CHAPTER ONE: BODHI
Surprisingly, they didn't cuff me.
That should've made me feel relieved.
It didn't.
I had just killed a man.
And yet, the one thing I feared most was the man standing in front of me.
Iseph held a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other, as if this were a casual meeting instead of an arrest.
"Do you know why we decided to recruit you?" he asked, crimson eyes lifting from the page.
"No," I answered calmly.
I was lying to myself. My chest felt tight.
The unease hadn't left me since the bar.
Why me?
What made me worth recruiting?
"It's good that you said you didn't know," Iseph said, flipping a page.
I frowned. "Why is that good?"
"For starters," he replied, sliding the cigarette between the pages as a bookmark, "I hate people who answer questions they don't understand."
That made no sense.
The more time I spent around him, the more confusing he became. How could someone hate an answer to their own question?
Honestly, this guy sounded like a nightmare to work for.
"You just thought I was a real piece of work, didn't you?" Iseph said, staring straight at me.
My breath hitched.
"How did you—" I snapped. "What are you? A mind reader? Psychic?"
"Why don't you guess, Dushata?" he said, chuckling.
Even the devil could laugh, it seemed.
He returned to his book like nothing had happened.
I clenched my fists. "So how did you stop the bullets I shot at you?"
"They weren't meant to reach me."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No," he said calmly, turning the page. "It answers the important part."
My jaw tightened. "You don't just stop bullets because you're lucky."
Iseph finally looked up.
His face had an annoyed expression to it, his gaze felt heavy, like pressure on my bones.
"People like to call it Karma," he said. "It makes them feel like the universe is fair."
"And?" I pressed.
"And fairness has nothing to do with it."
He shut the book.
"It's all about weight," he said, his voice steady. "It's the sum of everything we carry, accumulated, measured, and given meaning."
My stomach twisted. "From what?"
"From everything you've done," he replied.
"And a few things you haven't."
I opened my mouth to ask more.
He smiled thinly. "That's all you get."
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been eating at me.
"Iseph… is it normal to not feel guilt after killing someone?"
His expression sharpened.
"Did you feel joy?" he asked.
"Power rushing through you?"
"Y-yeah," I admitted quietly. "Exactly like that."
For the first time, Iseph looked genuinely surprised.
Then excited.
"Damn, Dushata…" he muttered. "You really are something else."
My throat tightened. "Does that mean something?"
He chuckled—low and humorless.
"It means," he said, meeting my eyes,
"You probably won't live very long."
The words didn't sound like a threat.
They sounded like a conclusion.
Before I could respond, the vehicle lurched forward. The hum of the engine deepened, vibrating through the metal beneath my feet. Iseph leaned back, already disinterested, flipping his book open again as if the conversation had ended exactly where he intended.
I stared at the floor, jaw clenched.
Strangely, fear didn't come.
Instead, something stirred.
A pressure settled in my chest—familiar, faint, the same weight I'd felt in the bar before the trigger pulled. It wasn't emotion. It wasn't adrenaline.
It was an expectation.
The city above us faded as the road dipped sharply downward. Light drained from the windows, replaced by long, fluorescent lines that stretched endlessly ahead. Concrete walls closed in, layered with steel plating and warning sigils I didn't recognize.
The deeper we went, the heavier the air became.
Not thick.
Not suffocating.
Measured.
Iseph's page turned.
"You feel it, don't you?" he said casually, eyes still on the book.
I stiffened. "Feel what?"
"The pull," he replied. "Most people don't notice until it's crushing them."
I said nothing.
Because I did feel it.
The tunnel opened suddenly, revealing a massive underground cavern carved into the earth itself. Towers of metal and reinforced glass rose from the floor like a buried city, lights pulsing in organized patterns. Armored vehicles lined platforms below. Armed personnel moved with purpose, every step synchronized.
This wasn't just a base.
It was a machine.
And I was being fed into it.
The vehicle slowed, then stopped.
Iseph stood first, stretching as he stepped out like this was home.
"Welcome," he said over his shoulder, voice light,
"to the Concord Division."
I followed, legs steady despite the weight pressing down on me.
As my foot hit the ground, something shifted—subtle, internal. Like a scale tipping, locking into place.
For the first time since my mother's last words echoed in my mind, a single thought surfaced—quiet, unwelcome, and absolute:
This place isn't here to teach me how to survive.
It's here to see how much I can carry before I break.