They came from everywhere.
Some rode creaking bicycles across war-torn districts, others slipped through sewer tunnels or bribed their way past checkpoints with what little they had—canned food, family heirlooms, encrypted files. By the end of the week, nearly three dozen new recruits had arrived at the underground library. They were engineers, ex-soldiers, smuggled nurses, and quiet citizens with loud intentions.
But loyalty couldn't be assumed. Trust had to be earned.
Kirion stood before the recruits in what was once the children's reading room—now reinforced with sandbags and fitted with surveillance dampeners. Maps, blueprints, and resistance symbols replaced storybook murals.
"You're not here just to fight," he said. "You're here because you believe in something more than survival. But belief doesn't mean trust. We've been betrayed before. Some of you might even be here to do it again."
The room went still. Eyes narrowed. A few shifted uncomfortably.
"So, we test."
The trials were designed not to break but to reveal. Over the next several days, Kirion and his daughter led rotating teams through carefully crafted simulations—mock evacuations under duress, misinformation traps, and ethical dilemmas. Each scenario tested a recruit's instincts, values, and reactions under pressure.
One involved a staged breach—alarms blaring, masked figures posing as government enforcers storming in. The objective was simple: protect a coded drive at all costs. Half the group failed, scattering or surrendering immediately. The others showed promise—using teamwork, ingenuity, and restraint.
Another trial was quieter. A conversation recorded in a dim-lit room, where a recruiter pretended to defect and offer critical intel—for a price: betraying a fellow recruit. The cameras told the story better than words. Some hesitated, some refused. One accepted.
That one didn't return.
Kirion reviewed the footage each night, sleepless, his daughter beside him, analyzing data and behavior patterns.
"You're turning into a paranoid strategist," she said softly one evening.
"I have to," he replied. "We're building something too fragile to risk—yet too powerful to rush."
One recruit stood out: a young woman named Liora. A former drone operator, she'd disappeared two years ago after a surveillance failure led to the deaths of innocents. Kirion watched her lead a blindfolded teammate through a maze of obstacles, never raising her voice, never faltering.
"She knows what it means to carry guilt," he murmured. "She'll fight to make sure she never has to again."
Others struggled. A boy named Tavon, barely sixteen, couldn't hold a weapon without trembling. But he could wire a relay node in under thirty seconds.
"Keep him off the field," Kirion instructed. "But give him access to the relay tower project. We need minds like his."
After ten days, twenty-four of the original thirty-four remained. Tired, bruised, but sharper—bonded by sweat, shared meals, and unspoken understanding.
Kirion gathered them in the former archive room.
"You've passed—not because you were perfect, but because you were honest. In this fight, truth is our only weapon stronger than bullets."
He let the silence settle.
"Welcome to the resistance. From this point on, you don't stand alone."
And for the first time in a long while, they believed it.