Two days later
The road to the Hunter Academy isn't a straight one. It twists in shallow curves, bordered by stone walls and bare trees that lean over like they're trying to hear the tires on the gravel.
The driver says nothing. I don't ask questions. The hum of the engine feels like it's pushing us into a place that doesn't have exits.
The letter is in my pocket, just where it's been since the day it was handed to me. Cream paper, heavier than it should be. Edges still sharp, seal still intact. Every time the vehicle shifts, I feel it brush against my hip, as if reminding me I'm carrying more than paper.
The Academy appears the way a scar does, suddenly, with no choice but to acknowledge it. It sits against the slope of a rise, built in stone so dark it almost swallows the daylight. The walls are tall, flat, unbroken except for the thin vertical cuts of windows.
The gates are taller than the walls, black iron with points like spearheads. They open without sound.
Inside, the yard stretches wide and bare, a rectangle of weathered concrete that carries the echo of every boot that's crossed it. The first thing I see is movement: a formation of youths in dark uniforms, their steps hitting the ground in perfect rhythm. They turn as one at the sharp note of a whistle, each pivot measured, each arm swinging in precise harmony.
They can't all be older than twenty. Some are closer to sixteen.And all of them wear the same look: not just focus, not just discipline. Something brighter, sharper. The way their chins lift when an instructor passes. The small, proud tightening at the corners of their mouths. The unspoken belief that they're part of something more than themselves.
I follow the path along the side of the yard toward the main building. The stone is colder here, the air carrying the faint tang of oil and iron. The sound of boots fades behind me, replaced by the heavier silence of the hall I step into.
The inside light is dimmer: yellow and tired, falling in uneven pools along the floor. The walls are bare except for a few narrow boards, their surfaces stripped of whatever used to hang there. Every sound carries too far, even the soft scrape of my soles against the smooth concrete.
At the far end is a desk. A man sits behind it, his jacket the same dark, dust-swallowing fabric the instructors outside wore. His shoulders are square, his posture unbroken. When his eyes lift to me, it's not curiosity or welcome, I see it's the steady, unchanging gaze of someone measuring distance and weight without needing to stand up.
I step forward and place the envelope on the desk. It stops just short of his hand. For a moment he doesn't touch it, only looks down at it as if the paper might tell him something without being opened. When his fingers close on the edge, they do it without sound. The seal breaks with a muted snap. The page slides free, unfolding without resistance.
His eyes move down the lines in a steady rhythm, the kind that doesn't change speed no matter what it finds. His thumb rests along the edge of the paper, pressing lightly every few seconds, a silent metronome. From my side, I can't see the words, only the way the ink has pressed faint ridges into the fibers.
The room smells faintly of dust and something metallic. Somewhere above, a vent hums softly, the sound just on the edge of hearing. I let my gaze drift, tracing the way the light hits the wall behind him, turning the paint a dull amber.
Halfway through the page, he stops. It's not long, maybe a breath, maybe less but it's there. A stillness within stillness. Then the motion resumes, exactly as before.
When he finishes, the paper lies flat for a moment before being folded along its original crease. The edges align perfectly, as though being read never happened. He sets it down square with the desk's edge, his fingertips lingering for a heartbeat before letting go.
Finally, his gaze returns to me.
"Letter of recommendation," he says, voice flat, weightless.
The words settle in the air without moving toward me.
I keep my face still, but the thought slides in without permission: Not an invitation. Not acceptance. Just permission to stand at the door and knock.
And permission can vanish as easily as it's given.
"You'll take the entrance examination," he continues, his tone exactly the same. "Three parts: agility, strength, psychological. "
The first two are easy to picture. Agility: beams, walls, ropes, the kind of course built to watch mine slip. Strength: not just lifting, but seeing how I keep moving when I'm already emptied yourself out. Psychological. That one has no shape in my mind. Which makes it the real test.
I'd thought this letter was the door. That it meant I was already inside. But no - it's just the right to try, the same as anyone else standing in line.
He gestures toward a side door. "Waiting area's through there. You'll be called when it's your turn." The man at the desk doesn't look at me when he speaks again. He reaches into the drawer at his side, the motion as precise as everything else he's done, and pulls out a strip of thick, stiff card. On it, three numbers 712.
He sets it on the desk, not quite in my direction, but close enough that I know it's mine. The paper smells faintly of ink and something chemical.
"This is your number," he says, voice flat. "You'll be called by it during the examinations."
No name. No title. No other form of address. Just numbers.
I slide the card off the desk. The surface is smooth, but the inked digits feel heavier than they should. I turn it once in my hand, the numbers catching the yellow light in uneven flashes. And I slip the card into my pocket.
In a place like this, maybe that's the point: to make you smaller, sharper, easier to keep in line.
The hallway beyond is narrow, its floor marked with scuffs where chairs have been dragged too often. The waiting area is a long room with benches against both walls, a stretch of bare space in the middle.
I sit at the far end, angled just enough to see the whole room without making it obvious I'm watching. The space is long, rectangular, and bare except for the benches lining either wall. A single strip of light filters through a high window, its glow thin and muted, turning the air into something dust-thick and heavy.
They're young. I can see it in the way they sit: all forward lean and restless knees, or forced stillness that can't quite hide the tension underneath. Seventeen, eighteen, maybe a few still on the wrong side of sixteen. Their faces have the unshaped edges of people who haven't been worn down yet.
Each has their number pinned high on their chest. Black ink on white cloth. Clean, uncreased, as if the very idea of dirt hasn't yet occurred to them. My 712 is in my pocket, but they wear theirs like a second name.
Their uniforms match perfectly: dark, utilitarian, not a wrinkle in sight. The boots are stiff with newness, still carrying the gloss from the factory press. The laces are tight, the knot work neat, the kind of precision you can only get from practice in a mirror. Even their hair is stripped of individuality - short, practical, chosen for function over style.
They look like they've been told exactly how to appear, and they've obeyed.
A few lean forward, elbows braced on knees, eyes tracking the doorway like they could be called any second. Their hands curl into loose fists without touching, not out of fear but out of habit - training the body to be ready before the mind can even ask for it.
Others lean back, knees wide, shoulders loose, their ease deliberate. They don't need to look like they're ready: they want to look like they're already beyond that. Confidence as performance.
They glance at one another in the way people do when they've been told they're part of the same side but haven't decided if they believe it yet. It's not hostility, not even close. But there's an edge of silent accounting. Who's strong. Who's weak. Who will be worth remembering after today.
When they speak, it's quiet, voices dipped low, just enough to stay in their own circle. I catch pieces. Talk about training runs, about obstacle times, about the weight they can lift without strain. Someone mentions their older brother, a hunter now, who passed on the first try and was already sent out on missions within the year. The others listen with an attentiveness that isn't about the story, but about absorbing the image of what they want to be.
It's pride, but not loud pride. It's the kind that fits neatly into the corners of their eyes, the set of their shoulders, the tiny lift in their chins when they talk about hunters like they're not people but a rank of legend.
The air in the room holds that belief. That if they pass the tests, they'll belong to something worth giving themselves to completely.
I wonder how much of that will survive the first year. How much will survive the first mission.
One boy sits almost directly across from me. Number 645. His gaze slips over me, pauses, then moves away: quick, like he didn't mean to be caught. I saw it anyway: a jaw set too tightly, eyes a shade too focused.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just the instinct to measure.
They all have it. That scanning, subtle as breath. It's not just about proving themselves to the instructors, it's about proving themselves here, to this group, before the Academy has even decided if they're worth keeping.
A girl three seats down from me adjusts the number on her chest. She smooths the cloth twice before letting go, her fingers brushing the edge one last time, like she's reminding herself it's real. Her boots are perfectly placed under her knees, heels touching.
No slouch, no drift. The discipline is already there.But discipline is different from endurance. And endurance is different from survival.
The 712 card is warm in my pocket. Heat without meaning. For them, these numbers are a badge, something they've already claimed as part of their identity. For me, it's just a placeholder.
In a place like this, a number doesn't mean you belong. It means you're waiting to see if you'll be allowed to.
The light from the high window shifts, bending across the floor in a slow arc. It catches the edge of the bench opposite me, turning the wood from dull brown to a brief gold before sliding away again. No one notices but me.
The door opens. An old man steps in, his presence pulling the air tighter around us without raising his voice.
"Numbers will be called in groups of three," he says. "First test is agility. Good luck."