Jones stood alone.
The containment field had disengaged minutes ago, but no one rushed in to escort him out. No guards. No technicians. Just the low hum of systems resetting and the faint glow of standby lights reflecting off the fractured floor.
They were watching.
He could feel it—not as a system alert, but as pressure. Eyes behind glass. Decisions being made several levels above his clearance.
Jones slowly pushed himself to his feet.
This time, his body didn't resist.
Balance aligned cleanly. Weight distribution adjusted without lag. The system didn't bark warnings or force corrections—it listened, recalibrating around his intent instead of overriding it.
That scared him more than the restraints ever had.
This is what they noticed, he thought. This is why they're afraid.
The chamber doors finally slid open with a muted hiss.
Two guards stepped inside, weapons lowered but ready. Not aimed at him—yet. Their body language said everything: unknown variable.
"Subject Sixteen," one of them said. "You're to follow us."
Jones almost corrected him.
Almost said Jones.
But he held his tongue and nodded instead.
The corridors felt longer than before.
Every step echoed differently now, his enhanced hearing catching fragments of conversations behind reinforced walls—whispers that stopped abruptly as he passed.
"—sync rate spiked—"
"—shouldn't be possible—"
"—Derick's involved—"
Jones ignored them.
His thoughts drifted back to his team. To the way missions used to feel—uncertain, dangerous, but human. Back when orders came from voices he trusted, not algorithms trying to decide whether he was still controllable.
They reached a new section of the facility.
Jones had never been before.
The doors were thicker. The air colder. Security layers stacked so tightly his system struggled to map them in real time.
Restricted, his internal voice noted.
Beyond training jurisdiction.
The doors parted.
Commander Derick was waiting inside.
Not alone.
Dr. Sylvia stood beside him, hands folded behind her back, expression unreadable. Behind them, a circular holo-table flickered to life, projecting terrain maps Jones didn't recognize—dense urban blocks, collapsed infrastructure, heat signatures moving between ruins.
Derick turned the moment Jones entered.
For half a second, relief crossed his face.
Then professionalism snapped back into place.
"Good," Derick said. "You're still upright."
Jones gave a faint smirk. "Disappointing someone, I guess."
Sylvia stepped forward before Derick could respond. "Sit," she said, gesturing to a reinforced chair at the center of the room.
Jones hesitated—then complied.
The chair locked around his frame, not restraining him, but anchoring him. Monitoring filaments extended from its surface, interfacing lightly with his system.
Observation, not control.
"That incident," Sylvia began, "forced a decision."
Jones met her gaze. "About me."
"Yes," she said calmly. "You've exceeded the scope of Phase One training. Further containment would only increase instability."
Derick crossed his arms. "Say it plainly."
Sylvia nodded once. "We're accelerating him."
Jones's chest tightened.
Accelerating meant exposure. Real variables. Real consequences.
"Phase Transition," Sylvia continued. "Effective immediately."
The holo shifted.
A city appeared—broken streets, flickering power grids, scattered heat signatures marked in red.
"Rogue droid activity," Derick said. "Level unknown. Civilian density minimal but not zero."
Jones leaned forward slightly. "You're sending me out there."
"Yes," Sylvia said. "With restrictions."
Derick shot her a look. "Minimal ones."
Jones's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a test run."
"No," Sylvia agreed. "It's a calibration."
Jones exhaled slowly.
So this is it, he thought. The line between training and war.
Derick stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't have to prove anything. Focus on survival. Control. Come back."
Jones looked up at him. "And if I don't?"
Derick didn't answer.
Sylvia did.
"Then we'll know," she said, "exactly what we created."
The chair unlocked.
Jones stood.
For the first time since waking up in metal, he wasn't being told how to move, how fast to react, or where his limits were.
They were about to let the world decide instead.
Jones's eyes hardened as he looked at the projected ruins.
"Send me in," he said.
Somewhere deep inside his system, a new status flickered to life.
Phase Transition: ACTIVE.
And with it came a quiet realization—
This wasn't his second chance anymore.
It was his first real fight.