VANCE POV
The medical wing of the Citadel didn't smell like a hospital; it smelled like ozone and sterile light. I lay on a suspension bed, my chest bared as a series of diagnostic drones hovered over me, their blue lasers scanning the jagged, internal wounds in my Impulse core.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again. That boy. Not the loud one who flickered with shadows, but the other one. Adam.
"Steady, Sentinel," the med-tech murmured, adjusting a dial on the life-support console. "Your frequency is spiking. You need to remain calm for the recalibration."
"Calm?" I barked, the word catching in my throat. "I can still feel it. It's like he reached into my chest and turned the lights off."
I looked at my hand. It was trembling. Me—a Rare-tier Sentinel, a man who had neutralized Red-tier warlords and Purple-tier assassins without breaking a sweat. My hand was shaking like a leaf in a gale.
The tech ran a final scan and pulled up a holographic chart. He went pale. "Sentinel... the 'Cold Light' in your system. It's been... colonized."
"What are you talking about?"
"The boy didn't just break your shield," the tech whispered, pointing at the chart. "He left a trace of himself behind. There are microscopic clusters of a Light Impulse frequency we've never seen. It's consuming your own energy to keep itself alive. It's like a... divine parasite."
I pushed the drones away and sat up, despite the agonizing protest of my ribs. I walked to the frosted glass of the observation window, staring at my reflection. My visor was gone, leaving my face exposed. My eyes, usually a sharp, disciplined white, now had a faint, dark ring around the iris.
I looked like a man who had seen the end of the world and survived just long enough to be terrified of it.
The door hissed open. High Councilor Valerius stepped in, her Golden aura so bright it made the med-tech drop to one knee. I tried to salute, but she waved me down, her eyes scanning me with the clinical detachment of a scientist looking at a failed experiment.
"He could have killed me," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "He had his hand on my throat, Valerius. He looked at me, and I didn't see a criminal. I didn't even see a human."
"What did you see, Vance?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"I saw a mirror," I replied, my breath hitching. "He looked at me and saw nothing but a variable. An obstacle to be moved. There was no heat in his Dark Impulse, and no warmth in his Light. It was just... math. Deadly, perfect math."
I gripped the edge of the metal table, the cold surface grounding me. "The Council is calling them 'subjects.' That's a mistake. You don't call a hurricane a subject. You don't call an earthquake a project. We've spent years telling the public that Light is 'good' and Dark is 'evil' to keep them in line. But those boys? They prove that's a lie. Power is just power, and they have all of it."
Valerius stepped closer, her presence pressing against mine. "Is that why you didn't fire your final shot, Vance? Because you were in awe?"
"I didn't fire because there was no point," I snapped, turning to face her. "He had already predicted the trajectory. He wasn't dodging; he was moving to where the bullets weren't. He was playing with me, Valerius. He let me live because he wanted someone to come back and tell you that your rules don't apply to him."
The Councilor didn't look angry. She looked satisfied, in a way that made my skin crawl.
"Good," she said. "Then you've served your purpose. Your report confirms what we feared. The Doctor hasn't just built weapons; he's built a replacement for us."
"So what now?" I asked. "You're sending the Legion? You're going to glass the coast?"
"No," she said, turning to the door. "The Legion is too loud. And you, Vance, are too broken. We are calling in the Exile. He doesn't care about mirrors or math. He only cares about the harvest."
As she left, I looked back at my reflection. The dark ring in my eyes seemed to pulse. I realized then that I wouldn't be returning to active duty. I wasn't just injured; I was infected by the realization that our "Pinnacle" was just the floor for those boys.
I reached out and touched the glass. It frosted over instantly, but not with my white light. It turned a dull, ominous gray.
"God help the Exile," I whispered to the empty room. "Because the boys won't."