Training began the next morning.
Not with ceremony. Not with explanation.
Mia was escorted to a section of the house she hadn't been allowed into before — a wide corridor that smelled faintly of polish and old paper, leading into a series of rooms that looked more functional than lived-in. Offices. Storage. A kitchen larger than any she had seen. Workspaces designed for efficiency rather than comfort.
Three people were waiting.
None of them looked surprised to see her.
"This is Mia," one of them said, a woman in her forties with neatly tied hair and an expression that revealed nothing. "You'll be training under us for the next few days."
No mention of repayment.
No curiosity.
No judgment.
That unsettled her more than hostility would have.
The first day began with observation.
They showed her how things were done — not dramatically, not cruelly, but with precision. How supplies were tracked. How schedules were logged. How tasks were divided not by hierarchy but by capacity. No one barked orders. No one raised their voice.
She was assigned small things at first.
Organizing inventory. Assisting in the kitchen. Cleaning rooms that were empty but maintained daily anyway. Everything was timed. Everything was recorded.
No one told her she was being watched.
She felt it anyway.
By the second day, the pace increased.
She was asked to prepare meals under supervision. Not elaborate dishes — simple ones, but with strict standards. Timing mattered. Cleanliness mattered. Consistency mattered.
She burned nothing. Spilled nothing.
No praise followed.
In the afternoons, she was taken to a different room — computers lined against one wall, desks spaced evenly apart. A man introduced himself briefly and handed her a set of tasks.
Data sorting. Pattern recognition. Simple coding logic.
She worked quietly, shoulders tense, aware that every keystroke was likely being monitored.
She finished faster than expected.
The man made a note.
That was all.
By the third day, fatigue set in.
Her movements slowed. Her attention wavered. She felt the weight of being evaluated settle into her bones.
Still, no one commented.
She was corrected when she made mistakes — directly, without condescension.
"This isn't acceptable."
"Redo it."
"You missed a step."
No explanations. No scolding.
At night, she returned to her room exhausted, muscles aching in ways she hadn't anticipated. Food waited for her. Clean clothes. Silence.
She slept deeply.
The fourth day introduced complexity.
She was asked to manage overlapping tasks. Time constraints. Interruptions designed to test prioritization.
Someone would ask for assistance mid-task. Another would change instructions halfway through.
She faltered once.
The correction was immediate.
"You chose speed over accuracy," the woman said flatly. "That's a problem."
Mia nodded, jaw clenched.
She adjusted.
The tests came after.
No warning. No buildup.
She was told to report to a room she hadn't seen before — smaller, sparse, a single table and chair in the center.
A file waited for her.
"Sit," the woman said.
Mia sat.
"You'll be evaluated on three things," she continued. "Skill. Judgment. Reliability."
No mention of loyalty.
The first test was practical.
She was given a scenario involving resource allocation — limited supplies, competing needs, incomplete information. She had to choose.
She hesitated, then acted.
The evaluators watched without interference.
When it was over, they asked her to explain her reasoning.
She did.
No reaction followed.
The second test involved time pressure.
Multiple tasks. Conflicting priorities. A simulated emergency.
Her heart pounded. She worked through it methodically, correcting herself when panic threatened to take over.
She finished just within the allowed time.
Again, no feedback.
The third test was quieter.
She was left alone in the room with instructions and no supervision.
The task itself was simple. Almost too simple.
She completed it.
Then waited.
Minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
She stayed seated.
Another ten minutes.
Still nothing.
She resisted the urge to fidget, to stand, to leave.
Eventually, someone entered and told her the test was complete.
That was it.
No final words. No evaluation given.
She was escorted back to her room and told to rest.
The waiting was worse than the work.
She replayed every mistake, every hesitation, every moment where she might have failed without realizing it.
When she was finally summoned again, it was evening.
Theon was present this time, seated at the end of the table. The others stood to the side.
"She's competent," the woman said. "Above average in adaptability. Reliable under pressure."
Theon nodded once.
"Placement?" he asked.
"Operational support," she replied. "With continued oversight."
Mia waited for something else to be said.
Nothing was .
Theon stood.
"Training concluded," he said. "You'll be informed of your schedule."
And just like that, it was over.
No congratulations.
No reassurance.
No acknowledgment of effort.
Mia returned to her room feeling strangely hollow.
She had passed .
And yet, she didn't feel relieved.
Because passing hadn't earned her freedom — it had earned her structure.
And structure, she had learned, could feel a lot like a cage.