The knock came before dawn.
Not loud. Not polite. Just firm enough to say it wouldn't be repeated.
Aron was already awake, replaying images of the previous day in his mind.
He lay still for a moment, listening to the building breathe—pipes clicking as they cooled, someone shifting in their sleep two rooms over, the distant hiss of oil lamps being lit downstairs. His bag sat by the door where he'd left it, packed tighter than necessary, straps pulled until the fabric complained.
He didn't ask who it was.
The second knock landed exactly where the first had, with the same pressure, the same rhythm. Controlled. Measured. The kind of knock that belonged to someone who didn't expect refusal.
Aron swung his legs off the bed and stood. The floor was cold. He welcomed it. Cold was simple.
When he opened the door, the hallway seemed narrower than usual.
Two figures stood outside. Not guards, exactly—no visible weapons, no armor—but their coats were cut too clean for the outer districts, their boots too well cared for. One of them held a thin metal case, edges rounded, surface marked with faint lines that didn't quite form symbols.
The air around them felt… organized.
"Aron of the Outer Districts," the taller one said. Not a question.
Aron nodded.
"You have been instructed to present yourself at the Academy of Civic and Strategic Arts," the man continued. His voice wasn't unfriendly. It wasn't anything. "We are here to ensure compliance."
Ensure.
Aron stepped back without being asked. There was no point pretending this was optional. The men entered his apartment, glancing around with professional disinterest. Not curiosity. Inventory.
The shorter one paused by the window, fingers brushing the sill. Aron felt a brief tightening in his chest, like the air had been gently compressed.
"Is there a problem?" Aron asked before he could stop himself.
The man looked back at him. "No."
The pressure eased.
Aron didn't like how quickly he'd noticed.
"You have five minutes," the taller man said. "Bring only what you require."
"I'm ready," Aron said, surprising himself.
The man inclined his head once, as if acknowledging a sensible choice. They didn't leave the room. They didn't turn away. They waited.
Aron lifted his bag and slung it over his shoulder. It felt heavier now than it had the night before, though he hadn't added anything. He glanced once at the room—the narrow bed, the chipped table, the crack in the wall he'd been meaning to patch for months.
He didn't say goodbye.
The stairwell smelled like damp stone and old cooking oil. A neighbor cracked their door open just enough to see, then shut it again quickly. Aron couldn't blame them. Attention was contagious.
Outside, the street was quieter than usual. Too early for vendors, too early for shouting. A transport waited at the curb—a flat, dark vehicle that hovered just above the stone. No markings. No insignia.
As Aron stepped toward it, his knee twinged, reminding him of the beam, the dust, the way the world had bent instead of broken. He wondered—briefly—whether this was part of the same correction.
The taller man opened the transport door. "Inside."
The interior was spare—two seats facing forward. No windows, just a narrow strip of translucent material along the ceiling that let in muted light. Aron sat, placing his bag at his feet. The door closed without a sound.
The vehicle moved. Not with a jolt or a lurch, but smoothly, like it had been waiting for permission.
It occurred to him then that the letter had said three days. He had forgotten it during the sudden appearance of the two figures. He did not know if he should bring this matter up. He was already in the carriage. He already had his things.
"The letter said three days," Aron said, faintly.
The taller man didn't look at him.
"It did."
Aron frowned. "Then why are you here now?"
There was a pause—not hesitation, but timing.
"The window was reviewed," the man said. "This morning," he added.
Aron slumped down in his seat and looked away from the man. The light shifted overhead as they traveled. He couldn't see the city, but he could feel it changing—the subtle difference in how the air pressed against his skin, the way the hum beneath everything grew steadier, more refined.
They were leaving the outer districts.
The sensation unsettled him more than he expected. The chaos he was used to had a texture. This—this was too even.
"Why me?" he asked, quietly.
Neither man answered at first. The transport glided through a long curve, the pressure shifting just enough to make Aron brace himself.
Finally, the shorter one spoke. "You were observed."
Aron swallowed. "Doing what?"
A pause. Not hesitation. Consideration.
"Interfering."
That was all.
The transport slowed.
When the door opened, white stone greeted him—smooth, seamless, unmarred by cracks or stains. The air smelled clean in a way that felt intentional. Ahead, massive gates rose into view, etched with patterns that made Aron's eyes slide away if he tried to focus too long.
The Academy.
Students crossed the courtyard in small clusters, their voices low, their movements precise. Some glanced at him. Most didn't.
He felt suddenly aware of his clothes. His boots. The way he stood.
The taller man stepped beside him. "From this point forward," he said, "you are under academy jurisdiction. Your housing has been assigned. Your schedule will be provided."
"And if I leave?" Aron asked.
The man's expression didn't change. "Then the corrective measures will no longer be academic."
Aron nodded once.
As they passed through the gates, he felt it again—that subtle thickening of the air, that sense of a moment being guided rather than allowed to happen. The world here didn't hesitate.
It obeyed.
Somewhere behind him, far beyond the walls, the outer districts continued without him.
Ahead, the Academy waited.
And Aron had the uncomfortable sense that this place, unlike the street, had already decided exactly what to do with him.