The thing about waiting for your life to change is that you never really know when it's already started.
I sat at the dinner table on the night before my sixteenth birthday, watching my little brother push rice around his plate in patterns that probably meant something to him. Mom kept refilling Dad's water glass even though it was still half full. Dad kept thanking her anyway. Nobody was talking about tomorrow, which meant everyone was thinking about it.
"Miles." Mom's voice had that careful quality to it. The one that meant she'd rehearsed this. "Whatever happens tomorrow—"
"I know." I cut her off because I couldn't handle the rest of that sentence.
"But if you do awaken," Dad said slowly, "and they offer you academy placement—"
"I know," I said again.
My brother finally looked up. "What's it feel like?"
"Nobody knows until it happens."
"Marcus," Mom said, "finish your dinner."
He went back to his rice patterns. I went back to pretending I wasn't terrified.
I woke up on the floor.
Not near the bed. Across the room, pressed against the wall, heart hammering like I'd just sprinted up six flights of stairs.
I blinked. Stood. Looked at my bed twelve feet away.
I took a step toward it and the world lurched.
Suddenly I was standing on the bed. No transition. No movement. Just—there.
My legs buckled and I hit the mattress hard. The room twisted and I was at the door. Then the desk. Then the window. Each jump felt like someone had grabbed me by the spine and yanked me through space without bothering to bring my stomach along.
I couldn't stop it.
Every time I tried to move, I *shifted*. The room spun in fragments, my body appearing and disappearing like a broken video feed. Bile rose in my throat.
I tried to scream but displaced mid-breath and nearly bit my tongue.
The door burst open. Mom and Dad stood there in their pajamas, and the look on Mom's face—pride and terror in equal measure—made something in my chest crack.
"Miles." Dad's voice was steady. Practiced. "Don't move. Don't think about moving. Just breathe."
I tried. Displaced to the corner. Doubled over.
"It's okay," Mom said, but her hands were shaking. "You're awakening, sweetheart."
I flickered between three positions in as many seconds.
Dad already had his phone out. "Yes, we need an evaluation team. Spatial displacement, uncontrolled."
The displacement slowed—not stopped, but the gaps lengthened.
"Twenty minutes," Dad said.
Twenty minutes of standing perfectly still, afraid that if I relaxed I'd splatter myself across the ceiling.
Mom stayed in the doorway. Watching.
Marcus appeared behind them. "Why does he get powers? It's not fair."
Nobody answered.
"Go back to bed," Dad said quietly.
My brother left, but I heard what he muttered: "Lucky."
Mom and Dad pretended they hadn't heard. I stayed frozen, feeling anything but.
The evaluation team arrived in nineteen minutes. Two people in gray uniforms. They took one look at me and nodded like they'd seen this a thousand times.
"Spatial displacement," the woman said, making notes. "Standard manifestation. You'll be processed tomorrow morning. Oh-eight-hundred."
"Can we come—" Mom started.
"Parents aren't permitted in evaluation zones."
They left as quickly as they'd come.
Mom's hug lasted too long. When she finally let go, she looked at me like she was already practicing goodbye.
Dad gripped my shoulder. Neither of them said anything else.
I didn't sleep after that. Just sat on the floor, practicing not moving.
By morning I was exhausted and wired and sick.
Marcus didn't come down to breakfast.
The testing facility was a concrete block on the edge of the city. No windows. No decoration.
Dozens of sixteen-year-olds crowded the entrance, some crying, some laughing, all crackling with uncontrolled power.
We were all disasters.
They processed us in groups. Names. Identification. Medical screening. Then: the tests.
Test one happened in a white room. The evaluator was a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a tablet. Her badge read:
Dr. Sarah Chen, Senior Evaluator.
She looked at me like I was data to be categorized.
"Use your ability."
I focused, pushed, and appeared three feet to the left. Stumbled. Caught myself against the wall. Tasted bile.
Dr. Chen made a note. "Again. Farther."
Maybe six feet. Landed poorly.
"Spatial displacement. Short range. Poor accuracy. Physical disorientation." She looked up. "Does it always make you sick?"
"Yeah."
"Noted. Maximum distance."
I pushed harder. Maybe ten feet. Hit the wall and slid down. Took me thirty seconds to stand.
Dr. Chen's expression didn't change. "Adequate."
Through the window, I saw the next station. A kid creating geometric shapes made of solid light that hung in the air like sculptures. Complex. Beautiful. Controlled.
Dr. Chen glanced over. "Construct manifestation. High-tier. Rare." She looked back at me. "Spatial displacement is common. One in fifty. Useful for logistics."
Test two was physical. Push-ups, sprints, grip strength. No powers allowed.
I was average. Exactly average.
The kid next to me hit every test in the top percentile. The evaluator watching him smiled.
The one watching me just wrote numbers.
In the corner, a girl with dark hair and exhausted eyes. I'd seen her ability—enhanced cognition. She'd analyzed patterns in seconds.
Her physical scores were low. The evaluator dismissed her with barely a glance.
Test three was questions.
"What matters more: following orders or achieving the objective?"
"Depends on the situation."
"If you could save one person or complete a mission that saves many, which do you choose?"
"The mission. I think."
"Your ability makes you nauseous. Does that concern you?"
"Because I can't fight if I can't think straight."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then dismissed me.
I waited with fifty other teenagers.
The girl with cognition ability got called before me. She came back two minutes later. Walked past toward the exit.
"What happened?" I asked.
She looked at me. "Denied placement. Cognitive enhancement doesn't fit their 'combat application matrix.' Doesn't matter that I could calculate trajectories faster than anyone." Her voice was flat. "Good luck with yours."
She left.
Twenty minutes later, they called my name.
The evaluator didn't look up. His badge read: Marcus Reeves, Classification Officer.
"Miles Sawyer." Neutral. Bored.
"Yes."
"Spatial displacement. Utility classification. Low initial output, significant adverse physical response. Physical assessment: adequate. Psychological screening: acceptable." He slid a packet across. "Grayhaven Combat Academy. Conditional acceptance. Support and reconnaissance track. Report in two weeks."
"Conditional?"
"Provisionally admitted pending baseline performance standards. Six weeks to demonstrate acceptable progress. Failure results in reassignment or discharge." He looked at me then. "Do you understand?"
"I think so."
"Spatial displacement is a cute trick for a retreat specialist, Sawyer. Useful. Logistics, transportation, emergency extraction." He tapped his tablet. "Not front-line combat. You're not built for that."
Cute trick.
"Can I appeal—"
He almost smiled. "You got accepted. Conditionally. That's better than sixty percent of the kids here." His expression flattened. "Don't waste the opportunity trying to be something you're not."
"Next."
I stood, clutching the packet.
GRAYHAVEN COMBAT ACADEMY
CONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE
SPATIAL DISPLACEMENT - UTILITY CLASS
Outside, other kids were celebrating. The boy with construct manifestation was being congratulated by evaluators. Top-tier placement. Elite track.
The girl who'd been denied sat on the curb alone.
Dad was waiting in the parking lot. He saw my face. "Well?"
"I got in."
Relief cracked across his expression. He pulled me into a hug, hands shaking. "Thank god."
"It's conditional. Utility class. Support. Six weeks to prove myself or they kick me out."
"But you got in. That's what matters."
Was it?
Mom was waiting at home. She hugged me, said all the right things, but I saw it in her eyes.
Marcus didn't come downstairs until dinner. When he did, he barely looked at me.
"Congratulations." Flat. Mechanical.
"Must be nice. Getting powers."
"Marcus—" Mom started.
"I'm just saying congratulations." He looked at me. "Are you leaving?"
"In two weeks."
He nodded. Went back to his food.
Later, I heard him through the wall on the phone. "...yeah, my brother awakened... no, I don't know if I will..."
The longing in his voice made something twist in my gut.
I sat with the packet open.
Baseline expectations: Qi Refinement Stage 2 minimum within six weeks. Demonstrated tactical application of manifested ability. Acceptable physical conditioning.
Six weeks. Stage 2.
I still couldn't teleport accurately. Still got sick every time. Still couldn't go more than ten feet.
Cute trick for a retreat specialist.
I tried practicing. Focused on the far wall. Pushed.
Appeared two feet to the right. Wrong distance. Sat down hard before I could fall. Nausea rolled through me.
Tried again. Worse.
Downstairs, Mom and Dad were talking in low voices. I couldn't make out words, but the tone was clear. Worried. Uncertain.
I didn't feel like a fighter. I felt like I'd been given a chance to fail somewhere else, in front of people who'd already decided what I was worth.
The packet sat on my desk, official and final.
Two weeks. Then I'd find out if "conditional" meant "opportunity" or just "delayed rejection."
---
END CHAPTER 1