Morning came without ceremony.
No bells. No announcements. Just light slipping through the narrow gap in Kade's curtains, pale and unwelcome. He opened his eyes already tense, as if sleep had only been a pause, not rest.
For a moment, he lay still.
Nothing breathed beside him. Nothing scraped the walls. The room was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like the academy was holding its breath.
He sat up.
His body felt… normal. Too normal. No heat under his skin. No pull in his chest. His hands looked like hands again. Human. Ordinary.
That unsettled him more than the changes.
He dressed quickly and left the room.
The hallway was busier than usual for this hour. Students moved in tight groups, voices low, heads tilted toward one another. Conversations stopped when he passed. Not abruptly—no dramatic silence—but enough that he noticed the shift.
Eyes followed him.
Not curious. Measuring.
By the stairwell, two faculty members stood pretending to discuss schedules. Their conversation paused as he approached. One of them—a woman with iron-gray hair—looked straight at him without blinking.
Kade kept walking.
The air felt thinner with every step.
The first class of the day was History of Systems, held in the east building. Kade slid into a seat near the back. Mira arrived a moment later, dropping into the chair beside him without comment.
She didn't greet him. Didn't look at him right away.
But her foot nudged his once under the desk.
Not accidental.
He glanced at her. She was staring ahead, posture relaxed, hands folded on the desk like nothing was wrong. Only her jaw was set a little tighter than usual.
"You notice it?" she murmured, barely moving her lips.
"Yeah."
"They started early."
He followed her gaze.
At the front of the room, the instructor adjusted his notes. Two unfamiliar adults sat along the wall, observing. Not students. Not substitutes. Their eyes didn't wander.
They stayed on Kade.
Mira leaned back in her chair, stretching like she was bored. Her elbow brushed his arm.
Again, not accidental.
"Don't react," she whispered. "They want that."
He nodded once.
The class dragged. Words flowed past him without meaning. He caught fragments—dates, structures, failures—but his attention kept drifting to the way the room felt subtly boxed in, as if the walls were closer than they should be.
Halfway through the lecture, the instructor paused.
"Kade Solarin."
Every head turned.
"Yes?" Kade said.
"Would you mind staying after class?"
Mira's fingers tightened briefly against the edge of her desk.
"Sure," Kade replied evenly.
The instructor smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
When the room finally emptied, the observers stayed seated.
"Kade," the instructor said, folding his hands, "we've noticed you've been… unsettled since your arrival."
Kade didn't answer.
"That's understandable," the man continued. "New environment. New expectations."
One of the observers stood. He was tall, thin, with a badge clipped inside his jacket.
"We'd like to help you adjust," the man said. "But adjustment requires cooperation."
Mira appeared in the doorway.
"I was told to bring him to counseling," she said calmly.
The instructor frowned. "Miss Hale, this is a private—"
"She's on the list," the tall man interrupted after glancing at his device. "She can stay."
Mira stepped fully into the room and leaned against a desk near Kade. Close enough that he could feel the warmth from her sleeve.
Not touching.
Present.
"We're instituting temporary measures," the tall man said. "Until we're certain there's no risk."
"Risk of what?" Kade asked.
The man studied him. "Disruption."
Mira let out a quiet breath through her nose.
"Disruption," she repeated. "That's a broad word."
"It needs to be," the man replied.
He turned back to Kade. "You'll avoid certain areas of campus. You'll attend monitored sessions. And you'll report any… irregular experiences."
Silence followed.
Kade felt Mira's gaze shift to him, steady and grounding.
"I've been doing fine," he said.
"We'll decide that," the man replied.
They left together.
The corridor outside felt brighter, louder, like the building itself was relieved.
"That wasn't about help," Mira said once they were out of earshot.
"No."
"They're scared."
"Of me?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Of what you change," she said finally.
They walked in step without planning to. It happened naturally, their pace matching.
At the junction near the courtyard, Mira slowed.
"I shouldn't be seen with you too much," she said lightly. "That'll put a target on my back."
Kade stopped walking.
"Then don't," he said.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled faintly. "Too late."
She turned and continued toward the science wing. Kade watched her go, feeling something pull—not sharp, not urgent—but steady.
By afternoon, the academy felt fully awake.
Security patrols moved more frequently. Certain doors were sealed. The West Wing corridor was blocked entirely, a temporary wall erected overnight like it had always been there.
Kade paused in front of it.
The air beyond the barrier felt wrong. Quiet in a way that hummed under his skin.
"Don't," someone said.
He turned.
Mira stood a few steps back, arms crossed.
"They're watching," she added.
He stepped away.
They took a longer route back toward the dorms, cutting through the greenhouse passage where fogged glass filtered the light. Plants brushed against the walkway, leaves broad and heavy with moisture.
It was quieter here.
Too quiet.
Mira slowed, then stopped completely.
"Kade," she said softly.
He turned.
She was close now. Closer than she usually allowed herself to be. Her expression wasn't guarded. It wasn't analytical.
It was careful.
"You don't have to explain anything," she said. "But you should know something."
He waited.
"When they're afraid of you," she continued, "they stop seeing you as a person."
His jaw tightened.
"I see you," she added.
The words weren't dramatic. They weren't whispered.
They were simple.
Something in his chest eased.
He nodded once. "That helps."
They stood there longer than necessary.
A student passed at the far end of the corridor. Mira stepped back slightly, restoring the distance.
But when they started walking again, she didn't move away completely.
Their shoulders brushed.
Neither of them commented.
That night, the dorm was quieter than usual.
Kade lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, listening. The academy had a rhythm—pipes ticking, wind against stone—but beneath it all was something else. A pattern he couldn't quite grasp.
A knock came, soft but deliberate.
He opened the door.
Mira stood there, holding two cups of something steaming.
"Tea," she said. "Don't ask what kind."
He stepped aside.
She entered and sat on the edge of the desk, crossing one leg over the other.
"You didn't have to," he said.
"I wanted to."
She handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed. This time, she didn't pull away immediately.
The warmth spread through his palm.
They drank in silence.
"I don't think they're done," Mira said eventually.
"No."
"They're waiting."
"For what?"
She studied the surface of her tea. "For you to prove them right."
He exhaled slowly.
Mira looked up. "You won't."
It wasn't a question.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," he said.
"I know."
She set her cup down and stood. "I should go before someone notices."
At the door, she hesitated.
Then she reached out and straightened the collar of his jacket. A small, unnecessary movement.
Her hand lingered for half a second too long.
"Goodnight, Kade."
"Goodnight, Mira."
After she left, he stood there for a moment, then closed the door.
The academy shifted around him.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Aware.
And somewhere deep beneath the stone and silence, something waited—patient, restrained, and listening.