The Karnell facility was a sealed fortress of steel and bone-deep silence. Buried beneath the icy ridges at the northernmost edge of the Stella Empire, its corridors twisted like a nervous system—gray, windowless, alive with surveillance. Each of the first eleven chambers—Chambers 1 through 11—were laid out identically. They branched from a central circular hub, connected by narrow, dimly lit halls. Each chamber contained twenty-one rooms, seven children per room. The ceilings stood ten feet tall, and the air was always stale, with artificial light humming above.
At the farthest depth, isolated and sterile, was Chamber 12, reserved only for infants under the age of three.
During the two-hour free period after class, children were allowed to do as they pleased—within limits. Most stayed inside their assigned chambers. Some sparred in the reinforced center halls. Others curled against the walls, trading fragments of food and breath. A few whispered secrets they would deny under pressure. Food was distributed during this time, and many preferred to eat it with the few they trusted. A stolen bite of bread was currency, warmth, proof of humanity.
And every day, without fail, O-243 would collect his portion and walk from Chamber 1, Room 01 all the way to Chamber 8, Room 02, carrying the still-warm half of his ration.
The guards never stopped him. Technically, movement between chambers during free time wasn't prohibited—as long as they returned when the lights dimmed. And O-243 had never disobeyed a return order.
What most of the children didn't know—or pretended not to know—was that this freedom wasn't born of mercy. It was calculated. Scoff Karios himself had signed the directive six years ago:
"Limited intra-chamber interaction during free periods may increase cross-class resonance and accelerate manifestation curves. Emotional entanglement can catalyze latent genomic traits."
In simpler words: children who bonded, who shared, who fought and healed and bled together, often awakened powers faster—and stranger—than those who stayed isolated.
In Chamber 8, Room 02, the air felt thinner than usual. Y-271 lay curled beneath a worn, synthetic blanket, her body pressed against the metal bed frame like a shadow slowly fading from existence. Her skin, once light brown, was now sickly pale, stretched thin by the repeated use of her power. Blood had begun to show at the edges of her lips after each coughing fit. Her hands trembled when she moved them.
No researcher even looked her way anymore. They had what they needed—readings, data, metrics on how many times a child could burn themselves out to save another. She had been taking the X-Gene Compound for three years now. Three years of injections. Of strain. Of surviving.
At the far end of the chamber complex, the lights buzzed faintly, a warning tone humming above the corridor: free time had begun.
O-243 slipped through the narrow side corridor connecting Chamber 1 to Chamber 8, holding a tray with two halves of reheated food. The right half was warm. The left, lukewarm at best. He always brought the warm half to her.
Chamber 8 was quiet tonight. He passed children who barely looked up. Most of them had seen him come and go for years now. No one questioned it anymore.
He stepped into Room 02, unannounced but expected.
"Brought the warm half again," he muttered, setting the tray on the floor beside her bed.
Y-271 stirred slowly, her pale blue-brown eyes glancing up at him. "You always do."
From beneath her bed, she pulled out a smaller tray—her own uneaten rations. Cold, untouched.
They ate side by side on the floor, knees nearly touching. Neither spoke for a while. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It had been earned over three years of habit. This ritual began the day she healed him after his brutal fight with Z-007—the gas-breather who was later sent to the Citadel. She had crossed her limit to save O's arm, then collapsed. And he had come back the next day. And the day after that.
"How was training today?" she asked between small bites.
He shrugged. "Same. Roommate still thinks he can take me. Q-178 challenged me to a round. Lost two teeth."
Y-271 cracked a faint smile. "You never hold back a little."
"I always lose a little less," he replied, eyes fixed on her trembling fingers.
She glanced down at them. "It's getting worse. I can't walk straight anymore. And… my hair."
She pulled back the hood of her blanket. Strands of white now threaded through her once-dark hair.
"You still look like a gentle younger self just like three years ago," he said quietly.
Her eyes flicked to him, a tired glimmer of humor. "I'm dying, O."
He didn't respond at first. Then, softly: "You're not."
Y-271 exhaled, her head resting against the wall.
"Today… I wanted to help that child. AB. But I was scared. I've been feeling weak lately. Barely able to stand. And I think he's still just a kid. Even if he doesn't act like it. When his arm cracked, I know he felt it. Pain. He just didn't scream. The X-Gene must've felt like death to him. It always does. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't move."
"He didn't blame you," O-243 said. "He just stared at the blood on his sleeve and wasn't waiting for someone to help him."
"I'm not a good person," she whispered.
He turned toward her. "You healed me. When you didn't have to. Remember three years ago when we first arrived? I battled Z-007. Pier his poison was almost killing. None tried to help me. Only you ran toward me and started healing me, knowing it consumed your vitality. You never asked for anything back."
She didn't meet his gaze.
"You come here every day. Even though you don't have to. It hurts to let you see me like this. If you think you owe me—don't. I never thought you owed me anything."
He hesitated, then sighed.
"I don't come for that. I come because I like talking to you. And because… you're the only person I can be real with."
Y-271 blinked slowly. He looked down, fingers tightening slightly.
"My name isn't O-243," he said. "My real name is Riven Heinis."
She looked up.
"My grandfather was Ceasar Heinis," he continued.
"The one they called a fool. He led the Brena Republic's last resistance force. He took thirty thousand outdated soldiers against Stella's mechs and pulse cannons. They were massacred."
She listened quietly, her breath caught between sorrow and awe.
"I still remember his voice," Riven said. "He was kind. Too kind. Even when he knew he'd lose. He used to say, 'If you do the right thing and lose, you still win a piece of yourself.'"
"Is that why you fight?" she asked.
"At first… I wanted revenge. I used to dream about killing Halcross. About seeing Stella fall. But now… I don't know. I just want to make sure my grandfather's name wasn't wasted. That this feeling in my heart wasn't made for nothing."
She reached out, her weak fingers barely brushing his wrist.
"You're not nothing, Riven." she replied softly.
He didn't pull away.
"I'm scared too," she admitted. "But I still want to help. Even if I break."
"You won't break," he said softly. "And if you do, I'll be there for you."
A long silence passed between them. Not emptiness—weight.
The lights above began to dim slightly, a signal that free time was nearing its end.
Riven stood slowly. He picked up both trays, then turned back to her once more.
"Same time tomorrow?"
She nodded, and for the first time in a while, her smile wasn't just for him—it was hers.
As he stepped out into the corridor, the doors behind him hissed shut. He walked back toward Chamber 1, Room 01, his pace steady.
For two hours a day, in this place of bone and silence, he could remember his name.
And so could she.
R-932 had changed the most.
In the past year, he had opened his second path—micro-foresight. It wasn't vision in the ordinary sense. It was movement before movement. Breath before breath. A blink before the decision behind it. His eyes tracked momentum, tilt, posture, pupil dilation, micro-tremors in limbs. It wasn't prophecy. It was pattern—refined, lived, inhaled.
Perceptual extension, the researchers called it.
He was nearly seven now. Small for his age. Quiet. Thin. But no one underestimated him anymore.
Even O-889 had learned to glance his way before deciding anything.
R rarely spoke. He didn't need to. In Chamber 5, Room 07, he was known for the way he watched—not with interest, but with quiet arithmetic, as if calculating the cost of letting someone breathe another day.
He rarely fought. But he always knew how the fight would end.
That was how he rose—not with blood, but with silence.
O-889 had claimed leadership of Chamber 5 by force, the old way—beating two other Class-O boys into unconsciousness during open sparring. That had been months ago, when strength alone still ruled. Now, even he deferred slightly to the boy below him—the one who never challenged him directly but made sure every command stuck.
R was his right hand. Or had been.
Now, he was watching the cracks.
O-889 was strong, but predictable. Loud. Brash. Wasting more energy each week shouting at subordinates who were already tuning him out. His body still held power, but his mind lagged. He made moves without consequence. Trusted too easily. Boasted too openly.
Power didn't need to boast.
Today's lesson with Marla had reinforced it again.
"Emperor Arkanos Stellare III ascended not through fist or fire," she'd said, voice crisp and unwavering, "but through consensus. Schemes. Misdirection. He let his enemies destroy each other until no one was left to oppose him. That is the method of the Empire."
R had not taken notes. He had no need. He simply listened, and remembered.
And now, as the two-hour free period ticked toward its end, he sat on the top bunk with his back against the wall, legs drawn up, watching.
The others had returned already. Quiet movements. Glances exchanged between roommates. A few quiet trades of leftover food. But no one approached him. They knew better.
The door to Room 07 hissed open.
O-889 entered, heavy-footed, muttering to himself. His sleeves were dusted with dried sweat from training. His knuckles were bruised. Another fight today, probably with T-318 or one of the younger S-Class kids. He laughed to himself under his breath—he was always laughing after victory. It made the others nervous.
Not R.
R watched the way O-889's foot dragged slightly on the left. A hip imbalance. A sign of deep strain or an untreated sprain. He hadn't noticed it earlier. That was new.
He adjusted his calculations.
Six days, he thought. That's how long before O-889 starts losing fights.
And in that moment, R's gaze dropped to the floor—just slightly, as if dismissing him—and he said it softly:
"It's time to move."
O-889 turned halfway, confused. "What?"
R didn't repeat himself. He just stared at the wall.
O-889 scoffed. "Still talking to ghosts, huh?" He tossed his ration tray onto the table and lay down heavily on the lower bunk.
R said nothing.
He had already seen it—the rhythm of Chamber 5 tilting. Alliances shifting. Eyes starting to turn toward him, not because of strength, but because of certainty.
He didn't need to win a fight.
He only needed to make sure others lost.