The rumors arrived before the body did.
They always did.
Kael heard them in fragments—half-whispered exchanges between guards who forgot he could hear, data flickers on unsecured terminals, the way the Freezer's hum stuttered every time a certain wing was mentioned.
"—malfunctioned—"
"—not human anymore—"
"—prototype failed—"
Post-Ranker.
The word carried weight even when spoken softly, like it bent the air around it.
Kael sat cross-legged in the center of Training Hall C, palms resting on his knees, eyes closed. The cold pressed in, steady and relentless, but he no longer fought it the way he once had. Instead, he let it flow around him, shaping his fire inward—tight, layered, restrained.
Stay whole, he reminded himself.
That was the trick.
Not resisting. Not surrendering.
Choosing.
The doors slid open.
"Subject F-117," the voice announced. "You are to observe."
Kael opened his eyes.
Observe was new.
He followed the corridor down past sections he'd never been allowed near before. The walls here were darker, reinforced with additional seals. The air smelled faintly of ozone and burned metal.
They stopped at a viewing chamber.
Behind the glass lay a figure restrained on a raised platform.
At first glance, it looked human.
At second glance, it didn't.
The man—boy, really, maybe a few years older than Kael—was tall and broad-shouldered, muscles unnaturally defined, skin crisscrossed with faint, glowing lines that pulsed in rhythm with the Freezer's hum. His chest rose and fell too evenly.
Too mechanically.
"Designation PR-01," the gray-haired man said, stepping into view beside Kael. "First successful Post-Ranker synthesis."
Kael's stomach twisted. "Successful?"
The man's lips pressed into a thin line. "Define success."
PR-01's eyes snapped open.
They were wrong.
Not hollow like the broken Unrankables. Not frantic.
Empty.
He strained against the restraints, metal groaning under the force. Fire sparked along his arms—not wild, not instinctive, but structured. Every flare was immediately dampened by sigils etched into the platform.
"Unrankable countermeasures engaged," the woman said calmly. "Observe the suppression field."
Kael watched as PR-01's fire sputtered, collapsed, and died.
The man screamed.
Not in pain.
In confusion.
"I can't—" he gasped. "It's gone. It's gone."
Kael's hands clenched.
"They stripped him," he said.
The gray-haired man nodded. "We refined him."
PR-01's head jerked sharply to the side.
He laughed.
It was sudden, jarring, completely disconnected from the situation.
"Cold," he said cheerfully. "It's so cold. Do you hear it singing?"
The woman frowned. "Cognitive decay accelerating."
"Terminate observation," the man ordered.
The lights dimmed.
The glass frosted over.
Kael turned away before he could see what came next.
As they walked back, his thoughts churned.
This is what replaces us, he realized. Not better. Just obedient.
"You look disturbed," the man said.
"You failed," Kael replied flatly.
The man stopped.
"Careful," he warned.
Kael met his gaze. "He's broken. Not degraded—broken. You can't fix that."
The man studied him for a long moment.
"No," he said finally. "But we can make more."
---
The body arrived two days later.
F-152.
Or what was left of him.
They didn't announce it. They didn't need to.
Everyone felt the shift when the medical drones passed through the common corridor, carrying a sealed containment unit. The hum of the Freezer faltered, just for a second.
Kael stood among the others as the unit was placed in the center of the hall.
The seal disengaged.
F-152 lay inside, eyes open, unblinking. His skin was pale, veins dark beneath the surface. Frost rimed his lashes.
"He's alive," someone whispered.
The gray-haired man nodded. "Barely."
F-152's lips moved.
Kael leaned forward instinctively.
"…too loud," F-152 murmured. "Make it stop."
His eyes rolled back.
The woman gestured, and a technician stepped forward, injecting something into F-152's neck. His body convulsed once—then stilled.
"Subject F-152 has been deemed non-recoverable," the man announced. "His family has been notified of his reassignment."
Reassignment.
Kael felt sick.
"What does that mean?" F-093 demanded, stepping forward.
"It means," the woman said coolly, "that his continued existence serves a different purpose."
F-093's fire flared dangerously.
Kael grabbed her wrist.
She looked at him, eyes burning. "They're erasing us."
He shook his head slightly. "They're using us."
"That's worse."
That night, Kael couldn't sleep.
His thoughts wouldn't settle. They looped, fragmented, slipping dangerously close to the edges he'd seen others fall over.
This is how it happens, he thought. Not all at once. In pieces.
He sat up, pressing his palms to the floor, grounding himself in sensation.
Cold.
Hardness.
Reality.
The message flickered again.
[SYSTEM STATUS: DORMANT]
[REASON: HOST INTEGRITY—INCOMPLETE]
Kael frowned.
"Incomplete how?" he whispered.
No answer.
He laughed softly, a hint of hysteria creeping in. "You want me broken too?"
The fire in his chest pulsed—warm, steady, defiant.
"No," he said aloud. "I won't."
---
The degradation started subtly.
F-087 forgot her room number.
F-102 began responding to questions that hadn't been asked.
F-061—wherever he was—screamed every night.
Kael heard it through the walls.
One evening, F-093 didn't show up for training.
Kael felt it immediately—a hollow absence where her presence usually anchored him.
He cornered a guard.
"Where is she?"
The guard hesitated.
"That's classified."
Kael stepped closer, fire coiling just beneath his skin. "Where."
The guard swallowed. "Evaluation wing."
Kael's blood ran cold.
He broke protocol.
It wasn't dramatic. No alarms. No explosions.
He simply walked—calm, deliberate—into the evaluation wing.
The guards didn't stop him.
That terrified him more than if they had.
F-093 was strapped to a chair in a dim room, electrodes tracing her temples, frost creeping up her legs.
Her eyes were open—but unfocused.
"Kael?" she murmured.
He rushed to her side. "I'm here."
She smiled faintly. "I knew you wouldn't forget me."
His chest tightened painfully.
"They say I'm… drifting," she whispered. "That I'm holding on too tightly."
He swallowed. "You're holding on just enough."
Her fingers twitched, grasping weakly at his sleeve. "If I let go… will it be quieter?"
Kael didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
The gray-haired man entered quietly.
"This is unwise," he said.
Kael rounded on him. "You did this."
"We saved her as long as possible," the man replied. "But degradation is inevitable."
"Not for me," Kael said.
The man's eyes sharpened. "You think you're immune?"
"I think you're wrong."
The man studied him. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Good," he said. "Prove it."
They wheeled F-093 away before Kael could stop them.
He stood there long after, shaking.
Something inside him shifted—not fractured, but hardened.
I won't let this happen again, he vowed.
Not to her.
Not to anyone.
Outside the Freezer, in a department that officially did not exist, a report leaked.
POST-RANKER PROTOTYPE FAILURE
CAUSE: UNKNOWN INTERFERENCE
The Ministry of Defense denied involvement.
For now.
And deep within Kael's mind, something stirred—patient, calculating, waiting for the moment it could finally wake.