Luce cupped her hands around her mouth, whooping loud enough to cut through anyway. Tobi stuck out a trembling thumbs-up, trying to look confident. Ryosuke gave a solemn nod, lips moving in a mutter Mikey knew without hearing: Almost there, my student.
Angelica was slumped asleep in Marlene's arms, her tiny hand curled into her mother's sleeve. Marlene herself gave him a soft smile, steady and warm. Exhaustion weighed on Mikey's limbs, his chest heavy, his bones aching. But he forced a smirk for them anyway. Even managed a wave. And when his eyes found Amelia's, she offered just a small smile, a nod. He returned it with one of his own. He carried that strength with him as he walked to center stage.
Isaak stood waiting with the mic, posture stiff, voice solemn as he began. Gerron was beside him, arms crossed, watching with a pride that almost looked cruel.
"With one pass and one fail," Isaak said, the mic crackling faintly, "Michael Grant, you have one more opportunity to join. And now, before all gathered here, I will tell you the cost of this test."
His voice carried regret. But Gerron's expression was steel, unbending. Isaak's words rolled heavy through the dome.
"Upon passing, you will be inducted into Robert Presley's premier Hit Squad, codename: Savior. From there, you will receive your branding. But upon failure…" He drew a breath. "…you will be banished from the Silo and exiled north, to the Bloody Mist. You will be given a gas mask and two months' supply of food."
Gasps erupted across the crowd. Murmurs cascaded like a wave. This wasn't the way. This had never been the way. The lower-level Defectors, the ones who knew or had seen Mikey, couldn't believe it. To them he wasn't just another name—he was the kid who helped carry buckets, who patched small wounds, who cracked jokes when the world was heavy. A kind, cheerful boy, someone they all quietly rooted for.
The members of Savior, scattered among the audience, exchanged glances. They knew this rule. They'd known it long before the others, and still their eyes carried doubt, disagreement, the unspoken this isn't right. Mikey knew, too. He'd already been told. Still, hearing it echo off the dome walls made it feel even worse. Real and inevitable. His lips pressed tight. He lowered his head, and smacked his tongue against his teeth.
"Dammit…"