The paint took longer to scrub off than he expected.
FULCRUM stood under the lukewarm spray in the Nu-7 locker room, head tipped forward, watching diluted red run down his chest in thin streams.
Sim dye.
Not blood.
His skin knew the difference.
His brain took a little longer to be convinced.
He shut the water off when his fingers started to prune and the last of the red faded from his shoulder.
In the mirror, the bruise from 106 had gone yellow at the edges, an ugly halo under newer pink where the sim round had hit.
He touched the spot lightly.
"Educational," he muttered to his reflection.
The reflection didn't argue.
The locker room door creaked.
"Occupied," FULCRUM called.
"Locker room, not confession booth," KESTREL said. "You're safe. Mostly."
She stepped in, still half in gear—undershirt damp, hair pulled back, training rig spattered with red and blue.
He was already in fresh pants, towel around his neck, shirt hanging from one hand.
"Thought Fox had its own showers," he said.
"They do," she said. "Also thought you might try to pretend getting shot in the chest didn't bother you. So here I am."
She dropped onto the bench opposite his locker, elbows on her knees.
"How bad?" she asked, nodding at his ribs.
"Sim round," he said. "Stings. Bruised the ego more than the tissue."
"Good," she said. "You have enough real injuries."
He pulled the shirt on, movements stiff.
"First time?" she asked.
"Dying in foam?" he said.
She nodded.
"First time it counted," he said.
She tipped her head.
"Counts how?" she asked.
"People were watching," he said. "There was a replay."
KESTREL huffed a breath that was almost a laugh.
"You die in live ops too," she said. "Just slower."
He didn't disagree.
She watched him for a second.
"Did it feel different?" she asked. "Knowing you could step out after?"
"Yes," he said. "I could focus on what I missed instead of who I left behind."
He sat down on the bench, towel still looped around his neck like a half-finished thought.
"I saw the angle wrong," he added. "Ceiling as decoration, not threat."
"Now you won't," she said.
"Until something else kills me," he said.
"Optimistic," she said dryly.
"Practical," he replied.
She leaned back against the lockers, metal rattling faintly.
"For what it's worth," she said, "watching you eat paint sucked."
"It was just dye," he said.
"You know I don't mean that," she said.
He did.
She nudged his boot with hers.
"Next time," she said, "split the cube. You take doors. I'll take ceilings. If something drops, I'll yell before it eats you."
"I thought that was FUSE's job," he said.
"FUSE yells about walls," she said. "I'll handle the gravity."
He let the corner of his mouth move.
"Deal," he said.
The med bay lights were softer than the training bay's.
PATCH waited with her scanner, perched on a rolling stool like she'd grown out of the furniture.
"Sit," she said, tapping the exam table.
"I'm fine," he said.
She arched a brow.
"Sit," she repeated.
He obeyed.
She ran the scanner over his chest, expression smoothing into professional blankness as bruising patterns showed up on the display.
"Sim paint and a little underlying trauma," she said. "Nothing cracked. Foxes didn't break my favorite breach lead. I'll send them a thank-you card."
"You have a favorite breach lead?" he asked.
"I'm legally obligated to say 'no comment,'" she replied.
She set the scanner aside.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Loud," he said. "Structured. Educational."
She gave him The Look.
"Emotionally," she clarified.
He considered.
"Strange," he said. "To fall and know the only thing I lost was pride."
She nodded slowly.
"You know you're allowed to be rattled by that, right?" she said.
"I didn't like watching them adjust around me," he admitted. "Even though that was the point."
"Because you want to be the one adjusting, not the gap," she said.
"Yes," he said.
"Good news," she said. "You can be both. Just not at the same time."
He blinked.
"That's not how the math works," he said.
"You're not a math problem," she said.
He almost argued. Then didn't.
"Do you want more runs like that?" she asked. "Maze, sim death, replay."
"Yes," he said.
"Because?" she prompted.
"Because I'd rather learn how to die in foam than in front of my team," he said.
She watched him for a moment, something soft and worried in her eyes.
"Okay," she said. "Then we make that part of the routine. I'll flag it in your file as 'therapeutic exposure.' Ethics loves that phrase."
"Is that true?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But they don't have to know that."
He snorted.
She reached out and straightened the collar of his shirt.
"You did good," she said quietly. "Not because you got shot. Because you let yourself get shot somewhere it didn't stick."
"Work in progress," he said.
"Aren't we all," she replied.
The mess hall was in its late-cycle lull.
Half the tables empty, the other half occupied by operators in various stages of exhaustion.
FUSE sat at one end, laptop open, feeds flickering across the screen—training telemetry, vitals, maze layouts.
He looked up when FULCRUM dropped onto the bench opposite him.
"Enjoy your first foam demise?" FUSE asked.
"Enjoy watching it?" FULCRUM countered.
"Immensely," FUSE said. "In a clinical, non-sadistic way."
"Those exist?" FULCRUM asked.
"Not really," FUSE admitted.
He shoved a mug across the table.
"Drink," he said.
FULCRUM eyed it.
"Is this going to kill me faster than the maze?" he asked.
"Only emotionally," FUSE said.
He took a cautious sip.
It was terrible.
"I thought Fox had a coffee machine," FULCRUM said.
"They do," FUSE said. "This is better for morale. They see what you voluntarily drink and assume you're unkillable."
"Questionable methodology," FULCRUM said.
"Effective, though," FUSE said.
He went back to the laptop, fingers tapping.
"PATCH flagged your runs as 'therapeutic,'" FUSE said. "That's new."
"She likes that word," FULCRUM said.
"She likes you not dying," FUSE replied.
He hesitated.
"We all do," he added, quieter.
FULCRUM nodded once.
"Noted," he said.
FUSE smirked.
"Don't make it weird," FUSE said.
"I wasn't," FULCRUM said.
"Lies," FUSE replied.
They sat in companionable silence for a few seconds.
"You going back into the maze?" FUSE asked.
"Yes," FULCRUM said.
"Good," FUSE said. "Try not to give BAY-4 a complex by outperforming him in his own house."
"No promises," FULCRUM said.
"Atta boy," FUSE muttered.
Later, in his room, the replay glowed on the small screen.
Run one: ceiling drop, red across his chest.
Run four: barrel already rising, foam target shredded before it could fall.
He watched the moments between the two.
The tiny adjustments.
The way his stance shifted after each failure.
"Blind corners," ECHO-LEAD had called the chapter.
He'd meant the maze.
FULCRUM thought of the places that had killed him slower—hospital corridors, stairwells, crystal shards creeping up walls, the way a building sounded when its beams started to give.
No replays there.
No foam.
He shut the screen off.
The knock on his door was softer this time.
Not the sharp triple-tap of an alert. Just two knuckles, three times, hesitant.
He opened it.
KESTREL stood in the hall, hair damp from her own shower, hands in the pockets of a hoodie that had definitely started life as standard-issue and acquired personality over time.
"You left this," she said, holding up his training rig.
He frowned.
"I thought I hung it," he said.
"You did," she said. "In Fox's prep room. NOVA dropped it off. I intercepted."
She held it out.
Red streaks still marked the chest.
He took it.
"Thanks," he said.
She didn't move.
"You all right?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
She gave him a look.
"Complicated," he amended.
"Better," she said.
She rocked on her heels.
"I don't like seeing you fall," she said quietly. "Even in foam."
"I noticed," he said.
"Try not to make a habit of it," she said.
"I'll put in a request," he said.
She huffed.
"Good night, FULCRUM," she said.
"Night," he replied.
She hesitated.
"Hey," she added. "Next time you're going into the maze, let me know. I want to be on your six. Feels wrong watching from outside."
He nodded.
"Okay," he said.
She seemed satisfied with that.
She turned to go.
"KESTREL," he said.
She looked back.
"Thanks," he said.
She smiled, quick and real.
"Occupational hazard," she said.
When he closed the door, the room felt slightly less like a box and slightly more like a place he chose to be.
He hung the rig where it belonged.
The red streak across the chest plate had dried to a dull rust color.
Just paint.
For now.