The port was already a distant blur. The ship cut through the water with a low, steady sound; as you walked, your steps naturally fell into rhythm with it. The wind wasn't strong enough to drive us back inside, but it was more than enough to mess up the hair of anyone who stood still too long.
On the main deck, a few bolted-down tables had small groups gathered around them. In one corner, two students argued over a seat by the railing; in another, a boy exaggerated a story about his former school.
A monitor above the main entrance displayed the time and date in glowing green digits: 08:47 AM, October 12. It was still early, and the sun was only just managing to break through the haze.
A supervisor passed along the walkway and, as if by magic, the voices dropped in volume.
—Devon! Kael called me from a table near the railing. He had cleared some space in the center, where a deck of cards lay waiting. Three others sat with him.
The first was a girl with reddish-brown hair tied high in a ponytail, fair skin dotted with freckles that stood out when the light hit her face. Her dark eyes were serious, attentive, as if she weighed every word that was spoken. The card hanging from her neck read E-05.
Beside her sat a tall, lean boy with rectangular glasses that half-concealed his gaze. His black hair was neatly combed to the side, his back straight, as though even the way he sat mattered. G-19.
The third was the opposite: broad-shouldered, with tanned skin and a blue sports jacket. He gestured with his hands as he talked, as if everything he said were part of a performance, and his crooked grin gave him an air of easy confidence. C-12.
—We're one short to make it fun —Kael said, patting the empty chair.
I set my backpack on the ground and sat down, taking a quick look at the three.
—A pleasure —I said with a brief smile—. I'm Devon.
The boy with the glasses lifted the deck and shuffled it with precision.
—Nadir.
The girl gave a small nod.
—Salma.
The one in the sports jacket raised his hand like he was greeting a teammate.
—Tori.
Kael, seated among them, added cheerfully:
—And you already know me.
—What are we playing? —I asked.
Nadir set the cards on the table.
—Veiled Cards.
Salma looked up briefly.
—Explain it.
Nadir nodded.
—It's simple. The turns follow a fixed order of values: aces first, then twos, then threes, and so on up to kings. Once you reach the end, it loops back to aces.
He placed a card face down in front of him.
—For example, I say "one ace." The next player has to declare twos, even if they don't have any. They can tell the truth and play them, or lie.
Salma spoke quietly.
—The others decide whether to accept it and let the round continue… or challenge it.
—To challenge, you just say "doubt" —Nadir continued—. Then the cards are flipped over. If the player was lying, they take the whole pile. If they were telling the truth, the challenger takes it instead.
Tori grinned, leaning back in his chair.
—And yeah, you can skip your turn if you don't want to risk it. But do it too often, and people will mark you as someone who doesn't know how to play. And that reputation sticks.
Nadir added:
—On your turn, you must name the value in sequence and then say how many cards you're putting down: one, two, or three.
Salma leaned in slightly.
—Those cards can be real… or a bluff. Nobody will know until someone doubts.
Nadir nodded again.
—For example, if it's the turn for threes, you could say "three. Two cards" and put two face down. They might be threes… or not.
I settled into my chair.
Kael smiled at me with his usual ease.
—The goal's simple: get rid of all your cards. But here, the winner isn't the one with the best hand, it's the one who knows how to use their words and read faces. And to make it more interesting, I say we add a wager: whoever ends up with the most cards when someone runs out has to tell one true fact about themselves. Nothing scandalous. Just real.
—I'm in —Salma said quietly.
—Count me in —Tori added, slapping the table softly.
—Agreed —Nadir said with a nod.
—I'm fine with that —I replied.
Nadir squared the deck and placed it in the middle.
—I'll deal the cards.
The cards slid across the table one by one, their soft snap mingling with the sway of the ship.
—I'll start —he said, laying one down—. Ace.
—Two —Salma declared, placing two cards with clean precision.
Tori glanced at his hand, then leaned back.
—Pass.
My turn. I had a lone ace and some mid-value cards.
—One —I said, putting it down.
Kael's grin widened.
—Two. I'll put two. Not lying yet.
Nadir didn't hesitate.
—Three. One card.
Salma narrowed her eyes at him.
—Three… doubt.
Nadir flipped his card. A perfect three.
—Clean.
Salma exhaled sharply and gathered the pile.
The next round moved quickly.
—Four —Tori said—. Three cards.
—Doubt —I replied.
Tori turned them over: two fours and a seven.
—Guess I got distracted.
He pulled the pile toward himself with a rueful grin, while Kael laughed aloud.
The wind dragged a napkin across the deck, and a gull swooped over our heads. No one looked away from the table.
—Five —I said—. Two.
Kael nodded.
—Six. One.
Nadir adjusted his glasses.
—Seven. Two.
Salma, weighed down with cards, chose not to risk it.
—Pass.
Tori leaned forward.
—Eight. Three.
—Doubt —Kael shot in quickly.
The cards were turned. Two eights and a king.
—Close —Salma said, amused.
Tori gathered the pile between chuckles.
—Or too much.
The game rolled on. Each of them revealed their style: Nadir meticulous, Salma precise, Tori chaotic and joking, Kael sociable and talkative. The pile grew and vanished in turns. Their stares weighed as much as the cards.
In the end, Nadir ran out first. He spread his empty hands on the table.
—Fair game.
Tori lifted his thick hand of cards, heavy as a brick.
—I lost.
Kael pointed at him with a grin.
—True fact.
Tori looked at the sea, his voice dropping.
—I enrolled here because I refuse to follow my family's plan. That's all.
No one laughed. The silence lasted just long enough. Salma tucked away her cards carefully. Nadir gave a slight nod. Kael patted Tori lightly on the arm.
I held his gaze a few seconds longer than the others, my expression unreadable. His words reminded me of things I'd rather not revisit. Then I looked away, letting the silence swallow it.
I stood, adjusting my backpack.
—Thanks for the game.
—Anytime you want a rematch —Kael said.
—And next time I won't be the one carrying it all —Salma added.
—Or I'll prove calculation beats luck —Nadir remarked.
—At least I'll stop getting distracted by gulls —Tori joked, drawing a round of laughter.
I gave them a nod and walked away. The air tasted of salt and iron, and the sea's murmur filled the gaps the game had left behind.
Toward the bow, the smell of fuel faded with the wind, replaced by pure salt spray.
Lyra was standing at the railing. The black notebook peeked out from the side pocket of her bag. She didn't look distracted; she looked occupied with something that wasn't visible.
—Do you get dizzy if you look too far down? —I asked, taking my place beside her and leaning on the railing.
—Only if I think about the movement —she replied—. Looking far helps.
—Does it work?
—So far.
A chair scraped behind us, making us turn. Two boys had collided as they stood too quickly.
—You hid my card! —snapped one, thin, his face red.
—What are you talking about? I never touched it —the taller one shot back, frowning.
—I left it on the table and now it's gone. And you were right here.
The tall boy threw up his hands, irritated.
—Seriously, you think I care about your card? Check your bag, you probably shoved it in there.
—Don't lie. I saw you push it when you reached across.
The tension spiked; several heads turned to watch. The thin one had already stepped forward, and the taller one mirrored him, neither willing to back down.
A supervisor slipped between them. His voice wasn't raised, but the weight of it carried more than a shout.
—If something really is missing, we'll deal with it at the port. Sit down.
The thin boy was still breathing hard, but he dropped into his seat with a loud thud. The taller one huffed, crossing his arms. Bit by bit, the onlookers returned to their own conversations.
We turned back to the sea.
—They're noisy —Lyra said without sarcasm, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
—Looks like it —I admitted—. Though sometimes that energy helps. Makes people feel this is more… normal than it really is.
Lyra kept her eyes on the horizon, as if she didn't want her words to sound too personal.
—That's useful. Most people, when they talk too much, only end up pushing others away.
—And you? —I asked, tilting my head toward her—. Do you prefer not to take up space?
—I prefer the space not to take me up. —This time she met my gaze, then shrugged it off.
The wind pulled her hair back, and she finally let go of the railing. Her knuckles were cold, and she rubbed them with her sleeve.
—Do you think there'll be strange rules when we arrive? —Lyra asked, spinning the notebook between her fingers.
—There'll be a boring rulebook, for sure —I replied—. Schedules, uniforms, the usual.
—And punishments for breaking them —she added, almost to herself.
—That's normal. —I shrugged—. Everywhere has rules.
Lyra leaned on the railing again.
—The difference is who enforces them.
I glanced at her, but she was already staring back at the sea, as if she hadn't said anything important.
—Well —I said—, as long as they don't make me wake up early, I'll manage.
That drew a faint smile from her, almost hidden. The wind lifted her hair again, and for a moment neither of us spoke. The silence didn't weigh; it was comfortable, as if the conversation could pick up again whenever it wanted.
A loudspeaker crackled, asking everyone to clear the stairways. Benches and backpacks shifted as the deck reorganized itself. I stayed there a little longer, watching the line where the sea seemed to join two different colors. Sometimes what matters starts sounding like background noise.
Alternate POV — Deputy Director K. Mira
The lower level vibrated evenly. I swiped my card to open the service room; the monitors took two seconds to light up. The white glow made the metal look newer than it was.
Coordinator Avila was already there, standing by the central panel. She was a woman in her late thirties, with chestnut hair pulled into a strict bun, though a few rebellious strands always slipped free. Her steel-gray eyes scanned the screen with cold focus. The institutional uniform fit her with military precision: a navy-blue uniform jacket, blazer-style, tailored to the waist with silver trim running along the shoulders and a double line of matte buttons that caught the light when she moved. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt was buttoned neatly to the collar, the fabric stiff enough to hold its shape without a wrinkle. The matching straight-cut trousers fell cleanly to her polished shoes, the crease down the front sharp as a blade. A black leather belt held a compact standard-issue device at her side, its metallic casing glinting faintly under the white light. Not a thread or fold was out of place; she looked as if the uniform itself had been designed around her.
—They're wound up —she said, not taking her eyes off the central monitor.
—It's the first day —I replied—. When they don't know what to look at, they look at each other.
In my own reflection on the glass, I could see the years etched into me. The deputy director's uniform was cut the same as the coordinators', but mine carried a distinction: a metal insignia in the shape of an inverted triangle gleamed on the left lapel. My jacket, the same navy blue, was double-breasted with two rows of matte buttons; beneath it, a darker shirt rose higher at the collar, almost military in style. My hair was black, already threaded with gray at the temples, and my deep-set eyes betrayed more fatigue than my posture allowed.
On the monitors, movement patterns and card counts scrolled by. Some students paced back and forth across the deck as if trying to memorize every corner; others sat too long in the same place, watching more than speaking. One girl shifted positions constantly, unable to stay still; a few groups formed and dissolved quickly, conversations never quite sticking.
—Announcement today or tomorrow? —Avila asked, snapping a folder shut with measured precision.
—Tomorrow —I said—. Today, let them listen to each other.
The coastline appeared on the central screen, a dark mass rising out of the sea. From a distance, the jagged mountain ridges broke the horizon.
—There it is —she said.
—There it begins —I replied.