The summons came at dawn.
Not an alarm. Not an announcement.
Just a quiet vibration against the inside of Imara's wristband — one pulse, then stillness. The kind of alert meant for things that weren't optional.
She was awake already.
Sleep inside the walls never came easily after the wasteland. The air here was too still, too filtered. Nothing moved unless it was permitted to. Even the light felt managed — pale bands sliding down the corridor walls as if the day itself had been scheduled.
She lay still for a moment, listening to the low hum that ran through the structure. Power. Surveillance. Order.
Then she swung her legs over the side of the narrow bunk.
Her boots were where she'd left them, neatly aligned under the frame. She pulled them on, fingers stiff, the faint ache in her shoulders reminding her that her body hadn't forgotten the fog, the stone, the weight of Tomas's absence.
She didn't think of him directly.
Not yet.
The wristband pulsed again.
REPORT — INTERNALREVIEW.
No location listed.
That meant inside.
She exhaled slowly and stood.
The corridor outside her unit smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal. Voices carried from farther down — low, half-awake laughter, the scrape of boots, someone humming tunelessly.
Life, continuing.
Jalen leaned against the wall near the junction, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that was practiced rather than natural.
His jacket hung open, revealing the faded insignia stitched at the shoulder — a district marker worn thin with use.
He straightened when he saw her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
Imara shrugged, adjusting the strap of her pack. "Didn't try very hard."
That earned a quiet smile.
She looked at him then, really looked.
Dust was still caught in the short curls at his temples, dark brown hair that refused to lie flat no matter how often he washed it. A faint bruise shadowed the sharp line of his jaw — the kind of jaw that looked carved rather than soft, high-cheeked and angular against warm brown skin — something he hadn't mentioned and clearly didn't plan to. His eyes, deep-set and steady, were a dark hazel that caught the corridor light in flecks of gold, always scanning even when he was still.
They softened when they met hers, just slightly, like a guard lowering his weapon without meaning to.
He took in the wristband on her arm, the faint glow fading. His expression shifted — not alarmed, but alert.
"Summons?"
"Yes."
"For when?"
"Now."
Jalen swore under his breath, then caught himself. "Figures."
He fell into step beside her without asking, walking her partway down the corridor. He didn't touch her, didn't crowd her space — just stayed close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of her jacket.
"You want me to come?" he asked.
She shook her head. "They didn't call the unit."
"Doesn't mean they won't try to question you like one."
She glanced at him. "I can handle questions."
"I know," he said. Then, quieter, "I just don't like the way they ask them."
Neither did she.
They reached the junction where the corridor widened, splitting toward internal administration. The walls here were darker, smoother — no wear, no personal markings. This wasn't where people lived. It was where decisions were made about them.
Jalen stopped.
"If it helps," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "you survived worse."
She looked at him again, held his gaze.
"It helps," she said.
And she meant it.
The doors opened without sound.
Inside, the air was colder.
The room wasn't large, but it was meticulously arranged — a single table, two chairs, one facing the door, the other positioned beneath a strip of overhead light.
No windows. No visible screens.
The kind of space designed to feel neutral.
Neutrality was a lie.
A woman stood as Imara entered. Mid-forties, maybe older — it was hard to tell. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain under the cold lighting, unmarked by sun or strain.
Silver threaded her dark hair at the temples, pulled back so tightly it emphasized the sharp planes of her face. Her uniform was pristine, pressed to perfection, the insignia of Central Accord stitched sharply at the collar as if it had never known wear.
"Imara Vale," she said. Not a greeting. A confirmation.
"Yes."
"Sit."
Imara did.
The chair was cool beneath her palms. She folded her hands loosely, resting them on the table, aware of the camera she couldn't see, the sensors she could almost feel.
The woman sat across from her, setting a thin data-slate down between them.
"I am Administrator Hale," she said. "This is not a disciplinary review."
Imara didn't respond.
Hale studied her for a moment — not rudely, but thoroughly. Her eyes were a pale, glacial blue, the kind that reflected light rather than absorbed it, assessing without warmth. The gaze lingered briefly on Imara's hair, loosely braided now, the plaits already softening where strands slipped free. Dust still clung faintly near her temple.
"You've returned from a multi-day excursion," Hale continued. "With your unit intact."
"One casualty," Imara said quietly.
"Yes," Hale agreed. "One."
The word hung between them.
Hale tapped the slate. Data scrolled — casualty ratios, deployment times, route comparisons.
"Do you know how many teams were deployed into that zone before yours?" she asked.
Imara hesitated. "No."
"Seven."
Hale leaned back slightly, folding her hands with practiced precision. Her movements were economical, controlled — nothing wasted, nothing expressive. Even seated, she carried an air of distance, as though her body were present but her authority existed somewhere beyond the room.
"Do you know how many returned?"
Imara swallowed. "None."
"Correct."
She leaned forward again. "Do you know how many returned from the shorter route — the one taken immediately after your Placement Day?"
Imara's chest tightened.
"One team," Hale said. "With two survivors."
She met Imara's eyes. "One of whom is now assigned to your unit."
Cael.
Imara kept her expression steady.
"You and Mr. Kade represent statistical outliers," Hale continued calmly. "Your unit's casualty ratio is anomalous. Your survival patterns do not align with predictive models."
"I didn't know there were models," Imara said.
Hale smiled faintly. "Of course you didn't."
She slid the slate closer. On it, a simple line graph. Peaks. Drops. A sharp deviation marked in red.
"This is you," Hale said. "This is where expectation fails."
Imara looked at the graph.
"I didn't do anything different," she said.
"That," Hale replied, her pale eyes sharpening, the blue deepening under the overhead light, "is precisely the concern."
Silence pressed in.
Hale closed the slate.
"This is not an accusation," she said again.
"It is an assessment."
"Of what?"
Hale stood. "Of whether you are an asset."
Imara felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"And if I'm not?"
"Then you will continue as you are."
"And if I am?"
The administrator paused at the door, one hand resting briefly against the smooth surface. Up close, the lines at the corners of her eyes suggested experience rather than age — years spent observing rather than living.
"Then you will be reassigned."
The doors opened.
The conversation was over.