The first sign that Mina's training was changing came disguised as routine.
She noticed it when her task list loaded that morning, not longer, not heavier, just… sharper. The language was more precise. The margins tighter. Fewer allowances for interpretation.
No room for guesswork.
She scanned the top line twice.
SCENARIO REVIEW — CONDITIONAL PRIORITY CONFLICT
RESPONSE REQUIRED — RATIONALE MANDATORY
Mina frowned slightly.
This wasn't cataloging. This wasn't reconciliation. This was judgment.
She glanced toward the library floor instinctively, half-expecting someone to tell her there'd been a mistake. But no one looked her way. Nessa was already working. Cora was muttering at a terminal two desks over, fully absorbed in her own chaos.
No mistake, then.
Mina sat down and opened the file.
The scenario unfolded slowly, deliberately. Two departments. Competing needs. Both valid. Both time-sensitive. A decision made too quickly would disrupt long-term infrastructure flow. A decision made too late would trigger a cascade of minor failures across unrelated systems.
There was no obvious answer.
Mina leaned back slightly, exhaling through her nose.
This was new.
The system didn't ask what she felt.
It asked what she would do.
She read through the scenario again, slower this time, mapping consequences the way she always had, like laying stones across water, testing which ones would sink. She submitted her response with a detailed rationale, outlining the logic, the trade-offs, the risks she'd chosen to accept.
The interface blinked.
RESPONSE RECEIVED.
No feedback. No score.
Just the next scenario unlocking beneath it.
Mina stared at the screen for a moment, unsettled.
"That's it?" she murmured under her breath.
Cora looked up immediately. "That tone means the system either liked you or is about to humble you."
"I don't know which," Mina admitted.
Cora grinned sympathetically. "That's the fun part."
By midday, Mina had worked through three scenarios.
Each one was worse than the last.
Not harder, exactly. More morally ambiguous. Decisions where every option harmed something. Where neutrality was itself a choice with consequences.
She got one wrong.
She knew it the moment she submitted it.
The interface didn't flash red. It didn't scold her. It simply returned the scenario with a single annotation highlighted.
ASSUMPTION ERROR — OVERPRIORITIZATION OF STABILITY
Mina stared at the words, chest tightening.
She reread her rationale and saw it immediately. She'd chosen the option that preserved the system's equilibrium at the expense of flexibility. It would've worked, short term. Long term, it would've calcified something that needed room to breathe.
She corrected it, resubmitted, and moved on.
No punishment.
Just adjustment.
That unsettled her more than being reprimanded would have.
Later that afternoon, Maren called her over without ceremony.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk.
Mina did.
"You prefer logic over instinct," Maren said, reviewing Mina's scenario logs. "That's not a flaw."
Mina waited.
"But if you overvalue stability," Maren continued, "you will preserve systems that should evolve."
Mina nodded slowly. "I see that now."
Maren glanced up, eyes sharp. "Good. Because Helix doesn't train operators. It trains stewards."
That word settled heavily.
Steward implied responsibility without ownership. Power without possession.
"Your training will continue," Maren said. "It will become less forgiving. Not because you're failing, but because you're capable."
Mina swallowed. "Understood."
Maren paused, then added, almost casually, "And Mina? Don't mistake this for kindness. The system only invests where returns are likely."
That was the closest thing to encouragement Mina had ever received.
Her days shifted after that.
Less time on general support. More scenario reviews layered between assignments. Training modules unlocked gradually, each one pushing her judgment a little further out of its comfort zone.
She didn't suddenly become exceptional.
She became consistent.
She learned when to choose speed over perfection. When to let something fail softly rather than break loudly. When to escalate and when to absorb impact quietly.
Her compensation adjusted again, not dramatically, but unmistakably. Training hours counted fully. Education credits accumulated faster. A notation appeared in her ledger:
TRACK PROGRESSION — ABOVE AVERAGE
She stared at it late one night, fingers resting lightly on the interface.
Above average.
Not special. Not extraordinary.
Useful.
She closed the ledger and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
In her old world, usefulness had been transactional, what you could give before someone took more.
Here, usefulness was cultivated.
That difference mattered.
She crossed paths with one of the residents again near the end of the week.
It wasn't dramatic.
She was exiting a side corridor with a data slate tucked under her arm when she sensed movement ahead. She stepped aside automatically, gaze lowered.
The man passed her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of something clean and sharp. He didn't slow. Didn't acknowledge her.
But as he moved by, Mina felt it again.
That brief, unsettling sensation of being
assessed.
Not as a body.
Not as staff.
As a variable.
She continued walking without turning around.
Her heart rate settled within seconds.
That, more than anything, told her she was changing.
That evening, Lira cornered her in the staff lounge, eyes narrowing as she looked Mina over.
"You look tired," Lira said. "Not the 'I worked too much' tired. The 'my brain is evolving' tired."
Mina huffed softly. "Is that a thing?"
"It is if Helix has decided you're worth thinking about," Lira replied. "Training get harder?"
"Yes."
Lira nodded knowingly. "That means you're closer to something."
"Closer to what?"
Lira shrugged. "Depends on who notices first."
That answer lingered with Mina long after she returned to her room.
She lay awake that night, replaying scenarios, decisions, corrections. Not because she was anxious, but because she cared.
That was new.
Helix wasn't just giving her safety.
It was sharpening her.
And Mina understood, with a clarity that made her chest tighten, that sharpening always came with a price.
The question wasn't whether she'd be willing to pay it.
It was who would come to collect.