A week passed.
A week of treatment.
A week of silence that crept like rot beneath the Academy's sterile lights.
The med‑units said my vitals were stable, but that was a lie. I could feel *it* adjusting—rewiring. Every morning I woke with the taste of static on my tongue and the faint pulse of circuitry tracing up my spine like veins of fire.
The only sound that kept me sane was the hum of ventilators—and his voice.
The silent guy.
We spoke once in that whole week.
No—he spoke, and I listened.
"You don't have to worry," he'd told me that night, sitting at the edge of the infirmary bed, shadows draped across half his face. "your secret is safe with me.
When he said it, part of me believed him. Another part—the colder one—didn't.
After that, he went back to silence. The same quiet mask he'd worn before the mission. No greetings in the hall, no glances across the mess decks. Just silence.
By the time they discharged us, the entire Academy already buzzed with the news:
Two cadets survived the a training mission.
And one of them was a lower‑born.
---
For a lower‑born like me, surviving wasn't viewed as strength. It was a violation of the natural order.
Every whisper in the corridor was a dagger.
"Is that the one?"
"Heard he hid while his squad died."
"Typical sewer‑rat courage."
The words skittered off white tiles and crawled under my skin.
Still, I walked. One step after another, every footfall echoing like a challenge.
Commander Zack met us in hus chamber lined with light‑screens and the faint reek of antiseptic metal. His uniform was polished has usual; his eyes, dull. Everything about him screamed precision and exhaustion.
He didn't offer greetings.
"So," he said, voice flat. "The survivors return."
The silent guy stood beside me, staring at the floor.
Commander Zack tapped through holographic files projected over his desk. "sixTeam members. and Two survived just from a training mission."
He looked up, lips curling faintly. "Astounding."
He stood, circling us like a collector inspecting broken tools. "Do you know what the academy teaches first, cadets?"
No one answered.
"Loyalty." His gaze fixed on me. "And you failed that. You all did. Just a training mission."
He lifted a hand, signaling one of the aides. "For this failure, punishment will be served."
He pointed at me. "You'll clean the sector facilities for a week. Alone."
I blinked. "Only me, sir?"
He smiled thinly. "Correct. Failure always smells stronger on lower‑borns."
Commander Zack dismissed us with a wave. "Don't wander far. In seven days, you'll join your first main mission. Try not to die this time."
The way he said it—dry, casual—made it clear. Whether I lived or not didn't matter.
Day Three of Cleaning Duty
The lower facilities were built like catacombs
a maze of machine arteries and humming vents that stank of oil and recycled air. I scrubbed until my hands blistered, until the voice in my head buzzed with mock laughter.
Eliminate treat!?
"Shut up," I muttered, slamming a rag against the steel floor.
The echo died as the hallway lights flickered. A door slid open behind me, footsteps tapping slow and deliberate.
I didn't have to look to know who they were.
Three silhouettes—perfect uniforms, perfect arrogance.
Upper‑borns.
They always traveled in groups, like predators that enjoyed the performance of hunting.
The first one spoke, voice slick with superiority.
"Well, well. The miracle sewer rat."
I kept scrubbing.
He crouched beside me, the scent of cologne sharp enough to sting. His visor reflected my face back at me—a fractured image under Doman's stolen mask.
"How did a lower‑born survive?" he asked, tone dripping mockery. "Don't tell me you actually fought."
Laughter rippled behind him.
Another cadet stepped forward—taller, with a cybernetic red eye implants. "No, he ran. Hid behind debris until the Gauge Corps pulled him out. That's what rats do best, right?
My grip on the rag tightened. The circuits under my wrist pulsed brightly for almost half a second before I forced them still.
The arrogant trio didn't notice—or maybe they did and mistook it for flickering light.
The first one leaned close enough that I could feel his breath. "Maybe we should test him. See if his useful?
He pressed a boot onto the bucket I was using, tipping it. Water spilled, splashing onto my uniform, running in silent rivulets over my hands.
"Kekeke," the third one chuckled—thin, nasally, more insect than human. "Careful, Ral. What if the *trash* bites?"