The pain followed us back.
It didn't matter that the coats dragged us half-conscious down the halls, or that the clanging doors closed behind us with finality. The pain seeped into our bones, blooming in slow waves that made every breath a punishment. Some of the boys collapsed immediately onto their bunks. Others curled against the wall, rocking silently. I couldn't decide which was worse: the groaning, the whimpers, or the silence that pressed down like a second skin.
I managed to crawl to my bed, my fingers numb and trembling. The mattress reeked of mildew, but I sank into it anyway, shoving my face into the thin blanket as if it could muffle the agony.
My body convulsed in aftershocks. The injections felt like they hadn't stopped, like the liquid still burned through my veins. My stomach knotted so hard I thought I might vomit, but nothing came out. Just a hollow ache that left me shaking.
I tried not to cry.
Not because I wasn't afraid, but because the sound of anyone crying made the others flinch, as if grief itself were contagious.
So I bit down on the edge of the blanket until my jaw ached. I closed my eyes. I pretended, foolishly, that sleep could carry me away from this place. But even exhaustion was cruel.
Every time I began to slip under, I woke again—gasping, twitching, drenched in cold sweat. Images pressed against the back of my eyelids: Doctor Veyren's pale eyes, Alexei's trembling voice, Mira clutching that blue backpack like her life depended on it.
Somewhere in the darkness, a boy muttered a prayer under his breath. Another whispered his mother's name until his voice broke.
I didn't pray. I didn't call for anyone. I just waited. And at some point, though I couldn't say when, waiting blurred into sleep.
It wasn't restful. It wasn't kind. But it was something.
---
Morning came with the screech of metal.
The door slammed open and boots thundered inside. The coats barked orders, their rods gleaming faintly in the dim light. My body still screamed with pain, but instinct—or fear—forced me upright.
"Move," one snapped.
We stumbled out in lines, herded through the narrow hallways like livestock. My legs shook beneath me. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. The air smelled of bleach and rust, but underneath it clung the sour scent of sweat, fear, and something else I didn't want to name.
We reached the gymnasium again. The light buzzed overhead, glaring and relentless.
That was when I saw her.
Mira.
She stood on the far side, among the other girls. The blue backpack was still in her arms, its straps worn thinner than ever. She held it close, the same way she had in the dark—like a shield, like an anchor, like it was the last piece of herself no one could take.
Relief hit me so hard it almost buckled my knees.
Alive. She was alive.
Her eyes found me across the room, sharp and searching. For a heartbeat we just looked at each other, the chaos of the gymnasium blurring into silence around us. Then she began to walk.
Not rushed, not stumbling—just steady, deliberate steps until she stood in front of me.
"You're still alive," she said.
It wasn't wonder. It wasn't even joy. Just a simple statement, laced with something I couldn't name.
I met her gaze. My throat was raw, my body still trembling, but I forced the words out. "Of course I am."
The answer felt strange on my tongue—half-defiance, half-denial. But it was all I had.
She tilted her head slightly, studying me. Then, softer, "What's your name?"
For a moment, the question startled me. Then I realized—on the van, in the hallways, in the nightmare of the last days—we had never spoken to each other directly. I had only overheard her name when the coats called it, echoing in my memory like a whisper.
Mira.
But she hadn't known mine.
"My name…" My voice faltered. It felt like saying it might break something fragile. But then I said it anyway. "Ryan."
Her expression didn't change, but she nodded once, as if filing it away.
I gestured faintly at the blue backpack. "Why do you always carry that? What's inside?"
Her grip tightened. The answer never came.
Because the doors slammed open again.
Doctor Veyren entered with the same leisurely grace as before, his polished shoes clicking against the scuffed wood. His coat swayed slightly as he walked, his pale eyes sweeping across us like a teacher surveying a classroom.
"Ah," he said. The word stretched like silk. "Look at you. Survivors."
He spread his arms wide, a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Fifty-five of you, out of one hundred and fifty. A rather brutal cut, wouldn't you say? But necessary. Weeds choke the garden. Rotten fruit spoils the harvest. You"—he gestured to us with a flourish—"are what remains. Strong enough to endure the fire, pliant enough to be shaped. Worth something."
His eyes glinted, hard as glass.
"The others? Dirt. No more valuable than the floor beneath your feet. Do not mourn them. Do not waste your pity. They were never meant to grow."
A murmur rippled through the rows, quickly silenced.
Doctor Veyren clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly.
"By this week—within seven days—your abilities will awaken. Some of you will burn bright. Some will smolder. A few may sputter and die." His smile widened slightly, the corners of his mouth too sharp to be kind. "But all of you will change. That much, I promise."
His gaze lingered on us like a weight. Then he nodded once, sharply. "Rest. Train. Endure. Your real lives begin now."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, the coats falling in line behind him.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
---
The next four days blurred into one another.
Pain became routine. Headaches came and went, pounding against the inside of my skull like fists on a locked door. Sometimes it was dull and throbbing, other times sharp enough to make me stagger.
The others suffered too. Nosebleeds, fevers, coughing fits that left them doubled over. But no one dared to collapse for long. The coats dragged away anyone who couldn't stand, and they never returned.
At night, in the barracks, whispers filled the dark. Boys speculating about what their abilities would be. Some hoped for strength. Others for speed, or fire, or flight.
I didn't join them. I just lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling, listening to Alexei breathe in the bunk across from mine. He was still alive, though weaker, his voice softer when he spoke.
Mira I saw only in the gymnasium, always with that backpack. She never explained what was inside. I stopped asking. Some things felt too sacred to pry open.
By the fourth day, the headaches became unbearable.
That morning, I woke with my skull splitting in two. It felt like something inside me was trying to claw its way out, pressing against the bone. My vision blurred, my stomach churned, and I nearly collapsed trying to stand.
Every sound was a blade. Every flicker of light a hammer.
I stumbled through the halls, my hands pressed to my temples, but nothing helped. The pain was too big, too heavy, like the world itself had crammed itself into my head.
When we entered the gymnasium, the brightness nearly knocked me to my knees. Mira noticed immediately. She reached out, her hand brushing my arm—not comfort, exactly, but steadying.
"You okay?" she whispered.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to pretend. But the truth tore itself out of me in a ragged whisper.
"No."
And then the pain surged again, sharp enough to make me cry out.
Something inside me was changing.
I could feel it.