"Come in."
Monica's voice was steady, almost gentle, but the words that followed were anything but.
"From the moment you step into this room, you cease to be a citizen" she said, taking her seat across the narrow table. "You become an asset of national importance. Above law. Above registry. Above memory."
She folded her hands.
"To the Empire, you will no longer exist. Any surviving relatives, if you had any, will receive notice of your death. This is not cruelty. It is protection. Secrecy is survival."
She looked at him evenly. "So… welcome to the world of the dead, Sergeant."
Chagrin absorbed that in silence. "I don't have relatives worth notifying" he said at last. "So I suppose that makes things easier. What do I do now?"
Monica extended her hand. "Your badge. Your identification."
He hesitated only a moment before placing them in her palm. The brass felt warmer than it should have, as if reluctant to leave him.
"You asked to leave your past behind" she continued as she set the items aside. "This is where that happens. You will be issued new documents, a new identity… and a new name."
She studied him. "Take your time. I'll handle the rest."
A new name.
The thought struck deeper than any blade ever had.
For as long as he could remember, Chagrin had been a weight—something spat at him rather than spoken, a reminder of disappointment he never chose. He had worn it like armor, letting it harden him, letting it justify his anger.
He had never imagined choosing a name for himself.
Names he had heard growing up, beautiful names. He belonged to people who still starved in the outer districts, still dying nameless deaths in wars they didn't start. A good name meant nothing if no one spoke it with care.
And yet… This was the first time he felt truly alone with his thoughts. Not the loneliness of neglect. Not the isolation of fear. But the quiet kind. The kind that comes when you realise no one else will define you anymore.
The anger returned quickly, as it always did, smothering the unease.
I am what I am. I survived. That's enough.
"Well?" Monica asked softly. "Have you decided?"
He exhaled. "What would you suggest?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Last time someone named you, it didn't end well."
Then she slid a thin slate across the table. "You won't have complete freedom. These are the available identities. Twenty this cycle."
He glanced over the list. Clean, unfamiliar names. Empty vessels waiting to be filled.
"Only twenty?" he asked.
"Yes. The criteria are strict," Monica said. "A body capable of holding dragon power is rare. Yours wasn't, originally."
She didn't soften the truth. "So it was dismantled. Reconstructed. Every cell reconditioned until it could survive what others couldn't."
Chagrin felt a chill crawl up his spine as the ruins flashed through his mind.
After a moment, he asked, "Why not use the ruins again? Prepare candidates that way?"
Monica shook her head. "Most people wouldn't survive. And we don't fully understand how those mechanisms activate. Our chambers are imitations—controlled, imperfect. The ruins are… honest."
She met his eyes. "And dragons are not resources. They are not compliant. We don't have them lying around."
His fingers paused over one name.
Arata.
"Ma'am," he asked quietly, "what does this one mean?"
Monica's expression softened just a fraction. "It's from an old language. Not spoken anymore. It means new. Or fresh beginning."
She gestured to a small black case on her desk. "There were others. Better-sounding ones. But they're already taken."
Arata. The word settled into him with surprising weight. A name not born from bitterness. Not inherited from failure. Chosen.
"The name Chagrin ends today," he said.
Monica nodded once. "Then the world will know you as Arata."
"I'll take it," he said. "If you don't mind."
She opened the case and slid new documents across the table.
"Squadron Leader Arata," she said formally. "Salary adjusted. Residence granted in the capital. Optional domestic support. And this—"
She placed a slim, obsidian-edged device beside the papers.
"A personal Tele. Direct communication line to the military network. You're among the first outside the high command to receive one."
He stared at it. A house. A Tele. A future that once felt unreachable.
The irony almost made him laugh.
When he clipped the new badge onto his uniform, the initials gleamed unfamiliar and real.
Proof that Chagrin was gone.
That someone else stood in his place.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was running from his past.
He felt like he had finally stepped out of it.