Sunlight cuts through my dorm window at the exact same angle it did yesterday. And the day before. The golden beam hits my desk where a breakfast tray waits—scrambled eggs still steaming, orange juice that looks like it belongs in an advertisement, toast cut into neat triangles.
My stomach clenches, but not from hunger.
"Morning, Ez!" Marcus bounces from his bed, already dressed in his academy uniform. The fabric doesn't have a single wrinkle. His smile stretches wide, hitting the same enthusiastic note it has for the past... how many days now?
"Yeah. Morning." I swing my legs over the edge of my mattress, bare feet finding the floor. The wood feels comfortable against my skin, like it's been warmed just for me.
"Ready for another fantastic day at Meridian Academy?" Marcus grabs his training bag, slinging it over his shoulder with the same gesture, the same timing as yesterday.
My throat tightens. "Marcus, don't you ever get tired?"
He pauses, head tilted like a curious puppy. "Tired? Why would I be tired? We're living the dream here, buddy. Elite training, cutting-edge facilities, the best instructors in the sector." He rattles off the words like they're printed on a brochure.
I reach for the orange juice. The glass fits my grip like it was made for my hand. The juice tastes like sunshine and optimism—too perfect, like someone distilled the essence of morning and bottled it.
"See you in Strategic Applications!" Marcus waves, disappearing through our door with the same cheerful energy he's displayed every single morning since I started noticing the pattern.
The silence stretches. I stare at the breakfast tray, at the way the eggs sit in small, uniform mounds. At how the toast triangles look like they were arranged by someone who cared too much about appearance. At how everything looks exactly where it should, like a photograph staged for a catalog.
My hands shake as I set down the glass.
The walk to class feels shorter than usual, corridors flowing past in a blur of familiar faces offering identical morning greetings. The Strategic Applications classroom hums with quiet conversations as students file in. I slide into my usual seat—third row, center—and watch Kira settle beside me. Her auburn hair catches the overhead lights, each strand seeming to fall into place with purpose.
"You look troubled," she says, her voice carrying that slight accent I can never place. Her green eyes study my face with the intensity of someone solving a puzzle.
"Do I?" I open my tablet, fingers moving across the interface. The device responds to my touch like it's anticipating my needs, apps opening before I fully decide I want them.
Professor Zane begins his lecture on tactical resource allocation. The concepts flow into my mind like water finding the right channels. Supply line optimization. Personnel deployment matrices. Risk assessment protocols. My fingers fly across the tablet, taking notes with a speed and comprehension that surprises me.
"Your understanding has improved remarkably," Kira murmurs, her stylus tapping against her tablet's edge. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Almost overnight."
I glance at her sideways. "What do you mean?"
"Three weeks ago, you struggled with basic logistical frameworks. Now you're analyzing complex scenarios like you've been doing this for years." Her stylus stops tapping. "Don't you find that... curious?"
My chest tightens. The classroom feels too warm suddenly, too contained. "People learn at different rates."
"Of course." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Though some learning curves are more... exceptional than others."
Professor Zane calls my name. "Ezren, would you walk us through the resource allocation for Scenario Seven?"
I stand, my legs steadier than they should be. The numbers and variables arrange themselves in my mind like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. I move to the interactive display, my hands dancing across the interface with practiced ease.
"Primary supply depot here," I say, highlighting key positions. "Secondary reserves distributed along these three vectors to minimize vulnerability to single-point failures. Personnel rotation every forty-eight hours to prevent fatigue-induced errors."
The solution unfolds with crystalline clarity. Each decision feels simultaneously foreign and familiar, like remembering a dream upon waking.
The classroom is silent. Professor Zane nods slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Excellent analysis," he says. "Please see me after class."
I return to my seat, legs suddenly unsteady. Kira watches me with those green eyes that seem to see too much.
"Exceptional," she whispers.
The rest of the morning blurs past in a haze of classes where concepts click into place too easily, where my hands know which buttons to press before my mind catches up. By the time I reach the combat training facility, my nerves feel like exposed wires. The facility sprawls before me like a technological cathedral. Adaptive surfaces shift beneath my feet, responding to movement patterns. Holographic targets materialize in complex configurations, their light casting strange shadows on the walls.
I wrap my hands around the training blade's grip. The weapon feels like an extension of my arm, perfectly balanced and responsive. Three months ago, I could barely manage basic forms without stumbling over my own feet.
"Begin sequence seven," Professor Zane calls from the observation platform. His voice echoes off the high ceiling, carrying an edge I haven't noticed before.
My opponent—a senior student named Garrett who's been training here for two years—activates his blade. The energy field hums to life, casting blue light across his determined face.
We circle each other. Garrett moves with the careful precision of someone who's earned his skills through countless hours of practice. His footwork is solid, his guard position textbook perfect.
I should be nervous. Should be calculating my limited options, planning defensive strategies to survive against superior experience.
Instead, time seems to slow.
Garrett lunges. My body moves without conscious thought, blade deflecting his strike while my feet carry me into a counter-attack that shouldn't exist in my muscle memory. The training weapon slips past his guard, stopping just short of his throat.
He stumbles backward, eyes wide. "How did you—"
"Again," Professor Zane commands.
We reset. This time Garrett comes at me with the fury of wounded pride, his blade weaving complex patterns that should overwhelm my defenses. But my body knows what to do. Each strike finds only empty air as I flow around his attacks like water around stones.
My counter-strike drops him to the mat.
"Again."
The third bout lasts thirty seconds. The fourth, twenty. By the fifth, Garrett won't meet my eyes.
"That's enough," Zane says, his voice strangely quiet. "Ezren, remain behind. Everyone else, dismissed."
The facility empties, leaving me alone with Zane and the too-bright overhead lights. He descends from the observation platform, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. His gray eyes study me with the intensity of someone examining a specimen under a microscope.
"Your improvement is remarkable," he says, circling me slowly. "Three months ago, you could barely execute a basic parry. Today, you're moving like someone with years of advanced training."
My throat feels dry. "I've been practicing."
"Have you?" He stops in front of me, head tilted. "Or have you been remembering?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"
Zane doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls out a small device, its surface gleaming under the lights. He taps something on its screen, then lifts it to his ear.
"Subject 47 is showing accelerated development ahead of schedule," he says quietly, but his voice carries in the empty facility. "His integration rate is exceeding all previous records. Recommend immediate Protocol Seven assessment."
My blood turns to ice. Subject 47. Previous records. Integration rate.
Zane ends the call and looks at me with something that might be pity. Or anticipation.
"Get some rest, Ezren," he says. "Tomorrow is going to be a very important day."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the vast training facility. The holographic targets have long since disappeared, but their ghostly afterimages seem to dance at the edges of my vision.
I stare at my hands—hands that moved with impossible skill, wielding a blade like they'd done it a thousand times before.
What the hell is happening to me?