The Orientation Hall breathed like a machine. Not loudly—its rhythm was subtle, a deep subsonic pulse that trembled through the soles of Kahn's boots and rose into his teeth like a hidden heartbeat. The air smelled of antiseptic and cold iron, a faint ozone bite that dried his tongue with every breath. Somewhere beneath the metallic tang lingered something organic—warm copper, like the inside of a bitten lip.
Rows of recruits filled the steep, curved tiers around the central dais. Their grey uniforms carried the faint odor of fresh synthetic fabric: chemical-clean, sharp enough to sting the nose. A low murmur drifted through the crowd, a mix of nervous breaths and the faint squeak of boots against polished stone. Each sound seemed amplified by the hall's perfect acoustics, as though the building itself wanted to catalogue every tremor of fear.
The dais at the center was a slab of black stone veined with copper. Above it, a holographic sigil rotated in slow, deliberate spirals, shedding a copper-gold glow that refracted across the walls like liquid metal. The light wasn't constant; it pulsed in minute fluctuations, casting tiny shadows that twitched when no one moved. Every pulse thudded in Kahn's chest, syncing for a moment with the fragment under his skin. The fragment twitched back, an invisible muscle testing the pressure of the suppressor grid humming overhead.
That hum was a sound you didn't hear until you tried to ignore it: a high, insect-like whine layered beneath the bass tremor of the hall. It pressed faintly against the eardrums, then settled behind the eyes like the ache before a migraine. The copper in the sigil gave off a faint, warm scent of heated metal that blended with the ozone tang, creating an atmosphere that tasted faintly of pennies and static.
Selene's voice cut through the sensory haze like a scalpel.
"Containment is not combat," she said, her obsidian eyes sweeping the tiers. The acoustics caught her words and threw them back with perfect clarity. "It is discipline. Aberrants are not beasts to be slain—they are obsessions made flesh. To face them, you will learn to read the rules of a mind until its own thoughts betray it."
The recruits stiffened. Kahn felt the change ripple through the room like a physical draft. Someone's nervous breath whistled two seats away; another recruit's boot tapped once against the metal rail and then went perfectly still. The air carried the faint, sour edge of sweat beneath the sterilized chill.
Beside Kahn, Voss leaned against the rail, his coat brushing the polished stone with a dry whisper. He smelled faintly of smoke that the suppressors couldn't quite scrub away—charred paper and bitter ash, a ghost of outside air in this sealed cathedral. "Watch their eyes," he murmured, voice rough as gravel. "You'll see who's here for the thrill and who's here because running wasn't an option."
Kahn scanned the crowd. The harsh lighting carved every face into sharp relief. A young woman with a buzzed scalp sat perfectly upright, her breath slow and deliberate, eyes like polished steel catching every flicker of copper light. Two seats over, a tall man with unsettlingly symmetrical features sat with unnerving stillness. Not a single muscle twitched. Even his breathing was perfectly balanced, each inhale and exhale a mirror of the last. Something about him made the fragment inside Kahn stir, a faint static crawling along his forearm like ants on live wire.
Selene gestured to the rotating sigil. The copper filaments flared brighter, shedding a dry heat that smelled faintly of scorched circuitry. "Fragments are not gifts," she said. "They are parasites. Power is a negotiation—one you will lose if you treat it as a weapon alone. Your concept will tempt you. It will shape you. Your first task is not to fight an Aberrant, but to survive yourself."
The sigil shifted. Lines of copper folded into a lattice of interlocking patterns. As it changed, the air in the hall thickened—not visibly, but Kahn felt it on his skin, a subtle increase in pressure like the moments before a thunderstorm. Tiny vibrations skittered across the floor, raising the fine hairs along his arms.
"This is a containment map," Selene continued. "A living algorithm designed to suppress conceptual bleed. Each of you carries a fragment or the potential for one. Today you will learn how to remain whole inside a field that wants to dismantle you."
The lights dimmed. Darkness pooled at the edges of the hall, swallowing the metallic gleam of the recruits' eyes. The sigil pulsed once, then released a bass vibration so deep it shivered through Kahn's ribs. His fragment responded instantly, flaring against the suppressor field like an animal struck by a dart. A coppery taste filled his mouth—sharp and bloody, like biting down on a coin. Sweat prickled his back despite the cold.
A whisper slithered into his skull, velvet and electric: Unmake the grid. Break the pattern. Freedom waits in the cracks.
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. Observe. Don't react.
The vibration deepened, rattling the seats until tiny screws squealed in protest. Overhead, the suppressor grid thrummed like a swarm of insects vibrating at the edge of hearing. Some recruits flinched, palms pressed to temples. The symmetrical man didn't move at all. His eyes widened fractionally, pupils dilating in flawless unison.
The fragment inside Kahn pushed harder, an asymmetrical surge against the perfect lattice. For a heartbeat the copper lines flickered. One angle bent a fraction out of alignment—a hairline crack in the pattern.
Selene's head snapped toward the disturbance. Her obsidian gaze pinned Kahn like a blade.
"Control," she said, the single word slicing through the dark.
Kahn dragged his thoughts into a tighter knot, forcing the fragment back. He pictured it as tangled wire, drew the loops inward, compressed the chaos until the pressure sharpened into a single, deliberate rhythm. The taste of copper receded. The sigil steadied. The suppressor grid sang a final high note and settled.
Lights returned with a crisp snap that smelled faintly of hot dust and cold iron.
Selene let the silence hang, her gaze still fixed on Kahn. Then she turned back to the hall, her voice smooth and cold.
"This is containment. The first lesson. You will not win by force. You will survive by discipline. Fail, and the Kernel will not kill you. It will rewrite you."
The copper sigil dimmed like an eye closing.
Voss exhaled beside Kahn, a breath that carried faint smoke and bitter coffee. "Not bad," he muttered. "Most people puke the first time."
Kahn's palms were slick. He smelled the sharp salt of his own sweat beneath the hall's metallic air. Inside his arm, the fragment pulsed once—quiet, restless, like a beast leashed but not tamed.
Across the tiers, the symmetrical recruit finally moved. He turned his head with eerie precision until his perfectly balanced gaze locked on Kahn. For an instant, Kahn saw his own reflection mirrored in those flawless eyes—clear, silent, waiting.