The air in the training chamber hits my skin like sandpaper.
It's thick with ozone, the tang of metal and sweat, and the faint scent of singed circuits—Echo residuals, still lingering from the last cycle. The hum of the containment coils resonates through the floor beneath my bare feet.
Every step vibrates up my legs, a low warning I ignore.
I'm on the line, my jumpsuit clinging in damp patches to my back, muscles coiled, eyes scanning. Other youths are arranged around me, each a study in tension: some trembling, some stiff, some already halfway broken.
Their nerves twitch visibly. Every micro-expression is a window into their instinct, and I watch without blinking.
The instructor—tall, expressionless, and unnervingly patient—signals the next drill.
Sparks flare across the room as Echo output devices hum to life. Heat washes over us. Some of the younger kids flinch, stepping back against the line of force. Not me. I plant my feet and let the tremor wash through my body, memorizing it, parsing it.
Across the room, a boy named Daren—short, wiry, too quick to laugh before he knows better—tenses too hard. I see the subtle twitch in his hands, the way his shoulders lock. He's overcompensating.
I know that look.
Then it happens.
A sudden spike. A shudder through the floor coils. A flash of raw energy arcs outward from the drill nodes. Daren screams, clutching his head, and collapses to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
His body spasms in violent, uncontrolled jerks. The air smells sharper now—burnt hair, ozone, panic.
A dozen instructors converge, voices rising, but not enough. Daren's pulse flares on the biometric monitors like a wildfire. Some of the newer assets are frozen in place, eyes wide, frozen by fear and the reminder that Echo isn't a game.
I don't move.
I can't. Observation is survival. And survival now is about parsing cost.
Abilities are designed to eat you, I think, cold, calm.
The system doesn't just take compliance; it consumes. Every output, every surge, every spike leaves a mark. Echo leaves scars invisible to the naked eye but permanent in the ledger of your body. Energy isn't free. Control is only temporary.
My pulse rises, but I dampen it with slow, careful breaths.
Feet planted. Eyes trained on Daren. He's pale, lips turning blue, tremors shaking every joint. The instructor's hand hovers near a stabilizing rod, waiting to intervene, but that hesitancy is exactly what the system wants—observation before intervention, fear measured.
I shift my gaze slightly.
Elara. Quiet, understated, with hair tied back in a practical braid.
She kneels beside Daren, placing her hands with gentle precision, murmuring to him. Not a shout, not a command—just calm, deliberate movements. She's efficient. Almost…human.
Her eyes flick up briefly toward me. A single glance: recognition, acknowledgment. No words, but the message is clear. Compassion is possible, even here, if you know how to disguise it.
I catalog her movements. Quiet allies. Subtle gestures. I file it away.
The system pulses around us, relentless, humming, a reminder that time is always measured, always controlled.
Daren finally stops spasming, lips moving in shallow breaths, eyes half-rolling back. Elara's hands stay steady, her voice low, as she works him back to consciousness.
Permanent consequences, I file away the thought. Not mistakes. Not accidents. Costs.
It hits me then, like a cold weight pressing down my spine: everything here is calculated. Every push, every Echo output, every collapse is part of the lesson. Not just compliance, but understanding the true price of power.
Your body, your mind, your limits—they are all data points. If you exceed them, the ledger doesn't reset. There is no mercy here. Only ledger and loss.
I feel my pulse steady, a slow drum in my ears.
My own Echo resonance hums faintly in my veins, like water in a hidden pipe. Subtle. Controlled. Measured. Not enough to trigger collapse, but enough to remind me that I can feel it, that I can control it.
The knowledge is intoxicating. Dangerous. And necessary.
Rowan steps closer, her presence a subtle anchor amidst the chaos. Her voice cuts through the low hum, quiet but firm:
"Observe. Control. Note the cost. Don't waste it."
Not a lecture.
Not a command.
An observation distilled into words.
I nod slightly, letting the rhythm of her calm wash over me. She doesn't intervene physically; she doesn't need to. Presence alone is leverage, a quiet authority that teaches without touching.
The instructors finish stabilizing Daren.
The group is shaken, eyes flicking nervously, but no one speaks. Words would betray fear. I can feel it radiating, subtle, unspoken. A shared tension that will fracture or bond depending on the next action.
I lean slightly forward, flexing my fingers, noting the slight tremor in my own arms.
Controlled.
Calculated.
I could have pushed, tested my limits, made my Echo flare to see if I could control it better than the system expects—but I don't. Not yet. Resistance without leverage is wasted. Observation first. Understanding second. Execution later.
Elara moves back, kneeling beside a bench, brushing hair from her face.
She glances at me again, quiet, understated. No words. Just acknowledgment. I note it, file it. Alliances here aren't declared—they're observed, subtle, slow-growing.
I study the room: the shimmer of the energy grids, the lingering hum of Echo nodes, the flickering lights that are timed to disorient. Every surface reflects the sterility of control. The walls are white, polished, cold.
The floor hums. The air smells like anticipation and ozone. Movement is minimized, reflexes are heightened, and mistakes are permanent.
Daren is lifted onto a stretcher. His eyes meet mine briefly, fear raw, gratitude unspoken. Another lesson absorbed: weakness is always visible. Vulnerability is recorded. Survival is calculated.
Everything leaves a mark. Everything has a cost.
The rest of the session continues, drills resuming as if nothing happened. Sparks flare, feet shuffle, commands barked, and Echo output measured. My eyes scan, my mind cataloging, my body controlling the resonance.
I remain unbroken, unflinching. Observing, analyzing.
By the end, the floor is scorched in patches, acrid smell lingering, humidity low but heavy with tension.
I step back, sweat prickling on my spine, muscles humming from adrenaline and restraint. My legs ache faintly from grounding myself. My arms thrum from measured Echo resonance.
The other youths look at me, some with relief, some with envy, some with barely contained fear. I don't return their gaze. I catalog. Observation is armor. Knowledge is leverage.
Rowan moves to my side as we exit the chamber. Quiet. Controlled. Protective, in a way that doesn't intrude, doesn't command.
"Permanent consequences." She murmurs under her breath. No mockery. No warning. Just a fact.
I nod, understanding exactly what he means. Pain passes. Collapse passes. But cost does not. Not here. Not ever.
Outside, the corridor smells of recycled air, damp metal, and faint citrus cleaner. The hum of Meridian's urban pulse leaks in faintly from vents: traffic, distant sirens, the rhythm of a city that never stops. I inhale, eyes sweeping the hall, instincts coiling.
Elara walks slightly behind, quiet, methodical. No words. Just presence. Another reminder: allies are rare. Observation is everything. Trust is currency. And patience is lethal.
I step forward, boots clicking against the polished floor. Heart steady. Mind sharp. Muscles primed.
The echo of Daren's collapse lingers in my chest. A warning, a lesson, a ledger entry.
Abilities are designed to eat you.
Cost is permanent.
Survival is calculated.
And I intend to account for every last one.
A panel light flickers ahead. A door slides open somewhere down the corridor. Someone approaches. Officer? Guard? Another asset? Doesn't matter. Every movement is recorded, every rhythm noted. I ready myself. Calm. Observant. Predatory.
The system thinks it has me cataloged. It doesn't.
I am watching. I am learning. I am ready.