Morning came without gentleness.
The lights turned on before I was ready, flooding the room in a dull white glare that felt harsher than it needed to be. It wasn't sunrise—it was a command. Wake up. Move. Exist.
My body had rested, but my mind hadn't followed. Sleep had only brushed past me, shallow and incomplete, leaving every muscle heavy, like I'd been carrying weight even in my dreams.
I sat up slowly, elbows resting on my knees, and dragged a hand down my face.
The hallway.
The silence.
Those eyes.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing the memory down where it belonged. Whatever that moment was—it didn't deserve space in my head. Not here. Not now. Thinking about it wouldn't change anything. It would only sharpen edges that were already too sharp.
The room felt smaller in daylight.
Concrete walls. A narrow bed. A single panel embedded into the wall, dark now but reflecting just enough to show my silhouette. The air felt thinner, like it had been filtered one too many times.
I rolled my shoulders once, listening to the faint hum of the facility waking up around me—doors sliding open somewhere far away, muted footsteps echoing through metal corridors, voices low and purposeful.
Another day.
Another test pretending to be routine.
I stood, stretching the stiffness from my limbs, and caught my reflection in the darkened surface of the wall panel. My eyes looked sharper than they had yesterday. More alert. Less forgiving.
Good.
I grabbed my jacket and stepped into the hallway.
The corridor was already alive. Not loud—never loud—but active in that controlled way this place favored. People moved with intent, heads forward, expressions neutral. No one talked about last night. No whispers. No sideways looks.
Silence had swallowed the incident whole.
That didn't mean it was gone.
As I walked, that sensation crept back in.
Not danger.
Not fear.
Attention.
It brushed against my awareness like static, subtle but impossible to ignore. My steps slowed just a fraction.
Then I saw him.
It wasn't dramatic. No sudden noise. No warning. Just his presence—there, like the air itself had shifted slightly out of alignment.
Miran.
And everything from last night came rushing back. The narrow hallway. The shadows stretching too long. The way his eyes had locked onto mine without hesitation or surprise. Nothing blurred. Nothing softened with time. Every detail remained sharp, refusing to dull.
Why is this man always in my line of sight?
The question came with irritation… and something else I didn't want to name.
Or maybe the question I was avoiding was—
Why do I notice him every time?
Before he could look my way, I forced my gaze forward and turned down another corridor, letting movement do what my thoughts wouldn't—pull me away.
The cafeteria welcomed me with noise.
Not chaos. Just life.
Voices overlapped. Cutlery clinked against trays. Chairs scraped softly across the floor. The smell of food—warm, salty, grounding—settled something tight in my chest.
Junseo was already there, of course.
Leaning back in his chair like the world owed him comfort, one arm draped casually over the backrest, surrounded by a small group drawn in by his easy confidence and louder-than-necessary commentary.
I slid into the seat beside him without a word.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Junseo said, eyes still on his tray.
"I slept," I replied. "Just… not well."
He hummed knowingly. "Ah. The haunted-by-your-own-thoughts kind."
Before he could push further, someone stepped into my space.
Kyla.
She stopped beside me, posture relaxed, eyes bright like she hadn't slept either—and somehow didn't look worse for it.
"Last night was… interrupted," she said lightly, leaning just enough to be intentional. "I think we deserve a continuation."
Her laugh followed, smooth and effortless, like flirting was simply another way of breathing for her.
I felt the tension in my shoulders ease—just a little.
She talked about nothing important. About the food. About the training rumors floating around. About how this place felt like a maze designed by someone with a sense of humor and no mercy.
I listened.
And strangely enough—it worked.
For a few minutes, the hallway faded. The memory dulled. The unease loosened its grip.
I caught myself smiling without forcing it.
Maybe that was why I didn't pull away.
Maybe that was why her presence felt… warm.
Still, beneath it all, a quiet thought lingered
Some things don't disappear just because you look away.
A sharp tone cut through the cafeteria.
"All candidates. Training ground. Ten minutes."
The room shifted instantly.
Conversations died. Chairs pushed back. Trays were abandoned mid-meal. Whatever comfort the cafeteria offered evaporated the moment the announcement ended.
Junseo stood, stretching dramatically. "Showtime."
The training ground felt different from the moment we stepped in.
Open space. High ceilings. Steel floors marked with faint grid lines that caught the light just enough to remind you they were there for a reason. The air smelled sharper—metal, oil, something sterile and alert.
Like the room itself was watching.
Groups formed naturally. Some stretching. Some whispering. Some standing too stiff, nerves obvious in the way they held their breath.
Junseo rolled his shoulders beside me. "Ah," he sighed, cracking his neck. "I missed this. A place where talent speaks louder than faces."
"You mean a place where you can show off," I said.
He grinned. "Same thing."
The instructor stepped forward—tall, broad, expression carved from stone.
"Pair up," he said. "Basic combat assessment. No lethal force. We're observing control, not destruction."
That sentence alone straightened half the room.
Junseo didn't hesitate. "I'm going first."
"Of course you are."
"I'll finish fast. Watch and learn."
His opponent barely had time to brace.
Junseo moved with confidence that bordered on arrogance—but it wasn't empty. His footwork was sharp. His timing precise. A feint, a sweep, a controlled strike that stopped a breath away from contact.
Over.
Junseo stepped back, hands raised casually. "See? Gentle."
The instructor stared at him. "…Next."
A few laughs rippled through the room.
When it was my turn, I felt nothing but clarity.
No nerves. No rush.
My opponent lunged early—too much force, too little thought. I shifted, redirecting instead of resisting. One step. One turn. His momentum betrayed him, and suddenly he was on the floor, stunned.
I hadn't even hit him.
Silence.
Then murmurs.
"That was clean."
Junseo folded his arms smugly. "Told you. My brother's annoying like that."
Kyla stood near the edge, watching.
When our eyes met, she smiled—small, genuine. Something warm settled in my chest before I could stop it.
Maybe I was interested.
Then—
The temperature changed.
Miran stepped onto the floor.
No announcement. No flourish. Just presence.
People moved without realizing they were doing it—creating space.
His match was brief. Precise. Unemotional.
When it ended, his opponent couldn't stand.
Silence followed.
Miran's gaze brushed past me.
Not lingering. Not acknowledging.
Just… noting.
Junseo leaned close. "Okay," he whispered. "That guy definitely doesn't laugh at jokes."
"I noticed."
Training continued.
But everyone felt it.
This wasn't just practice.
It was preparation.