The door opened with a soft click.
Tarrin stepped inside, careful with his steps. It was already past nine, and some of his more academically inclined roommates might've called it a night.
He slipped off his shoes, halfway through a yawn, when voices murmuring behind the inner door caught his attention.
With a sigh heavy enough to carry regret, he braced himself. There'd be questions, a whole lot of them.
He pushed the door open.
Silence.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him like spotlights.
Jayden sat near the desk, with a look that seemed similar to the one he had at the lunch table.
Next was Riko. Reclined on his bed like a spurned husband ready to confront his cheating wife, he locked eyes with Tarrin and didn't blink.
Lucas glanced up from his book for the briefest second, offered no comment, then returned to his reading like nothing in the world mattered more than the book he was reading.
Tarrin was halfway to his bed when Riko finally spoke, voice low, a bit too calm.
"Care to share, my friend?" he said, patting the empty space beside him like it was a therapist's couch.
"No thanks," Tarrin shot back, grabbing a clean pair of clothes from his drawer. His tone was casual, but the glare he got in return said he might as well have pissed in their shoes.
"No, seriously," Riko pressed, still lounging on the bed like a man wronged. "Since when does the heiress of a top-tier clan fancy you? Do you even know who her grandfather is?"
Tarrin shrugged, clearly unbothered. "It just happened, you know? Not like we really know each other yet… for now."
He ended it with a sly smile—half amusement, half provocation. The kind of grin meant to poke already bruised egos.
It worked. Their expressions twisted, somewhere between disbelief and wounded pride.
Something in him—maybe the last crumb of empathy—stirred. With a theatrical sigh, he relented.
"Alright, fine. I'll tell you... for ten Lunars."
He barked a laugh at his own audacity. A joke, obviously. But then—
Riko reached into his wallet without hesitation and peeled off a ten-credit bill.
Tarrin snatched it before the others could blink. "Pleasure doing business. Now—here's how it started."
Jayden looked like he'd been the one mugged. Riko just leaned back, shaking his head, muttering, "Worth it."
**
The next morning, the cadets assembled at the usual training ground—Tarrin, Riko, Jayden, Lucas, Lena... and, surprisingly, Celith was there too, arms crossed and posture sharp as ever.
Then they felt it.
A weight in the air. An oppressive presence.
Tarrin turned just in time to see him: the man, the myth, the miserable bastard himself.
Sergeant Vincent. Bald as judgment day and twice as grim.
"Alright, peacocks," he barked, voice rough as gravel. "You're following me. Got clearance for something special today."
That tone didn't inspire much confidence. If Vincent called it special, odds were high it involved pain, humiliation, or both.
No one dared question it. They fell in line, marching behind him with stiff backs and wary glances.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached it—a sleek, white building that looked more corporate than military. Clean walls, glass windows, an air of quiet menace.
They stepped inside. The sterile chill of recycled air hit them first. Then the silence. A long hallway stretched out before them, ending in a pair of imposing double doors.
Vincent vanished ahead. Minutes passed.
Then the doors creaked open and he returned, gesturing them in with a grin that could curdle blood.
Inside, the centerpiece of the room was a strange device—half medical chair, half medieval nightmare. Wires, clamps, and a half-dome covered in glowing runes.
Tarrin stared at it like it might start speaking Latin.
"This beauty," Vincent said, patting the machine like a beloved pet,
"ain't even on the market yet. You're looking at millions of Lunars and the handiwork of some of the top illusionists in the Union."
He grinned wider.
"I call it the Fear Machine."
Tarrin blinked. 'Did Baldy finally lose it? Fear Machine? Seriously?'
From the uneasy looks around the room, he wasn't the only one thinking it.
Vincent continued, clearly relishing every word.
"You just open your mind, and it does the rest. Shows you your worst fear. Not exactly sure how it works—don't care. All I know is, it gets results."
He turned to them, grin now bordering on psychotic.
"So... who's feeling brave?"
No one moved.
Every cadet suddenly found the floor, their boots, or the far wall incredibly interesting. No eye contact. No sudden motions. Everyone trying their hardest to become invisible.
Then came the voice—arrogant, smug, unmistakable.
"I'll go."
Felix Garner.
Of course.
He stepped forward with his usual swagger, shooting a glare at Riko like he'd just won something. Riko didn't even blink.
Vincent didn't seem impressed either. "'Kay, Garner." He turned to the staff nearby. "Hook the little chick up."
The technicians got to work. Efficient, silent. Cables were connected, readings taken, a quick injection of something Tarrin didn't recognize.
Felix sat in the chair like a prince pretending to be brave—mask firm, jaw clenched.
Then came the final piece. A smooth, matte-black helmet lowered over his head with a hydraulic click, locking into place like the lid on a coffin.
Tarrin crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the machine.
Nothing happened.
Seconds passed. Then a full minute. Was it broken? Did Felix pass out from sheer ego?
Just as the awkward tension began to settle into the room, Felix jerked.
A twitch. Then a shudder.
Muscles clenched. Fingers curled into claws. His whole body spasmed like he was trying to fight off an invisible attacker.
Even through the visor, Tarrin could see it—the terror leaking into his expression, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth twitching in a silent scream.
'What the hell is that bastard seeing?'
Tarrin cast a glance at Riko.
He was dead still, watching the machine like it might sprout arms and start devouring people. Something in his posture said it loud and clear:
This wasn't just a test.
It was a reckoning.
A few cadets gulped audibly. Tarrin didn't blame them. The machine looked less like a training tool and more like something you'd find in a torture chamber.
He glanced toward Sergeant Vincent—only to find the man grinning like a kid staring down his birthday cake.
'Sadist,' Tarrin thought. 'This thing probably makes his week.'
His eyes drifted across the room, locking with Celith.
She stood calm, collected—arms behind her back, face unreadable. No tension in her posture. No hesitation in her breath. Just... stillness.
Like she'd done this before. Like this wasn't her first dance with horror.
'Bloody maniac disguised as a cute girl,' Tarrin mused. 'Does anything scare her?'
The low hum of the device continued to pulse in the background, filling the room with static tension.
Seven long minutes passed before the machine finally wound down, releasing a faint hiss as the helmet lifted with a click.
Everyone leaned in slightly as the monitor beside it flickered to life.
A large number appeared across the screen: 1.36
Sergeant Vincent let out a loud snort. "Is this bastard made of foam? What kind of wet-tissue number is that?"
The cadets stayed silent as the scientist—balding, way too chipper for someone working with mind-splitting tech—stepped forward to explain.
"The number reflects the subject's mental response to the simulation. Higher means stronger resilience. Average civilians land between 1.5 and 2."
He took a breath, puffing out his chest with pride before continuing.
"A trained soldier? Around 4."
Felix didn't wait around to hear the rest. He stumbled out of the chair like a drunk after last call, nearly knocking over the scientist on his way out.
Riko leaned toward Tarrin, voice low. "Fragile mind."
Jayden smirked. "Well, now you have to beat him."
Tarrin didn't miss a beat. "Or you're a bitch."
Laughter broke out, thin and nervous. But no one could shake the weight of what that machine could show them.
Tarrin watched as the next cadet stepped forward, jaw clenched, spine straight. The guy had that gleam in his eyes—one of the competitive types. The kind that saw everything as a ladder to climb, and every test as a rung.
The machine whirred to life once more. Numbers blinked on the screen.
2.41
"Not bad," Sergeant Vincent said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "At least someone here's growing from chick to rooster."
The tension in the room didn't let up. One by one, the rest of the cadets filed through—nervous, eager, or dead behind the eyes. When it was over, only a few remained untested.
Tarrin among them.
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind racing with the numbers he'd memorized like a gambler watching the odds.
Riko – 2.67. Jayden – 1.94. Lena – 1.32. Lucas – 2.01.And Celith... 3.84. An absurd outlier. A different breed altogether.
'That's what I call a bloody difference,' Tarrin thought, his jaw tightening.
"Vex. You're up."
Vincent's voice cracked like a whip across the room.
Tarrin stiffened. His hands curled slightly at his sides. He had seen how some of the others came out—sweating, shaking, a few with tears in their eyes they tried to pretend weren't there.
He nodded, slow and deliberate, willing his heartbeat to settle. 'You can handle it,' he told himself. 'It's just an illusion.'
But deep down, he wasn't so sure.
Each step forward was measured, unhurried. On the outside, he looked calm—like a man heading to a routine checkup, not a dive into psychological warfare.
He sat. A cold injection pierced his skin—no warning, no explanation.
One of the scientists gave him a short nod, then lowered the helmet onto his head.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
His heart spiked.
And then—
He was back.