Kael learned very quickly that being flagged was worse than being unawakened.
Unawakened people were ignored. Forgotten. Filed away into labor quotas and casualty projections. Their lives had predictable trajectories—short, difficult, and largely unseen.
Flagged people, on the other hand, were noticed.
He was taken through corridors he had never seen before, despite living his entire life beneath District Nine. The stone here was smoother, the air cleaner. Symbols etched into the walls pulsed faintly as he passed, reacting to something they could sense but did not understand.
No one spoke to him.
Two Wardens walked ahead. Two behind. They wore no visible weapons, which meant they didn't need any.
Kael kept his breathing steady. Panic wasted oxygen. He focused instead on details—counting steps, turns, doors. He marked the route instinctively, even though he doubted he'd ever walk it again.
Eventually, they reached a chamber carved deep into the bedrock.
It wasn't large. That was the first thing he noticed. No grand halls. No intimidation through scale. The room was designed for precision, not spectacle.
A single chair sat in the center, bolted to the floor. Runes circled it in neat, controlled patterns. Not aggressive. Restrictive.
"Sit," one of the Wardens said.
Kael did.
The moment his weight settled, the runes activated. A pressure wrapped around his limbs—not painful, but absolute. Movement became theoretical rather than possible.
A door opened across the room.
The Overseer entered alone.
Up close, his presence was worse. The air around him bent subtly, like heat above stone. Kael's skin prickled, reacting without permission.
"You are calm," the Overseer observed.
"Panicking won't help," Kael replied.
A faint smile flickered. "Most say that. Few mean it."
The Overseer circled him slowly, studying him like a specimen rather than a threat.
"Do you know what the awakening rate truly measures?" he asked.
Kael shook his head.
"It does not measure talent," the Overseer continued. "Nor virtue. Nor potential, as the uneducated like to believe. It measures compatibility."
He stopped in front of Kael.
"Most humans are incompatible with power. Their bodies break. Their minds fracture. Or they become inefficient."
"Efficient at what?" Kael asked.
The Overseer raised an eyebrow. "Surviving usefulness."
Kael absorbed that in silence.
"You," the Overseer said, "are compatible enough to resist initial branding… but not compatible enough to be ignored."
"That sounds bad."
"It is… uncommon."
The Overseer extended a hand. A faint shimmer appeared above his palm—an illusion formed of condensed force.
"This is a probe," he said. "It will not grant you power. It will simply… ask you questions."
Kael swallowed. "What kind of questions?"
The shimmer descended.
The world tilted.
He was standing in the dormitory again.
But it was wrong.
The air was too still. The bunks were empty. Curtains hung limp, stained dark in places Kael didn't want to look at too closely.
A sound echoed behind him.
Footsteps.
Kael turned.
Rian stood there, face pale, eyes hollow.
"You left," Rian said.
"I didn't," Kael replied automatically.
Rian smiled, and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. "You stepped over people."
The dormitory shifted. Walls peeled away, replaced by the alley behind Allocation Hall. The boy from the culling lay on the ground again, eyes glassy, skull shattered.
"You didn't stop," the boy said, lips not moving.
Kael felt pressure build in his chest—not fear, but something closer to irritation.
"This isn't real," he said.
The Overseer's voice echoed faintly. Answer anyway.
Kael clenched his fists.
"If I stop every time the world bleeds," he said aloud, "I'll never move."
The scene shattered.
Kael gasped as he was pulled back into the chamber, sweat soaking his clothes.
The Overseer studied him intently.
"No denial," he murmured. "No self-justification. You accept causality without absolution."
"What does that mean?" Kael asked hoarsely.
"It means," the Overseer said, "that you understand the difference between guilt and responsibility."
He stepped back.
"Again."
The second probe was colder.
Kael found himself standing atop a platform overlooking District Nine. Fires burned below. Sirens wailed. People ran.
An Overseer—this Overseer—stood beside him.
"You have authority," the Overseer said. "One command."
Kael looked down. He recognized the scene.
A riot.
Food shortages. Misinformation. Fear.
Below, Wardens were outnumbered. Control was slipping.
"What's the command?" Kael asked.
"Restore order."
Kael scanned the crowd.
He saw desperation. Rage. Parents shielding children. Opportunists looting.
"Options?" Kael asked.
The Overseer tilted his head. "Three."
The platform flickered.
Option one: open fire. Casualties high. Order restored quickly.
Option two: cut rations further. Starvation would thin the crowd in days.
Option three: do nothing. District collapse. Long-term instability.
Kael stared at the images.
"No clean choice," he said.
"Correct."
Kael exhaled slowly.
"Option one," he said. "But target leaders, not the crowd."
The Overseer's image watched him.
"That still kills people."
"Yes."
"Children."
"Yes."
The scene paused.
"Why choose it?"
Kael looked down at the burning district.
"Because letting it drag on kills more. Slower."
The platform dissolved.
When Kael returned to the chamber, his hands were shaking.
The Overseer looked… unsettled.
"Interesting," he said quietly. "You optimize suffering without disguising it as mercy."
Kael laughed weakly. "I don't know if that's a compliment."
"It isn't," the Overseer replied. "But it is useful."
He dismissed the runes. The pressure released. Kael slumped forward, catching himself just before falling.
"You will not be terminated," the Overseer said.
Kael looked up sharply.
"But you will not be released either."
A pause.
"The world has not decided what you are," the Overseer continued. "Until it does, you are… property."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Property of who?"
The Overseer smiled thinly.
"Of the interval."
Kael was moved again—this time to a holding level carved between districts. No windows. No clocks. Just stone, light, and waiting.
Others were there.
Flagged ones.
A girl sat curled in the corner, rocking slightly, whispering to herself. A man paced back and forth, muttering curses at invisible watchers. Another simply stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.
None of them wore Marks.
Kael took an empty bench.
Hours passed. Or days. Time lost meaning when nothing changed.
Eventually, a voice echoed through the chamber.
"Kael Morren."
He stood.
A new figure waited beyond the door—older, heavier, dressed in robes marked with sigils of analysis rather than authority.
The Examiner.
"You don't know how rare you are," she said, not unkindly. "Delayed awakenings are recorded. Failed awakenings are recorded. But resistance?"
She shook her head.
"That's… inconvenient."
"What happens to inconvenient things?" Kael asked.
The Examiner studied him carefully.
"They are tested," she said. "Until they break."
She gestured to a slab of stone etched with deeper, harsher runes.
"Your awakening will occur," she continued. "The only question is how much of you remains afterward."
Kael felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"When?" he asked.
The Examiner smiled.
"Soon."
Very soon.
And somewhere far beyond District Nine, beyond the cities and the remainder and the 1.98%, the world leaned closer—curious, calculating, hungry.