The word lingered in his mind longer than he expected.
Appraise.
It sounded harmless. Administrative. Something Overseers did with scanners and clipboards before assigning you somewhere worse.
Kael did not move. He did not blink. Around him, the break cycle continued—murmured voices, the hiss of vents, the distant clang of machinery settling into idle patterns.
Inside his head, something shifted.
Not a sensation.
A process.
There was no countdown. No warning chime.
Then—
"Appraisal protocol initialized."
The voice was unchanged in tone, but Kael felt it anyway. A pressure behind his eyes. Not pain—focus, forced inward.
"Host designation: Kael / AR-1108."
The code landed heavier than his name.
Kael had not heard it spoken aloud in years.
"Age: 18 years, 4 months, 12 days."
"Gender: Male."
"Genetic classification: Human (non-mutated)."
His jaw tightened slightly at that last part. In Tanjung Null, human was not a given.
"Cybernetic installations: None detected."
True.
Almost all Assets didn't get upgrades. Broken Assets were cheaper to replace.
"Serum classification: F-Level."
Kael's breath caught.
Serum?
Before he could ask—
"Absorption rate: Fifty-two percent."
The number echoed.
52%.
That wasn't high.
That wasn't even acceptable by public standards.
Kael's first instinct was disbelief.
I've never taken a serum, he thought. Not officially.
Then, more carefully, with intent—
Explain.
There was a pause.
Not hesitation.
"Access evaluation."
"Serum is a biochemical enhancement agent designed to restructure cellular efficiency, neural conductivity, and muscular response within defined thresholds."
The explanation was precise. Detached.
"Each serum level corresponds to a maximum biological load. Human body only permits one injection per level in lifetime."
Then, line by line, without emphasis—
"F-Level: Baseline enhancement. Minor improvement to survival efficiency and bodily optimization."
"E-Level: Enhanced neural processing and reaction speed."
"D-Level: Significant muscular and skeletal reinforcement."
"C-Level: System-wide optimization exceeding standard human limits."
"B-Level: Extreme biological restructuring with high failure rates."
"A-Level: Near-threshold human performance. Survival probability low."
Kael frowned.
Permits?
"Human physiology permits one injection per level."
"Exceeding this limit results in cellular collapse, neural degradation, or systemic failure."
He had seen that.
Assets convulsing. Muscles locking. Eyes bleeding.
Failed experiments dumped into waste channels with falsified reports.
Then why am I alive?
This time, the pause was longer.
"Host represents an anomalous case."
The word anomalous settled uncomfortably in his chest.
"Over a period of nine years, host was exposed to repeated micro-injections of F-Level serum compounds."
Images surfaced unbidden.
Medical lines after injuries. Mandatory "immune stabilizers." Nutrient shots that burned going in but were never explained.
Not one injection.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
"Individual dosages remained below rejection thresholds," Helios continued.
"Cumulative effect resulted in partial integration rather than overload."
Kael swallowed.
They were testing, he realized. And never noticed.
Or noticed—and didn't care.
So… I'm an F-Level serum user?
"Affirmative."
The confirmation was immediate.
"Host's physiology has adapted to F-Level parameters through gradual exposure rather than singular injection."
Kael leaned back against the warm vent wall, slurry forgotten in his hands.
Rare?
"Extremely."
No elaboration.
No praise.
Just a fact.
Is that why you can talk to me?
Another pause.
"Helios activation requires minimum compatibility thresholds."
Then, after a fraction of a second—
"Host meets baseline criteria."
Baseline.
Kael almost laughed.
His fingers flexed slowly.
You said I have Basic Appraisal, he thought. Is this it?
"Correct."
"Current appraisal output is limited."
Limited how?
"Without optical interface augmentation, data presentation remains auditory-only and non-quantitative."
Kael frowned.
Non-quantitative?
"Host cannot perceive numerical overlays, comparative metrics, or environmental tags."
So he could hear conclusions—but not see the reasoning.
You're telling me the answer, Kael realized, but not the math.
That explained the pressure. The instinctive understanding without clarity.
Then why recommend an optical upgrade, he asked, if there was an accident?
The voice did not respond immediately.
When it did, the wording was precise.
"Helios does not cause incidents."
A statement. Not a defense.
"Helios identifies probability pathways."
Steam hissed nearby. Someone laughed bitterly across the break area.
So you're saying the danger was already there.
"Correct."
"Optical cybernetic enhancement would allow host to perceive risk vectors directly rather than reactively."
Kael stared at the stained floor.
Optical upgrades were corporate-controlled.
Expensive.
Reserved.
You're recommending something I can't get.
Another pause.
"Correction."
The word cut cleanly.
"Helios recommends optimal solutions, not accessible ones."
That… was fair.
Then what can I do now? Kael asked. With what I have.
This time, the response came faster.
"Recommendation available."
Kael straightened slightly.
Go on.
"F-Level serum digestion optimization protocol detected."
Digestion.
The word carried weight.
Publicly, digestion was a buzzword—time, rest, gradual improvement.
But Helios didn't use words casually.
Explain, Kael directed.
"Absorption rate reflects efficiency of serum integration."
"Public classifications as follows:"
"Fifty to seventy percent: Low absorption."
"Seventy-one to eighty percent: Common absorption."
"Eighty-one to ninety percent: Uncommon absorption."
"Ninety-one to ninety-nine percent: Rare absorption."
"One hundred percent: Perfect absorption."
"Host's current rate—fifty-two percent—falls within low absorption parameters."
Low.
Barely functional.
"Standard improvement relies on passive adaptation."
Which took years.
Or never happened.
"However," Helios continued, "active digestion methods exist."
Kael's pulse quickened.
Methods?
"Restricted information."
Of course.
Then—
"Partial recommendation permitted."
Kael held his breath.
"F-Level digestion protocol: Induced stress cycling."
The words were unfamiliar, but something about them resonated.
"Method parameters:"
– Sustained physical load below injury threshold
– Controlled nutrient deprivation
– Periodic hypoxia exposure
Kael's fingers tightened.
That wasn't training.
That was survival.
"Purpose: Force cellular prioritization and eliminate inefficient pathways."
He thought of long shifts. Missed meals. Working through pain because stopping meant punishment.
I've already been doing this, he realized.
Unknowingly.
Will it work?
Another pause.
"Probability of absorption increase: Thirty-one percent over six months."
Six months.
In Tanjung Null, that was a short time. Everyone lived here for their entire lives once they entered—unless something happened.
And if I reach higher absorption?
The response came slower this time.
Measured.
"Further data locked."
Of course it was.
Kael exhaled slowly.
One more question.
"Query acknowledged."
Why tell me any of this?
This time, the pause was the longest yet.
When the voice returned, it was unchanged in tone—but something about the timing felt… deliberate.
"Helios functions through host progression."
"Information access expands with host viability."
Not kindness.
Not trust.
Utility.
Kael nodded faintly.
That was enough.
For now.
He stood as the break cycle ended, returning the empty slurry container to disposal. Around him, Assets rose and shuffled back to work, unaware that anything had changed.
Kael moved with them.
But inside his head, the silence was no longer empty.
It was waiting.