An officer looked up.
"Theron Amina?" the officer asked.
Theron nodded.
"We've been looking for you," the officer said. "You're scheduled to undergo standard procedure with the Screening Division tomorrow morning. We need to take you into temporary holding until then."
Theron didn't resist.
He followed the officer down the corridor, the notebook hidden, Kaelen's last gift pressed against his chest like a promise he didn't understand yet.
Behind him, in the library three floors underground, Lucas watched on a security feed he wasn't supposed to have access to.
He pulled out his own notebook and began writing:
He came. He's scared. He's still flareless. That won't last. But for now, that's enough. For now, fear is all he needs.
Kaelen—if you ever read this—your brother made it. First step done.
To Theron's surprise, the security didn't search him, they knew he was flareless and poor - and thought he couldn't have anything of importance and just threw him in a cell.
...
In a holding cell, Theron sat on a bunk and opened Kaelen's notebook.
The first page had a single line, written in his brother's familiar handwriting:
"If you are reading this, T, I'm glad. It means that he held his word. But that also means I'm no longer with you. Before I start my story, remember, they will tell you that you're powerless. And they will be right. But flareless doesn't mean forever, little brother. It means waiting. And when the time comes, when you have nothing left to lose, you'll understand what you really are."
Below that, pages and pages of notes. Frequency charts. Diagrams. Things that didn't make sense yet. A language Theron didn't understand, since it wasn't written in Elyric, as if it was written for someone else entirely.
And at the very end, a date circled in red:
Three days. That's how long it takes.
Theron closed the notebook and lay back on the bunk.
He didn't understand what any of it meant.
But he kept the notebook under the thin mattress, close enough to touch.
And he waited.
...
The cell was seven feet by six feet.
Concrete floor. Steel bunk. A toilet bolted to the wall with no seat. No window.
Theron had counted the tiles. Forty-two across, thirty-two down. One thousand three hundred and forty-four tiles. He'd counted them twice to make sure.
The notebook was under the mattress, edges just visible if you knew where to look.
He hadn't opened it again since that first night. Kaelen's words were enough: Three days. That's how long it takes. Theron thought that's how long he has to wait in the cell before the screening division takes action.
The Screening Division facility—a building that looked like every other government building, grey and efficient and empty of mercy. They'd moved him at dawn in a transport van with blacked-out windows. No one had spoken to him except to give orders.
Strip.
Stand here.
Answer when spoken to.
The facility was mostly underground. Theron had caught glimpses as they'd moved him through corridors—other cells with other people, some younger than him, some older. Some who looked like they'd been here for weeks. Months. Years. Some were untouched, some looked half dead from torture and humiliations.
No one made eye contact.
A guard came by at regular intervals. Breakfast at 7 AM. Lunch at noon. Dinner at 6 PM. All of it the same grey paste that tasted like nothing.
Today was Day Two.
The screening tests had started at 8 AM.
They'd taken him to a white room with machines that looked like they belonged to hospitals or interrogation chambers—Theron couldn't decide which. A woman with a laminate ID that read Dr. Eira Solen had strapped sensors to his temples, his wrists, his chest.
"This won't hurt," she'd said. She wasn't lying. It also hadn't helped. At all.
The machine had hummed. Screens had flickered with readouts he couldn't read. She'd asked questions:
What is your full name?
Date of birth?
Family history of resonance exposure?
Any incidents involving uncontrolled sound frequency?
Any knowledge of resonance activation techniques?
Theron had answered each one the way Lucas had coached him: truthfully, simply, with no elaboration. The machine had recorded everything.
When it was done, Dr. Solen had unclipped the sensors and made notes on a tablet.
"So, you are flareless, after all." she'd said finally. "Completely flareless. No hidden resonance signatures. No latent activation markers."
Relief had flooded through him—but also something else. Disappointment? Confusion? The machine had found nothing, and somehow that felt like a lie.
"Your brother showed clear resonance markers from age twelve," Dr. Solen had continued, more to herself than to Theron. "Sound-based, high frequency, structurally disruptive. Yours show... nothing. Genetic variation, perhaps. Or recessive traits."
"Is that good?" Theron had asked.
Dr. Solen had smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made him understand why Lucas had warned him about her.
"It's exceptional," she'd said. "It means you're genuinely powerless. Which means you're safe. Which means we can release you with minimal concern."
But her eyes had said something different. Her eyes had said: We're keeping you anyway.
Now, in the cell on Day Two evening, Theron lay on the bunk and tried not to think about the notebook under the mattress. Kaelen's notebook. Kaelen's instructions. Kaelen's faith that something would happen in three days.
The hum started in his chest again, of boredom.
Low. So low it was almost not there.
He'd been getting them more frequently—the involuntary hum, the vibration that came from nowhere. It was getting stronger. Or maybe he was just noticing it more.
He pressed his hand against his ribs to try to stop it.
The humming stopped immediately, but something else started instead.
A sound in the pipes. A vibration that wasn't his.
Theron sat up.
The sound came from the walls—a low, resonant frequency that made the fluorescent light flicker. Once. Twice.
Then silence.
His heart hammered.
What was that?
The door to his cell clicked. A guard appeared, running a routine check, scanning Theron with an instrument that looked like a thermometer.
"All clear," the guard said to someone outside. Then he was gone.
Theron lay back down.
But he didn't sleep. He lay awake, listening to the pipes, waiting for the hum to come back.
It didn't.
...
Day Three.
The morning started like the others—breakfast, silence, waiting. But at 10 AM, the guard came with different orders.
"New testing protocol," the guard said. "Dr. Solen wants another round of scans. More comprehensive.".
Theron followed him through the corridors. The Screening Division facility had a rhythm—the hum of machines, the distant murmur of voices, the sound of footsteps on tile. It all blended together into something that felt like the building itself was breathing.
In the white room, Dr. Solen was waiting with a new machine. This one was larger, with more sensors, more screens.
"We're going deeper today," she said cheerfully. "Looking for markers you might not know about. Dormant resonance, latent triggers, anything that could activate under stress."
She attached the sensors. More of them this time. On his forehead, his temples, the back of his neck, down his spine.
"The key," Dr. Solen said, typing commands into the machine, "is understanding that resonance isn't just a power. It's a resonance frequency that exists on a molecular level. Some people's frequencies are loud and obvious. Others are so quiet you need the right instruments to hear them."
She smiled that terrible smile again.
"Your brother's frequency was very loud. Dangerous. But yours..." She looked at the screens as they flickered to life. "Yours is so quiet I almost missed it."
Theron's throat went dry.
"I'm flareless," he said. "Your machine already confirmed it."
"Yesterday's machine," Dr. Solen corrected. "This machine is more sensitive. It's designed specifically for cases like yours—dormant carriers. People who have the genetic markers for resonance but haven't awakened yet."
Theron stared at her, dumbfounded.
"Wait, don't tell me you thought your case was special? That you were the only one who was completely flareless? Hahahaha, don't make me laugh" she exclaimed, catching her breath and then coughing to clear her throat.
"Now to the procedure, dear Theron~" excitingly pronounced Dr. Solen.
The machine hummed louder.
The screens filled with data—patterns that moved like waves, frequencies that scrolled too fast to read.
"Interesting," Dr. Solen whispered.
Theron felt it then—a strange sensation, similar to his hum, as if something in his chest was being examined from the inside. Not pain, but presence. Something waking up.
The hum started again, but this time it was external. The machine was humming at the same frequency as whatever was inside him.
Feedback.
"W-What are you doing to me?!" Theron screamed.
"Fascinating," Dr. Solen said, not answering. "It's responding to the scan. The dormant resonance is responding."
The machine hummed louder.
The lights flickered again—harder this time, casting the room into strobing darkness.
Theron's chest constricted.
The sensors on his skin felt like they were burning, but when he looked down, there was no heat, just the humming, just the vibration, just something deep inside him that was trying to wake up.
"Stop," he gasped. "Please, stop—"
"Just a moment," Dr. Solen said, her voice breathless with fascination. "Let's see how high the frequency can go."
The machine's pitch climbed.
Theron felt something crack inside him—not painfully, but fundamentally. Like a wall was breaking. Like the thing that Kaelen's notebook kept talking about, the thing that happened in three days, was happening now.
"No—" Theron tried to stand, but the sensors held him down.
The walls began to vibrate.
The light shattered.
Dr. Solen stumbled backward, away from the machine, her tablet falling to the floor.
"Shut it down!" she shouted. "Shut it down now!"
The machine powered off.
The vibration stopped.
The room went silent.
Theron lay on the chair, gasping, covered in blood that was dripping from his nose. His hands were shaking. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out.
Dr. Solen stared at him with an expression that wasn't fascination anymore.
It was fear.
"Get him to medical," she said quietly to the guards who were rushing in. "And call Director Voss. Tell her we need containment protocols. Immediately."
"But he passed the first screening—"
"He's not flareless," Dr. Solen snapped. "He's dormant. And something just woke him up."
The guards grabbed Theron and lifted him off the chair.
His legs wouldn't hold his weight.
Everything hurt.
Everything felt wrong.
As they dragged him down the corridor, Theron caught a glimpse of a clock on the wall.
Day Three. 3:47 PM.
Kaelen's notebook had said three days.
Three days until the awakening.
Three days until he'd understand what he really was.
The waking had begun.
But it wasn't an activation of power.
It was something else.
Something deeper.