Outside the illusion, Tarrin sat motionless in the chair—eyes blank, face unreadable. Not a twitch. Not a flinch.
Jayden leaned closer to Riko and whispered, "He doesn't even look phased. What do you think he's seeing in there?"
His voice drew a glance from Celith—silent, cold, and still as stone.
Jayden stiffened. Something about Celith always unsettled him. That lass didn't blink like a normal person.
Riko gave a small shrug, arms crossed. "Guess he's not as soft as he looks."
Eight minutes crawled by. Still, no change.
Jayden was starting to think the machine was broken. Most people cracked within the first minute. Some cried. Some screamed. Tarrin? Nothing. Like a corpse propped in a chair.
Then it hit.
The air shifted. Heavy. Suffocating.
Jayden's lungs tightened, and he felt it—that same creeping pressure he'd felt at the cafeteria, after Tarrin was stabbed.
'That aura again…'
He turned. Around them, a few cadets staggered, clutching their heads. One fell to a knee. Another backed away, eyes wide with instinctive fear.
Even the more composed recruits were visibly affected, their skin pale, brows tight.
At the front, Sergeant Vincent's frown twisted into something else.
A smirk.
BEEEEEEP.
The flatline tone cut through the silence like a blade.
The heart monitor went dead.
Scientists jumped into action, panic lacing their voices. "Code blue!"
Vincent was already barking. "What the hell happened?!"
One of the techs turned toward him, pale and rattled. "We… we don't know. This has never happened before."
The moment the flatline hit, they moved.
A syringe jabbed into Tarrin's neck, the helmet yanked off and wires pulled free with frantic urgency. But the pressure in the room didn't fade.
If anything, it grew heavier—like the air itself was thick with static and dread.
That suffocating aura pulsed from Tarrin's limp body, warping the space around him. Some of the scientists couldn't even step forward, their legs buckling under invisible weight.
Celith's hand twitched toward her blade, then stilled, her gaze unreadable.
Then—his eyes snapped open.
The aura vanished.
Like a storm that never happened. The silence left behind was unnatural, too sudden. The room froze as Tarrin sat up with eerie calm, the flatline still echoing in memory.
His movements were slow, deliberate—like a man waking from a dream rather than someone who had just died.
Every eye locked on him.
He stood, steady as ever.
"Did this fool just rise from the dead?" Riko muttered, eyes wide.
Jayden didn't answer—just stared, jaw clenched, like he'd witnessed something he couldn't explain.
Tarrin approached them, his expression unreadable. No fear. No confusion. Just that same hollow calm.
Then a voice cut through the quiet like a whip.
"Cadet Vex. My office. Four PM. Sharp." Sergeant Vincent's tone left no room for misinterpretation.
It wasn't a request.
And Tarrin had no intention of saying no.
Just like that, the nightmare was over.
And though his hands still trembled and his mind reeled from the aftershocks, Tarrin was alive.
**
Fifteen minutes.
That's all he had left before facing Sergeant Vincent.
Tarrin checked his Telcom again, not because he needed to, but because the silence was unbearable. The calm that followed the morning's chaos didn't feel earned—it felt borrowed, temporary.
His thoughts drifted again.
'It takes three to make one.'
The words echoed, sharp and cryptic, clawing at the edges of his mind. No matter how many times he ran it through, it gave nothing. No answer. No hint.
Just the weight on his wrist.
A phantom throb beneath the skin, right at the place where the scar of his gift rested.
He sighed, rubbing the spot absentmindedly.
'Whatever it means... maybe once my Gift develops more, I'll figure it out.'
A soft chime pulled him from his thoughts. The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, revealing the one building on base he'd hoped to avoid: The Office.
Not a real name, but everyone called it that. A cold nest of clipped words, harsher punishments, and the drill sergeants who ruled over recruits like lesser beings.
If the barracks were the forge, this place was the anvil.
One elevator ride later, he stood before the lion's den.
Sergeant Vincent Spire. Bald and dangerous. Built like a concrete wall. Reputation nastier than a week-old corpse in Merlen's gutters.
Tarrin lifted his hand, took a breath, then knocked—twice. Firm. Respectful. Not groveling.
A low, gravel-chewed voice responded from within.
"Come in."
Tarrin stepped inside without hesitation, his movements deliberate, his posture sharp.
The office was dimly lit, the walls paneled in dark wood that soaked in the quiet tension like blood into cloth. Behind a broad, uncluttered desk sat Sergeant Vincent Spire—the same man Tarrin saw barking orders every morning. But today, something was different.
He wasn't just a drill sergeant now. He was a storm in human skin.
Vincent's presence filled the room like smoke—thick, suffocating, almost tangible. The kind of weight that dared you to breathe wrong.
'Trying to rattle me? Tch. What's your angle, old man?' Tarrin thought, eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed the shift in atmosphere.
"Cadet Vex. Sit," Vincent said, voice gravel-thick and stripped of all pretense. No bark. Just cold steel.
Tarrin obeyed, sliding into the chair with practiced ease. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes scanned every inch of the man before him. Measuring. Calculating.
"So." He leaned forward slightly, tone flat, unreadable. "Why am I here, Sir?"
Vincent didn't answer immediately. His gaze held Tarrin's, unflinching. Then—calmly, surgically—he asked, "What do you know about your father?"
The air shifted. Subtle, but sharp enough to draw blood.
Tarrin's fist clenched beneath the desk, nails biting into his palm. But his face? Blank. Cold. Trained.
There it is. The click of realization hit hard and fast.
Vincent wasn't here for him. Not really. The man was a loyalist—an enforcer of the Army's higher echelon, at least that is what he heard from Riko.
And if Tarrin was being dragged in like this, it could only mean one thing.
'Celith… they saw us getting close. Now they want to use me.' He suppressed the urge to scoff. 'What now? Spy on her? Report her movements? Sell her out?'
Fine. He could play that game.
"Not much," Tarrin replied coolly. "He left before I was born. Never met the bastard. My mother raised me on her own."
His voice dipped with quiet venom, eyes sharp as razors.
Vincent tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something that almost resembled sympathy—but not quite. It was too deliberate, too measured.
"You must hate him," he said slowly. "Abandoning your mother to rot, leaving you to claw through life in the gutters. What kind of man does that to his family?"
A beat of silence.
Tarrin didn't blink.
Vincent waited for something—anger, pain, even a crack in the mask. But Tarrin gave him nothing.
Finally, the sergeant exhaled, as if disappointed by the lack of reaction. Then came the blade behind the smile.
"What if I told you," he said, voice dropping an octave, "that the man who left you behind... is alive and well in the military—an awakened, living like a king under our banner?"
Then—laughter.A dry, joyless chuckle that slipped from Tarrin's lips like a knife dragged across stone.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," he said, tone laced with ice. "But considering you've read my file, you should've known that this kind of crap doesn't work on me."
Vincent's expression didn't twitch, but the sympathy in his eyes vanished like smoke. What remained was colder—clinical, calculating. The look of a man who dissected people for sport.
Tarrin pressed on, voice smooth, just ahead of Vincent's next move.
"Let me guess… this is about the Sahrin girl, right?"
He offered nothing more. No challenge, no elaboration. He let the silence stretch, let Vincent stew in it. A subtle tactic. A small war of control.
Vincent said nothing, but something in the room shifted. The air thickened. His aura, previously a low hum, began to rise in intensity—slow and suffocating.
'Not impressed, asshole,' Tarrin thought, jaw tight.
He leaned forward slightly. "Alright then, let me offer my terms."
Still no response. Vincent watched him like a predator sizing up prey.
"And I want access to the Resonance Chamber."
That hit. A flicker in Vincent's eye. The faintest crease in his brow. He responded instantly.
"No."
Tarrin smiled, the kind of smile that held no warmth. "Then no deal. And let me remind you—if word gets to Grandpa Sahrin that the army tried turning his granddaughter's only friend into a spy... well, that wouldn't end well for anyone here."
Vincent's aura surged, a violent wave bursting outward. Papers scattered like feathers in a storm. Tarrin's hair whipped back from the force—but he didn't budge an inch.
He could feel it. His deal was solid. And Vincent knew it.
The Sergeant leaned in, voice low and venomous. "You think you're clever? You think you've got leverage?" He scoffed. "I could kill you where you sit, boy. No one would ask a single question. Accept the offer. Take revenge on your father. Be a good little soldier."
But Tarrin only shook his head.
"Still not working," he said, tone flat as concrete. "Because you and I both know—I'm your only shot. I'm the only one she talks to. So let me ask again… ready to discuss terms?"
Something in his voice had changed. The cold was deeper now. Hardened.
Vincent stared for a long moment. Then, slowly, the pressure lifted. His aura reined itself in, the storm receding. With a breath that carried the weight of resignation, he nodded once.
"Speak, kid. But choose your words carefully. Forget your place, and I'll rip your head off."
Tarrin smiled like a merchant sealing a deal at knife-point.
"I have three conditions." His tone crisp, unwavering. "You train me—personally. Push my saturation to forty percent. And lastly…"
His voice dropped. Dead serious. Eyes gleaming with something dark and sharp.
"You don't make me do anything against my will."
Vincent didn't answer right away. He sat in silence, weighing the terms like a man balancing a blade on his palm. Finally, he gave a slow, reluctant nod.
"Fine. First training session starts tomorrow. Six PM sharp. You're even a minute late—the deal's dead."
That was the cue.
Tarrin rose without a word, offered a curt nod, and turned toward the door.
But just as his fingers brushed the handle, Vincent's voice cut through the air one last time—low, cold, and laced with threat.
"You'll be contacted regarding the matter. And let me be clear—if any of this leaks, or you step out of line even once… I'll bury you myself."
Tarrin didn't flinch. Didn't glance back. No witty reply, no final jab. Just the soft click of the door as he stepped out into the hallway.
A traitor to his friend.
But now, tethered to the machine he swore he'd never join.
The first step down a path lined with ghosts.