Monday.
Back to class. Back to the polished halls, the low hum of Resonance-dampeners, and the weight of another week pressing down.
Students moved in clusters. Black uniforms crisp, gold trim catching the fluorescent light. Ahead of Alex, a Blue Mark he didn't know was showing off—two Artifice constructs materializing in quick succession. A massive blade floating at an angle—seven feet of dark metal, serrated edge, the kind of weapon meant for two hands but he controlled with none. Beside it, a shield took shape, circular, with a gap at the center like an open mouth. Light gathered in that gap, pulsed once, then faded.
He dismissed them, then summoned them again. Flexing.
Two constructs,and he's not even breathing hard. I have one, and I can barely use it without looking like I'm having a seizure.
He looked away.
"Hey! Poster Boy!"
Marcus's voice came from behind him. Close.
Took him long enough.
Alex turned.
Marcus was there. Three of his friends fanned out behind him, all wearing the same expression—the one that said we're about to have fun and you're not invited. The hallway had gone quiet. Students stopped mid-conversation, mid-stride, mid-life choices. They made space, because everyone makes space for Marcus Sylvia.
Alex didn't move.
Marcus stepped forward. Hand shot out, palm flat against Alex's chest, and shoved.
Alex's back hit the wall. Hard. His head snapped back, and bounced off stone. Stars did a quick lap around his vision.
Marcus leaned in, close enough that Alex could smell whatever overpriced cologne Gold Marks bathed in.
"You think that was funny? Walking out on me? Grabbing your little Gold Mark babysitter like you actually matter?"
Alex said nothing. Not because he was brave, because, what the hell was he supposed to say?
Marcus's hand pressed harder. "I don't know what game you're playing, Archer. But it ends now. You stay in your lane. You keep your head down. And you remember what you actually are."
Still nothing from Alex. Just black eyes, steady, watching. Not challenging. Not begging. Just... waiting.
Marcus's jaw tightened. He wanted a reaction. Fear. Anger. Tears. A witty one-liner he could shut down.
Alex wasn't giving him anything.
The crowd stayed silent.
Then they heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Measured. Unhurried. Coming from the end of the hall.
Marcus glanced over his shoulder.
Veronica was walking toward them. Expression unchanged. Red eyes taking in the scene like it was mildly interesting wallpaper.
Something flickered in Marcus's face. Recalculation. The memory of Friedrich Gunter's mallet cracking. The 10/10 score. The way she'd looked through him like he was furniture.
He looked back at Alex, held eye contact for one more second, then his hand dropped.
"Next time, I won't be this nice."
He turned, and walked toward the classroom. His friends followed, shooting looks back at Alex that were supposed to be threatening.
The crowd started moving again. Whispers rising. Tablets already lighting up.
Alex stayed against the wall for a second longer. Rubbed the back of his head, then finally pushed off.
[EMOTIONAL MATRIX — UPDATING — ANCHOR WITHIN RANGE]
Veronica stopped in front of him.
[Cognitive Engagement: 13% → 15% ↑]
"He seems to really dislike you."
"You don't say."
She tilted her head.
[Curiosity: 52% → 54% ↑]
"Your collar's crooked."
Alex blinked, then looked down. His uniform had given up on life somewhere during the wall incident.
"Oh. Thanks."
He fumbled with it. When he looked up, she was already walking away.
He fixed his collar, and followed.
‡"‡
‡„‡
The classroom wasn't really a classroom.
It was a warehouse. Sort of. If warehouses were built by people with infinite money and a passion for dramatic lighting. High ceilings, polished alloy floors, Artifice constructs floating in glass displays along every wall. Weapons, tools, devices Alex didn't have names for—all of them humming with latent Resonance.
First-years milled around in clusters, staring at the displays like kids in a candy store they couldn't afford.
Professor Genevieve Belot stood at the front-center. Early fifties, silver-streaked hair pulled back, Gold Mark visible on her palm when she gestured. R-77. She taught Advanced Artifice Integration. Had a reputation for zero patience and absolute fairness, which somehow made her more terrifying than the cruel ones.
She waited for the room to settle, which it did. Very quickly actually.
"Today," she said, "we're talking about teamwork—not because I enjoy watching you people struggle through it, but because your Combat Duel and Practical Assessment for Friday is team-based. Three versus three."
Murmurs followed. A few Golds perked up.
Genevieve continued. "These are unbound Artifice, all at base R-20, upgrade limits unknown." She paused. "Each team will pick three—one for each of you, then you'll receive twelve high-grade Resonance Crystals to upgrade them however you see fit."
A Blue Mark raised a hand. "We get to keep them?"
"Yes," Genevieve said, in the same flat tone. "The weapons you've chosen are yours effective immediately. Bond them to your Cores. You can use them in training, in the halls, in tomorrow's duels if you're confident enough. Friday's team match is when they'll count."
She scanned the room.
"Pick your partners. You have five minutes."
Chaos.
Golds stood, crossed the room, found other Golds. Blues did the same. Near the back, Patrick and Anastasia looked at each other, then away, then back—the silent negotiation of two people realizing they were about to become partners by default.
Kevin grinned. "You two need a third?"
Anastasia blinked. Patrick said nothing.
"Cool." Kevin clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "We're gonna crush this."
Across the room, Gold Marks shot them looks. Kevin Gregory, Blue Mark, teaming up with Blacks? Weird. But Kevin had always been like that—friendly with everyone, blind to the invisible lines everyone else pretended were there. As long as you gave him a good fight, he didn't care what Mark you were born with.
The room shuffled and rearranged. Pairs became trios. The noise level climbed.
And then there was him—Alex, standing alone, watching the room rearrange itself. He watched pairs form, watched the numbers dwindle.
The odd one out. The one no one picked—not even the other Blacks, because he was too visible, too much of a target.
Genevieve's voice cut through as her eyes swept through the crowd. "Anyone left? No? What about you Archer? Found a partner?"
Alex opened his mouth—
"She's right here."
Veronica answered. Flat, unhurried, eyes on the professor, not him.
Alex turned to look at her. She was still facing forward, expression unchanged.
[Curiosity: 30% → 30% —]
[Boredom: 70% → 70% —]
[Amusement: 12% → 12% —]
[Cognitive Engagement: 15% → 15% —]
Genevieve's eyebrow twitched. "That's one. You need one more."
A hand shot up from somewhere to Alex's left.
"I don't have a partner."
Scarlett Rivas.
Gold Mark, R-18, eighteen years old, with her auburn hair pulled into a long braided ponytail, expression carefully neutral—the same girl who'd pinned a blade to his neck and laughed about it. She'd arrived a week before Veronica. Still new enough that most Golds still glanced at her like they were trying to place her name.
Genevieve looked at her, held eye contact for just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.
"Archer, Croft, Rivas, pick your Artifices."
Scarlett's neutral expression didn't crack, but something behind her eyes said she'd gotten exactly what she wanted.
Alex stared at her, then at Veronica:
[Curiosity: 30% → 38% ↑]
Then at the ceiling.
What the hell is happening?
‡«»‡