A hand settled firmly on Rory’s shoulder, heavy and unyielding.

  He came awake violently.

  His body snapped upright before his eyes had even adjusted to the light, his breath tearing into his lungs as if he’d just surfaced from deep water. On pure reflex, his elbow jerked back and his muscles coiled for a strike, his heart slamming against his ribs with a deafening rhythm.

  “Rory.”

  The voice cut through the white noise of his panic. It was familiar, close, and entirely devoid of hostility.

  His vision snapped in and out: green trees, watery light, wet earth. The pressure on his shoulder wasn't pinning him down; it was simply steady and reassuring. It was Ethan.

  The fight drained out of him just as rapidly as it had surged. Rory blinked hard, feeling disoriented and shaky as his breath continued to come too fast. For a disorienting second, he couldn’t place himself. The ground felt uneven and cold beneath him, his entire body felt heavy, damp, and leaden.

  Then, memory returned. The tent. The suffocating cold. The long, lonely night in the dark.

  He pushed himself further upright, moving more slowly this time. His sleeping bag was soaked through, the outer shell clinging damply to his hands as he shifted it aside. His clothes felt clammy and gross against his skin, with dew beading along his sleeves and collar. All around him, the grass glittered faintly in the first weak rays of the morning sun.

  Ethan crouched nearby, one forearm resting loosely against his thigh. His posture was intentionally relaxed, a silent effort not to escalate the adrenaline still coursing through Rory's system.

  “You’re drenched,” Ethan said evenly.

  Rory dragged a hand over his face, trying to mask the tremor in his fingers and steady his breathing before Ethan could comment on it. His joints felt stiff, but the bone-deep chill that had governed his night had finally receded.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered automatically, his voice sounding rough and unused.

  Ethan didn’t bother responding to the lie. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly to the patch of ground beside Rory’s sleeping bag. The grass closest to where Rory had been lying still held a thin, brittle sheen along the blades, not the soft moisture of dew, but residual frost. It had already begun to turn to water where the sun touched it, leaving the fabric of the bag dark and heavy.

  Ethan brushed two fingers lightly over the icy patch.

  He looked back at Rory, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  Rory’s brow tensed. Rory’s brow tensed. He kept his attention anchored on Ethan’s shoes, refusing to meet his eyes. “I just wanted space.”

  Ethan studied him in the heavy silence that followed. He took in the way Rory’s shoulders were rounded inward, protected and defensive. Rory's breathing was levelling out, though a flicker of lingering adrenaline still danced in his eyes. There was the healing cut along his cheek and damp hair plastered to his forehead. Looking at the way the sleeping bag had been haphazardly thrown down rather than laid out, Ethan knew this hadn't been a choice.

  It had been a retreat.

  “You sleep at all?” Ethan asked.

  Rory lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “Yeah.”

  The answer told Ethan everything he needed to know. He stood up, stretching his back slowly as if this morning encounter were entirely routine. “You’re cold,” he noted.

  “I’m not.”

  Ethan’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a faint, knowing smile. “Your bag says otherwise.”

  Rory looked down at the sodden mess of fabric as if he hadn't noticed it until that very second. A beetle buzzed against the canvas pole nearby, filling the silence between them.

  “Did something happen?” Ethan asked, his tone calm but direct.

  Rory shook his head too quickly. “No.”

  Ethan let the obvious falsehood stand without challenge. “Alright,” he said. He stepped back, giving Rory plenty of room to stand without feeling cornered or pressured. “Get up. Dry off. Grab food. We’re running drills before lunch.”

  Rory nodded once and pushed himself to his feet. His wet clothes clung uncomfortably to his frame. His tongue pressed briefly against his back teeth as he fought the urge to say more. He began to roll his sleeping bag tight.

  As he moved, Ethan watched him with a keen, assessing eye. There was no active cold radiating from the boy now, no spikes in the ambient temperature. There was only exhaustion and a profound, unsettled energy.

  Ethan’s gaze flicked to the dark shadows of the tree line. He held it there, searching for something. What, he didn’t know.

  Eventually Ethan started to follow Rory, matching his pace without crowding him.

  He didn’t mention the frost. He didn't mention the way Rory had woken up ready to kill. But he noticed both, and he filed them away.

  ***

  By the time Rory reached the mess area, most of the early morning fog had lifted, revealing a camp that felt entirely different in the daylight. The theatrical shadows of the night had been replaced by a normal, procedural atmosphere. Steam billowed from large metal pots perched over contained burners, and the space was filled with a seamless flow of movement and the coordination of a well oiled machine. Someone was hauling water from the storage drums while others checked perimeter ropes, every movement happened with purpose.

  Rory moved through the activity like a ghost in the machine, feeling as though he didn't quite belong in the frame. He grabbed a plate simply because someone pressed one into his hands, eggs, bacon, and toast, but the smell made his stomach roll uneasily rather than growl with hunger. He poured coffee black instead, setting the tray down untouched at the far end of a long wooden table.

  The wood was still cool from the night air. He wrapped both hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat sink into his palms as he scanned the clearing. Across the way, a flare of laughter rose and died. Jess was sitting with Nelson and Kate near one of the fire pits, her voice carrying a bit too loudly as she spoke about something Rory couldn't hear. She didn't look at him, but he looked at her anyway before dropping his eyes to the table

  His ribs felt tight when he shifted his weight, and he could feel the dry line of the healing cut on his cheek. His hands were steady now, no stray flames, no creeping frost, no shakes. He watched the steam curl from his coffee but didn't take a sip.

  The thud of boots on packed dirt announced company just before Ethan dropped onto the bench across from him without ceremony. He set his own plate down, glancing first at Rory’s untouched food and then at Rory himself.

  “How’s your morning?” Ethan asked.

  Rory kept his eyes on the rim of his mug. “Fine.”

  Ethan let the short answer hang in the air, picking up a fork and chewing a mouthful of eggs slowly. “You’re warm,” he noted after a moment.

  Rory’s shoulders stiffened instinctively. “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  Another silence followed, not an empty one, but the kind of silence that waits for the truth. Rory finally lifted the mug and took a small sip of the bitter, strong coffee just to occupy the space.

  Ethan watched him over the rim of his own mug. “You going to eat?”

  Rory tipped his chin in a vague half-shrug.

  The sound of metal cutlery clanging together interrupted them as Will slid onto the bench beside Rory. His plate was piled far higher than necessary, and he dropped into the seat with the confidence of someone who had been aiming for this spot all morning. He glanced at Rory’s eggs, then back again, his expression thoughtful.

  “Wow,” Will said. “That’s some intense eye contact you’ve got going with those eggs.”

  Rory didn’t look up. “Not hungry.”

  Will leaned back, his fork hovering mid-air. “That’s interesting.”

  Rory finally gave him a defensive look.

  “Because,” Will continued mildly, “you skipped dinner.”

  Rory’s molars pressed together until his temples throbbed. He hadn’t realised anyone noticed that. “I wasn’t hungry then either.”

  Will nodded slowly. Ethan cut in before the tension could tighten into an argument.

  “You’ve got a full day,” Ethan said, his voice steady and grounding. “Morning drills. Field coordination blocks. Obstacle course this afternoon.”

  Rory glanced up, his brow furrowed.

  “We don’t ease into these retreats,” Ethan continued. “It’s structured for a reason, and you’ll be moving most of the day.”

  Rory absorbed the schedule, his jaw shifting slightly. “Do I have to do all of it?”

  Ethan held his gaze, not with a hard stare, but a level one. “You’re not rostered. You’re not obligated.” He paused for a beat. “But you showed up. And that usually means something.”

  Will leaned back, stabbing a fork into his breakfast. “Plus, it’s more fun than sitting around thinking.”

  Rory shot Will another look, but Ethan didn't smile, even if something softened at the corner of his mouth. “Fuel up,” Ethan said. “Whatever you decide, you’ll want energy in the tank.”

  Rory’s eyes dropped back to his plate. Across the clearing, Jess laughed again, and Nelson leaned in to say something low and sharp that made the group huddle closer. Rory’s fingers curled harder around the ceramic until the heat bit into his skin.

  “You don’t need to prove anything to them,” Ethan said quietly, his voice intended only for those at the table.

  Rory’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said flatly.

  Ethan nodded once. “Correct.”

  Will took a bite of bacon, speaking around it with a shrug. “But sometimes doing the thing anyway feels better.”

  Rory didn’t answer. He stared at his plate for another few seconds before finally reaching for a piece of toast. It wasn't a dramatic declaration, he simply picked it up and took a bite. Will clocked the movement immediately but had the grace not to comment, returning to his own meal as if this were the only possible outcome.

  Ethan watched Rory take a second bite, then a third, before standing up. “Briefing in twenty,” he said.

  Rory nodded once, still chewing. The camp continued to move around them, gear clattering, laughter rising and falling, and Caleb’s voice echoing near the equipment tents as he walked through the day's plan with Mads.

  Rory swallowed and finally took a real drink of his coffee. It burned slightly on the way down, but he didn't mind.

  ***

  Ethan found Owen lingering near the supply crates tucked behind the mess canopy.

  Joel was perched atop one of the weathered wooden boxes, idly swinging a roll of tape from his fingertips, while Cameron leaned back against a support post. Cameron was in his usual state of half-listening, his eyes scanning the camp with a restless, habitual curiosity. Owen and Joel were deep in a meaningless argument, a debate over who had face-planted with the most flair during the previous year’s obstacle course, when Ethan stepped into their orbit.

  “Owen. Walk with me.”

  There was no raised voice and no sharp edge, but that specific tone of Ethan's made Joel’s eyebrows shoot up instantly. Cameron’s expression flattened, his interest piqued by the sudden shift in the air.

  Owen pushed off the crate with a slow, cautious deliberation. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” Ethan replied. “Yet.”

  The answer was somehow worse than a direct accusation. Owen followed him a few meters away, moving far enough to ensure privacy but remaining close enough that Joel and Cameron could still maintain the pretence of not eavesdropping.

  Ethan stopped and folded his arms loosely across his chest. There was no anger, just a precise look, as if he were measuring the conversation before it even began.

  “Do you know why Rory slept outside last night?”

  Owen’s jaw ticked almost immediately. He offered a noncommittal shrug, his eyes falling to the scuffed dirt at his feet. “He runs cold,” he said. “You know that.”

  Ethan held still, holding Owen’s gaze until the younger boy looked up. “He left the tent before anyone woke you.”

  Silence followed, heavy and uncomfortable. Owen shifted his weight from one foot to the other; he clearly did not enjoy this line of questioning.

  “People were freezing,” Owen said, his voice defensive. “It’s not like he didn’t notice.”

  Ethan studied him with a careful, analytical intensity. “I’m not asking you to defend him,” Ethan said, his voice perfectly even. “I’m asking you what you did about it.”

  Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Anything,” Ethan replied simply. “You have more influence in that tent than you pretend.”

  Owen scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s not true.”

  “It is,” Ethan said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “When you stay quiet, other people assume that means agreement.”

  Owen turned his face aside, his gaze drifting toward the trees. Ethan stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice so it carried only to Owen.

  “You do not have to like him,” Ethan said. “You do not have to be his friend. But you do not get to let the room turn on him because you feel displaced.”

  The word landed with the weight of a physical blow. Owen’s expression hardened, a spark of resentment lighting his eyes. “I don’t feel displaced.”

  Ethan didn't argue the point. He simply let the silence stretch out until Owen felt the need to fill it himself.

  “…He doesn’t even want to be here,” Owen finally muttered, the words laced with frustration. “He looks like he hates every second of it.”

  “And that makes it okay?” Ethan asked quietly.

  Owen pulled a breath in, his throat working. Ethan continued, his voice steady and unrelenting.

  “You know what it feels like to walk into a room and know you’re being measured. You’ve lived with that since you were five.”

  Owen’s swallow turned shallow, the movement sharp and visible in his throat, a flicker of memory passing through his eyes.

  “I am asking you to be better than the people who did that to you.”

  Owen’s fingers tensed at his sides.

  “That doesn’t mean babysitting him,” Ethan added, his tone softening just a fraction. “It means not letting him be isolated because you’re uncomfortable.”

  Owen exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze returning to Ethan. “He doesn’t want me near him.”

  “Then show him you’re not a threat,” Ethan replied. “You are capable of that.” He paused, letting the final thought sink in. “Decide what kind of person you want to be in this group.”

  Then, Ethan stepped back. There was no direct order and no raised voice, just the heavy, lingering weight of expectation.

  Owen stood rooted to the spot for several long seconds after Ethan walked away, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. Nearby, Joel and Cameron were putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of pretending not to watch, though their focus was entirely locked on him. Owen lingered for a minute, swallowed by the uncomfortable realisation of the absolute mess he’d backed himself into, before finally turning to face them.

  Joel leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “What was that about?”

  Owen scoffed, a defensive reflex to brush the whole thing off. “Ethan wants me to babysit the new kid.”

  “Maybe you should,” Cameron said thoughtfully. His gaze hadn't left Rory since Ethan departed.

  Owen’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Why is that suddenly my job?”

  “Because he looks like someone just canceled Christmas,” Joel remarked dryly, his brow furrowing with a hint of genuine pity. “And besides, you’re the one who makes him look like he’s waiting to get punched.”

  Owen’s lips tensed at the observation. He followed their line of sight across the clearing. Rory was perched alone on a weathered supply crate at the very edge of the camp. He had his headphones in and his iPod clutched in his hand, his thumb working rhythmically against his teeth. He was hunched over, his shoulders curved inward as if he were trying to occupy the smallest amount of physical space possible.

  “I heard he slept outside last night,” Joel added.

  Cameron’s head snapped toward Joel. “He did?”

  Owen nodded, the movement stiff as he struggled to mask a sudden surge of guilt.

  “Why?” Cameron asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

  Owen’s shoulders turned rigid. He stared at the dirt, half-hoping it might open up and swallow him before he had to explain. “He froze the tent,” he muttered.

  Joel’s expression shifted into a frown. “What?”

  “He has temperature regulation abilities,” Owen explained, his voice tight with the effort of relaying the facts. “He lost control in his sleep. The whole tent dropped like ten degrees.”

  Cameron blinked, the pieces falling into place. “Wait. He has upgrades?”

  Owen offered a single, sharp nod.

  Joel and Cameron exchanged a long, weighted look. Cameron leaned forward slowly, his voice dropping an octave. “So let me get this straight. He has temperature regulation upgrades, which I’m guessing he can’t control yet. He accidentally made the tent cold…and everyone just kicked him out?”

  The way Cameron framed it made Owen’s chest tighten. “We didn’t kick him out,” he shot back.

  Joel tilted his head, unimpressed. “But he left.”

  “Yeah,” Owen admitted, his voice softening into a reluctant confession. “He just…got up and left. Didn’t say anything.”

  Joel swore under his breath, a low, sharp sound. “That’s brutal.”

  Cameron’s jaw set, his eyes growing hard. “And you didn’t try to stop him?”

  Owen swallowed hard. The silence that followed felt like an admission of guilt. “…No.” The word felt infinitely heavier now that it was out in the open.

  Joel studied him with a quiet intensity. “Why not?”

  “Because everyone was cold!” Owen snapped, his defensive reflexes finally kicking in.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Joel replied, his voice remaining frustratingly calm.

  The three of them just stood there for a second, Owen fixing on a particularly interesting patch of dirt, while the other two waited him out.

  “…Because I didn’t know what to say.”

  The raw, honest admission hung there, deeply uncomfortable. Cameron exhaled a long, slow breath through his nose. “You realise that makes it worse, right?” he said, his tone more pitying than unkind.

  Owen’s head snapped up. “I didn’t tell him to leave.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Joel countered.

  Cameron nodded in agreement. “You’re loud, Owen. When you’re quiet, people read into it.”

  Owen felt something drop heavy and sour beneath his ribs. He hated the fact that they were right. His attention pulled back toward the edge of the camp, where Rory remained cross-legged on the crate, staring at nothing while chewing his thumbnail.

  “He does look miserable,” Joel pointed out.

  Cameron turned his full attention back to Owen. “Why are you being such a prick to him, anyway?”

  “I’m not!” Owen insisted, his voice rising in protest.

  Joel and Cameron gave him identical, skeptical looks that broke through his resolve.

  “Well…not anymore,” Owen muttered, scuffing his boot against the ground. “And I wasn’t trying to before. Things just…happened.”

  Cameron didn't look convinced in the slightest. “So go say hi.”

  Owen hesitated, his jaw working.

  “What?” Cameron prompted.

  “He hates me,” Owen said quietly, the words barely audible. “He doesn’t want me to say hi.”

  Cameron snorted at the absurdity. “He thinks you hate him. Go over there and show him you don’t.”

  Owen rolled his eyes, a final attempt at deflection. “It’s not that simple.”

  “The fuck it isn’t.” Cameron stood up abruptly and grabbed Owen by the arm, hauling him to his feet before he could formulate a protest. “Come on.”

  Joel sighed, but he pushed off his crate and followed as Cameron dragged a reluctant Owen toward the perimeter. As they closed the distance, Owen dug his heels into the dirt.

  “This is stupid,” he hissed under his breath. “He already thinks I’m the enemy. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

  Joel shot him a sideways glance. “Why does he think that?”

  Owen shrugged a little too quickly. “He just does.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Cameron noted.

  “What did you do?” Joel pressed.

  “Nothing,” Owen insisted. “I’m just…I’m friends with Beau. He knows that.”

  Joel’s brow knit together. “That’s it?”

  Owen avoided their eyes entirely. “It’s enough.”

  Cameron studied him for a long beat, sensing the unspoken layers. “You’re acting like there’s more.”

  “There isn’t,” Owen snapped. “He just assumes I’m on Beau’s side.”

  “Are you?” Joel asked lightly.

  Owen didn't respond. He didn't have to.

  Cameron exhaled, his voice softening. “You’re not used to someone looking at you like that, are you?”

  Owen looked confused for a moment. “Looking at me like what?”

  “Like you’re the bad guy,” Joel said. “You’re usually everyone’s favourite. Even when you screw up.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is,” Cameron insisted. “You’re loud. You’re in everyone’s business. You’re stupidly optimistic most of the time…it’s kind of your thing. You’re hard to ignore.” He shrugged as if stating a universal law. “People don’t usually hate the guy who won’t shut up and keeps trying anyway.”

  Owen scowled, but he lacked the energy to argue. Joel nudged him with a shoulder, a silent gesture of support. “Cool. So go be nice.”

  Owen hesitated one last time, his pulse quickening. They were close enough now that Rory noticed the movement. His eyes lifted instantly, and a visible wave of tension slid across his face. His fingers stilled against the iPod. After a second, he reached up and pulled out his headphones, his gaze skipping between the three of them like a trapped animal.

  Cameron reached him first, closing the distance with an easy, unhurried stride.

  “Hey. Rory, right?”

  Rory assessed the group with a sharp, instinctive caution, as if assessing a new threat, before finally offering a small, stiff nod.

  “You remember us? I’m Cam.” He gestured briefly to himself, then to the others. “That’s Joel. And I’m pretty sure you remember Owen.”

  Rory’s eyes cut toward Owen, a quick, guarded check, before darting back to Cameron. He remained silent, yet he gave off a brittle, electric energy, the kind that warned everyone to keep their distance.

  “Mind if we sit?” Cameron asked.

  The refusal was right there, rising in Rory's throat, the reflex to shut the world out before it could get too close. But something in Cameron’s tone stopped him. It wasn't pushy or demanding, it was just…steady. Rory hesitated, his internal battle playing out in the set of his jaw, then he gave the smallest nod he could manage.

  Cameron dropped onto the crate beside him. Joel hopped up onto the edge of a nearby table, legs swinging, while Owen lingered for a moment of visible indecision before sitting beside Joel. He left a wide, awkward buffer of empty space between himself and Rory, a silent testament to the tension still simmering between them.

  An uncomfortable quiet settled over the group. Rory shifted, clearly uneasy with the sudden proximity. His grip tightened around the iPod, his thumb digging into a chip along its side.

  “You don’t seem like you want to be here,” Cameron observed, glancing at him sideways with an expression that was more curious than judgmental.

  “What gave it away?” Rory muttered, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm.

  “You’re always by yourself,” Joel pointed out, his eyes softening as he looked at Rory like he was a lost puppy that might bite if poked. “Or you’re actively avoiding everyone.”

  “Yeah, well…you guys aren’t exactly the most welcoming bunch,” Rory replied, the bitterness leaking through his composure.

  Cameron exhaled a slow, heavy breath. “Fair.”

  Rory’s jaw set. He could feel that familiar heat beginning to prickle in his chest, the warning sign of a sharp, regrettable remark. He braced for the inevitable argument, but it didn't come. Instead, Cameron leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Look,” Cam said, his tone low and level. “We know you and Beau have…a thing.”

  Rory’s fingers stilled against the metal edge of his iPod. He didn't respond, but his entire body went rigid.

  “Beau can be a bit of a dick,” Cameron continued, his voice conversational. “That part isn’t exactly classified information.” Joel snorted in quiet, immediate agreement.

  Rory continued to glower, his eyes locked on the ground. His thumb worried the cracked edge of the iPod until it clicked against the metal casing. He wasn’t about to unpack that for them. Not here. Not like this. He wasn’t going to explain what happened. He wasn’t going to defend himself. He wasn’t going to hand them anything. He just sat there, chewing the inside of his cheek, feeling painfully exposed.

  Cameron seemed to sense the boundary and didn't push. “And last night,” he added, shifting the subject. “The tent thing? I promise you, everyone’s gone through something similar when they first got enhanced or upgraded. No one’s thinking about it.”

  That made Rory glance up despite himself, his face flushing a hot, vivid red. He hated that the story was already circulating. As the embarrassment flared, the air around the crates began to shift. It was subtle at first, a slight thickening of the atmosphere, and then it became unmistakable. A slow, radiant warmth crept into the space between them, as if the sun had suddenly intensified its focus on their small corner of the camp. It wasn't enough to be alarming, but it was enough that Joel subtly rolled his shoulders as if trying to shed a heavy coat.

  Owen noticed it too, his face tensing ever so slightly. Rory’s fingers curled even further around his iPod until they ached. Cameron felt the heat rising but chose to ignore it, pressing on with his steady, calm rhythm.

  “Freezing a tent isn’t some villain origin story,” he said lightly. “It’s just crap timing.”

  Joel nodded, trying to bridge the gap. “Yeah. First week I was here, I cracked three ribs because I thought I could jump a fence I absolutely could not jump. The whole camp knew about it by breakfast.”

  Rory blinked, the image momentarily breaking through his defence.

  “Still hear about it sometimes,” Joel shrugged, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

  Rory looked back down at his hands, the warmth in the air receding slightly as he focused on his breathing. Across from him, Owen shifted restlessly. This was the moment Ethan had demanded of him. Show him you’re not a threat.

  Owen’s throat felt dry, his heart thumping against his ribs. “Hey, so…,” he began, his voice hesitant. He didn't quite meet Rory’s eyes. “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot.”

  Rory remained motionless, a statue of guarded suspicion.

  “And I wasn't trying to make last night worse,” Owen added, his voice dropping. “I just…didn’t handle it great. But I’m not trying to screw you over or anything.”

  Rory kept his gaze down. Not trying to screw you over. Sure. He’d heard that before. People always said that right before the floor dropped out from under him. He had learned that lesson early, at school, at home, and in every office where adults smiled and told him their decisions were for his own good. He didn't offer Owen the relief of eye contact. If Owen wanted absolution, he’d have to find it somewhere else.

  The air warmed another degree as Rory’s frustration simmered, but he forced a steady breath and dragged the temperature back down. He hated that his body betrayed his emotions before his mind could catch up.

  Cameron leaned back on his hands, acting as if the literal heat waves weren't a factor. “Anyway,” he said easily. “Drills start in about twenty minutes. You’re probably stuck with us.”

  Rory’s eyes flicked up, wary.

  “We don’t have a formal team either,” Joel explained with a grin. “We usually get lumped together with whoever’s unattached.”

  Cameron nodded. “So unless Ethan’s got secret plans for you, you’ll likely rotate through the stations with Joel and me.”

  Rory processed that in silence. He didn't love the idea of being assigned to anyone, and he liked it even less that they were acting as if his participation was a foregone conclusion. He gave a small, flat shrug. “Cool.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Obstacle course is this afternoon,” Cam added. “After conditioning drills. Mud, walls, rope climbs, and that stupid crawl tunnel that smells like regret.”

  Joel made a face of pure disgust. “It really does smell like regret.”

  “You running it?” Cam asked.

  Rory’s gaze dropped back to the screen in his hand. “Probably not,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Rory let out a short, sharp breath through his nose. “Because I’m pretty sure half the camp is waiting for me to eat it.” His eyes flicked sideways, a quick, pointed look toward Owen.

  Owen felt the weight of that look land. Joel caught it, too.

  “So don’t,” Joel said simply.

  Rory frowned at him, confused by the lack of logic. “Eat it,” Joel clarified quickly. “Do the obstacle course. Just don’t eat it.”

  Rory stared at him as if he’d just suggested something physically impossible. Joel merely shrugged. “You’ve got the scores. Everyone’s seen them. If they’re expecting you to face-plant, then don't. Show them why you’re here. It’s simpler than sitting out and letting them decide who you are.”

  Cameron nudged the idea gently. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “You’ll hate parts of it, everyone does. But it’s also kind of fun in a twisted way.”

  Rory looked unconvinced, his shoulders still hunched.

  “We’re not waiting for you to fail,” Cameron added, his voice sincere. “Most of us are just curious.”

  Rory didn't respond. He stared out toward the treeline again, already picturing the disaster: slipping in the mud, losing control, accidentally freezing a teammate or burning a rope. Everyone watching. His eyes drifted toward Owen for half a second before darting away.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ll see.”

  It wasn't a straight up refusal. Cameron accepted it as enough for now. “Cool,” he said, pushing off the crate. “We’re gonna go grab breakfast before all the bacon disappears.”

  Joel nodded solemnly. “It vanishes fast. Survival of the fittest.”

  Cameron glanced at Rory. “You coming?”

  Rory shook his head almost immediately. “Nah.”

  “You sure?” Joel asked.

  “I’m good,” Rory said, his voice coming out softer than he intended. “You’re fine.”

  Cameron held his gaze for a long second, measuring the sincerity in his face, before finally nodding. “Alright.”

  Joel pulled Owen up by the arm and started leading the way toward the mess tent. “Bacon’s not gonna survive this long,” he muttered. Owen hesitated, glancing back at Rory as if he might say something else, but then he followed.

  Cameron stood up too, taking a few steps with the others before slowing down. Joel and Owen didn't notice, continuing their walk toward the food. Cam glanced back over his shoulder. Rory was already looking down again, his thumb wrapping around the fraying cord of his headphones.

  “You know,” Cam said casually, his voice carrying back to the crate. “You don’t actually have to ghost the planet every time something gets awkward.”

  Rory’s eyes flicked up before he could stop them. Cameron’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile.

  “Just saying.” He took a backward step. “We’ll be at the long table. Try not to set anything on fire.”

  With a final wave, he turned and jogged to catch up with his friends.

  ***

  Alex found Rory exactly where he’d left himself: perched on the edge of camp, clinging to that same supply crate as if it had been assigned to him by fate.

  He still had his headphones on, the music acting as a final, thin barrier between him and the rest of the world. Around him, the camp was a blur of activity, and Rory’s eyes moved over the crowd with a sharp, analytical focus, assessing, watching, and absorbing every detail while he maintained the thin illusion of being invisible.

  He was deep in that pretence when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Alex standing there, and the sharp tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

  She was dressed in black training gear, her arms folded loosely. She wore that unreadable expression he’d come to recognise, the one that meant she had already cataloged every detail of his physical and mental state.

  “Up,” she said.

  Rory blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “That’s the whole sentence?”

  “For now.”

  He slid his headphones off slowly, letting them hang around his neck. Alex gave him a brief once-over. It wasn't obvious or invasive, just a professional check to see how he was holding up.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Drills in ten,” Alex said. Her tone was bright and practical, a sharp blade that cut straight through his brooding mood.

  Rory’s stomach did a nervous flip. “I thought drills were for…teams.”

  “They are,” Alex replied easily. “And the ‘miscellaneous’ pile. Congratulations,” she added with a flash of a grin. “You’re in the miscellaneous pile.”

  Rory blinked again, processing the new label. “That sounds…great.”

  Alex smiled as if she’d heard far worse sarcasm before. “It’s fine. It’s minors, recruits, reserves, people waiting for placements, people waiting to age up. You’ll be with kids your age. Mostly.”

  Rory shoved his headphones and iPod into his hoodie pocket and pushed himself to his feet. His bruised ribs gave a sharp, dull protest after being stagnant for so long, and he couldn't quite hide the wince.

  “Do I have to?” he mumbled, his voice trailing off.

  Alex shot him a look, her lip curling into a warm, understanding smile that took the sting out of her authority. “No. No one’s going to make you. Technically, you aren’t Karmal. But-”

  “But what?” Rory asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “But why did you come here if you weren’t going to participate?” she asked, her voice quiet but challenging.

  Rory let out a frustrated, resigned huff, his gaze drifting toward a group of recruits moving away from the mess area toward the fields.

  “So, participate then,” Alex beamed, trying to shove a little enthusiasm his way.

  “Hm,” Rory mumbled, kicking at a loose stone. “Fine.”

  “You eat anything?” she asked, her gaze dropping to his empty hands.

  Rory made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

  “Why does that feel like a no?” Alex let out a huff. “We’ll steal you something after.”

  Rory started to protest, the words forming on his tongue, but he thought better of it and stayed silent. He had managed a few bites of toast with the guys, but that was the extent of his fuel for the last twenty-four hours, and the hollow ache in his stomach was starting to turn into a dull, persistent lightheadedness.

  He fell into step behind her, his boots thudding against the packed earth as he followed her through the heart of the camp. They passed the mess canopy and the towering supply stacks, heading toward the wide training space carved out just beyond the first line of trees.

  Karmal had transformed the rugged bush into a tactical facility overnight. It was a study in raw, functional efficiency. A vast rectangle of cleared earth, lanes meticulously marked in the dirt, and neat rows of neon cones and heavy mats. A portable communications mast had been lashed to a towering gum tree, its wires snaking down to gear racks and a whiteboard propped against a rusted ammo box. Scrawled in thick, aggressive marker were the morning’s objectives: Mobility. Conditioning. Regulation. Partner work. Comms.

  The air was already thick with noise.

  Teams clustered in familiar shapes, moving with a fluid sense of belonging. Warm-up routines happened without being told. Jokes flew. Someone was laughing too hard at something that didn’t sound funny at all.

  Rory’s pace slowed instinctively. The sheer volume of the morning hit him like a physical wall, threatening to push him back toward the shadows. Alex touched his elbow, a brief, gentle contact, before letting go.

  “Come on,” she urged quietly. “Eyes up.”

  Rory forced his feet to move.

  Jess and Nelson stood together like they owned the morning, both in training gear that looked too clean to have ever seen real dirt. Jess’s hair was pulled back tight. Nelson already looked deeply annoyed, as if the very concept of morning drills was a personal insult.

  Kate lingered with them too, whispering something into Mari’s ear. Mari smiled politely like she was trying to pretend she wasn’t part of whatever that was. Sammi stretched with practiced calm, attention on her own body like she’d learned to treat training as a language. Ai sat on the ground, her attention fixed on the precise loops of her shoelaces, while Royel bounced on the balls of his feet like he’d had too much sugar. Murph stood off to the side with her arms folded, face turned toward the lanes like she was already mapping them in her head. Rory felt the ground shift under him, a brief, weightless drop behind his ribs.

  And then, farther across the clearing, he saw Owen.

  Different cluster. Different energy. Older. Tighter. People who moved like they’d done this enough times that their bodies didn’t ask permission anymore.

  Owen’s laugh cut through, bright, easy, and entirely unburdened. It hit Rory like a bruise, the sound of someone who occupied space without ever bracing for it.

  Rory looked away immediately.

  “Alright,” Alex said, unbothered by the hierarchy. “You’re with the unattached rotation.”

  “Unattached,” Rory repeated flatly. The word felt like a synonym for ‘disposable.’

  Alex snorted. “It means you’re not stuck with anyone. That’s a win.”

  Rory didn't feel like he’d won anything. As they reached the edge of the group, someone shouted Alex’s name from the gear racks. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning back.

  Then, a voice slid into the space beside Rory, casual and familiar. “Yo.”

  Rory stiffened, his internal alarm bells ringing. It was Cameron. He wore his friendliness like a comfortable shirt rather than a forced favour. He didn’t look like he was checking on a patient, he looked like he was introducing Rory to the world as if his presence were the most normal thing in the forest. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Come meet everyone,” Cam said.

  Rory blinked, startled. “What?”

  “The Karmal kids,” Cam explained, his grin widening. “Before they decide you’re mysterious and start making up theories.”

  “I think they already-” Rory started, his eyes darting toward Jess.

  “Yeah, but those two don’t count,” Cam interrupted, dismissing them with a wave. “C’mon.”

  It was pathetic how much Rory’s body wanted to resist. His every instinct screamed at him to retreat to the perimeter and hide behind his iPod. But Cam didn’t give him the luxury of a choice, he simply started walking, fully expecting Rory to follow. Left with the alternative of standing alone while the entire camp watched him stand alone, Rory followed.

  Cam stopped in front of Murph first, presenting her like royalty. “Murphy. This is Rory.”

  Murph’s gaze flicked over him, quick, sharp, and surprisingly not unkind. “Hi.”

  Rory nodded, his face feeling like it was made of stone. “Hey.”

  “Don’t let her scare you,” Joel said, appearing at Rory’s shoulder as if summoned. “She scares adults for sport.”

  Murph didn't even blink. “Only the ones who deserve it.”

  Cam pointed at Ai next. She looked up from her laces and offered a small, polite nod. “Hi.”

  “Sammi,” Cam continued.

  Sammi lifted a hand, her smile easy, as if she’d already decided Rory was acceptable until proven otherwise. “You’re the orange band kid.”

  Rory hated the reminder of his beginner status.

  “We’re all orange band kids on the inside,” Cam cut in breezily, diffusing the sting instantly.

  Joel nodded with mock solemnity. “Deeply orange.”

  Rory didn’t laugh, but he felt his shoulders drop by a fraction of a centimetre, a betrayal that annoyed him.

  Royel bounced closer, his grin far too wide for the hour. “I heard you have upgrades! What are they?”

  “Royel,” Murph warned, her voice low.

  “What?” Royel asked, feigning innocence. “It’s a fair question.”

  Rory glanced at Cam, silently asking if this was real life. Cam held up his hands. “Ignore him. He thinks asking questions is a personality trait.”

  Rory nodded once. “Okay.”

  Cam gestured toward Mari and Kate. Mari offered a cautious, small smile, while Kate’s expression remained a blank wall.

  “Hi,” Mari said, her tone an effort at normalcy.

  Rory nodded back. “Hey.”

  Cam didn't even bother with a proper introduction for Nelson and Jess. He simply angled his body so Rory wouldn't have to look at them. “And those are…those. They’re mostly okay, but they have their moments. You’ll get used to it.”

  Jess’s eyes flicked toward Rory, cold, brief, and dismissing him as if he were a waste of oxygen. Nelson smirked. Rory’s eyebrows lowered instinctively, his temper simmering. Cam clocked the reaction but chose to ignore it, keeping the momentum going.

  “That’s basically the kids table,” Cam said.

  Without meaning to, Rory’s eyes slid across the clearing again, drawn back to the older group. He stared a beat too long. “Why isn’t Owen here?”

  The answer came from Sammi, as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “Because he’s on a team.”

  Rory blinked, confused. “But…he’s a minor, right?”

  Murph nodded. “Yeah. He’s the only one.”

  The information landed in Rory’s chest like a lead weight.

  “He got placed early,” Joel added.

  Royel leaned in, clearly enjoying the drama. “He’s not just on a team. He’s on the team. He’s on the 33s.”

  Rory stared. “The what?”

  Cam’s grin softened into something more serious. “The Thirty-Threes are… top. Like, top-top.”

  “They’re a response unit,” Murph clarified, her voice crisp. “Highest clearance. Highest risk. They get sent in for the really big things or when everyone else fails.”

  Rory’s eyes stayed locked on Owen.

  “They don’t take minors,” Sammi shrugged.

  “Except Owen,” Royel added smugly.

  Rory felt his throat close around a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

  Cam glanced at him, then back to the training lanes. “Yeah. Except Owen.”

  “So if he’s acting like he’s too cool for breakfast,” Joel added, “it’s because he literally trains with monsters.”

  Rory pulled his gaze back, his jaw aching. He hated how that knowledge rearranged the map of the camp in his head. He hated that a part of him whispered, Of course he is. But mostly, he hated how small it made him feel.

  A movement at the edge of the drill space caught his eye.

  Leigh was sitting on a folded camp chair near the supply line, half-shadowed by a spreading tree. An open book lay in her lap, one knee bent up casually. She looked as though she were there without actually being there, watching the clearing the way one might watch a distant storm. Interested, but detached.

  She wasn't laughing. She wasn't warming up. She was an island.

  Rory’s attention snagged on her before he could stop it. Murph followed the direction of his stare and smirked. “You met Leigh.”

  Rory’s head snapped back. “I…no.”

  Murph’s eyebrows shot up, smirk still in place. “You didn’t?”

  Rory felt his face heat up, a familiar and loathed sensation. “I just…saw her.”

  “She does that,” Murph said, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

  “Does what?”

  “Exists,” Royel chimed in, as if that were a superpower in itself.

  Leigh turned a page, unhurried. She continued to read, seemingly indifferent to the eyes on her. Rory realised he was staring and looked away sharply, as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

  Joel bumped Rory’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. She’s not judging you.”

  Rory shot him a look. “How would you know?”

  Joel grinned. “Because she judges everyone equally. It’s her brand.”

  Before the conversation could go further, Alex reappeared. “So, you good?”

  Rory nodded.

  “Good. Just remember: stay in your lane, do what you’re told, and don’t get pulled into stupid power contests. If you feel weird, say it. If your temperature starts doing its own thing, say it.”

  Rory held her gaze. “I’m fine.”

  Alex stared at him for a second too long, then nodded as if she’d expected the lie. “Sure you are. Mads is running the rotation stations, Caleb’s overseeing the day.” She looked at Cam. “If he gets lost, help him. If you get him lost, I’m going to laugh at you.”

  “We would never,” Cam claimed, hand over his heart.

  “We absolutely would,” Joel corrected.

  Alex walked away, and Mads stepped up onto a crate in the centre of the clearing. She didn't need to yell, her presence commanded the silence.

  “Teams in your clusters,” she called out, her voice even and firm. “Rotation group, front and centre.”

  Cam clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the morning air. “Alright, kids table. Let’s go suffer in unison.”

  The transition was instantaneous. Rory watched the shift with a kind of sick awe, observing how the recruits sorted themselves without a single command or a moment of drifting indecision. They pulled together like magnets finding their polar opposites, a cohesive unit that left no room for hesitation. Cameron and Joel fell into place flanking him like it was a natural law, like the universe had already mapped out their coordinates before the day began. Rory felt the old, jagged reflex flare deep in his gut, the urge to widen the gap, to keep his expression a hollow mask, and to ensure he gave no one a single piece of himself to hold. He fought the impulse, tucking the fear away and holding his ground exactly where he had been placed.

  Cameron leaned slightly toward Joel, his voice pitched just loud enough for Rory to catch. "Bet you ten bucks Royel trips on absolutely nothing."

  Royel, whose ears were apparently as sharp as his movements, spun around mid-stretch. "I will not trip on nothing!"

  Joel merely pointed a finger at the dirt beneath them. "That’s exactly what someone who’s about to trip on nothing says."

  Royel flipped them off with a wide, effortless grin. Rory’s eyes flicked across the group, taking in the casual ease of the interaction and the deep-seated familiarity that bound them. He noted the way insults landed with the weight of affection because every person there already knew exactly where the boundaries were drawn. It made something pull hard beneath his sternum, a sharp, contained ache he refused to name. Dan would have been laughing at a scene like this. Dan would have rolled his eyes, made some spectacularly stupid comment, and leaned his weight into Rory’s shoulder as if it were his god-given right to be there. Rory worked his tongue once, forcing his gaze toward the orange cones until the memory finally receded.

  It became obvious within the first minute that this lane was not intended to be a race. The cones were spaced at a deliberate, awkward distance that made a simple sprint impossible, and the timers were far too long for short bursts of speed. Mads stood at the far end of the lane, a stopwatch clipped to her wrist.

  "Three minutes fast," she called out, her voice cutting through the air. "Three minutes controlled. Three minutes recovery. We repeat for five cycles."

  A few collective groans rippled through the gathered recruits. Nine minutes per cycle meant forty-five minutes of sustained output, and that was only the beginning of the morning’s work. As Rory stepped into his lane, the true nature of the drill became clear. Any enhanced individual could sprint hard or burn with a blinding intensity for sixty seconds, but the point of this exercise wasn't raw speed. It was a test of whether or not a person knew how to avoid spending themselves too quickly.

  "Go."

  The first interval was a massacre of common sense. Because they were enhanced, the "fast" command was taken as a challenge to break the sound barrier. The trainees exploded off the line like they’d been shot from cannons. Royel was a blur of motion, Nelson was practically tearing up the dirt with his strike, and Jess moved with a predatory, high-speed grace that looked impossible. They weren't just running; they were red-lining their systems, burning through glucose and oxygen at a rate that would have collapsed a normal person in thirty seconds.

  Rory didn't join the frenzy. He accelerated to a pace that was punishing but sustainable, holding back just enough to keep his heart rate from spiking into the danger zone. He watched the others disappear ahead of him, ignoring the urge to chase. He knew what happened when an enhanced system overheated too early.

  By the final cycle, the camp looked like a battlefield.

  The forty-minute mark had arrived, and the "miscellaneous" group was finally feeling the weight of their own biology. Enhanced metabolisms burned hotter and faster, and if not managed, they effectively cooked the runner from the inside out. Royel was no longer grinning. His face was a mask of sweat-streaked agony. Nelson’s powerful stride had turned into a desperate, heavy stomp. Even Jess was finally showing cracks, her breathing coming in sharp, jagged stabs.

  Rory’s ribs were screaming now, each deep inhale tugging at the bruised tissue. He recalibrated, taking shallower breaths and adopting a faster cadence with less torso rotation. He was exhausted, his muscles trembling under the sustained effort, but he hadn't broken.

  Across the clearing, near the line of shade, Leigh turned a page in her book. Her eyes lifted briefly over the top edge. She didn't look at the ones who had won the first lap. She watched the one who was winning the last one. She clocked the exact moment Rory consciously suppressed the heat rising in his skin, refusing to let his regulation abilities flare and give him away. She saw that he never once glanced sideways to see who was watching him. Her page remained unturned for a long time.

  "Final fast!" Mads barked.

  It was the ultimate test of ego. Nelson tried to surge, but his legs hitched, the lactic acid finally winning the war. Royel let out a strangled sound of frustration as he realised he had nothing left in the tank.

  Rory simply maintained. He didn't have to find a second wind because he hadn't wasted his first. He moved past the others with a steady, metronomic rhythm, his eyes locked on the final cone. He ran like endurance was a decision, not a gift.

  When the final recovery tone echoed through the clearing, Rory slowed in controlled, gradual increments. He didn't drop to his knees or bend over to catch his breath, even though his lungs felt like they were lined with ash. He simply walked.

  Across the shade line, Leigh finally turned another page, her gaze lingering on him a fraction longer this time. It was interesting to her, not because he was the fastest, but because he wasn't reckless. He understood the power of restraint.

  Rory felt the weight of eyes on him for a fleeting second, but he kept his focus down. He wouldn't give anyone that satisfaction, even as he hated how much that silent observation actually mattered to him.

  The next station appeared almost unimpressive at first glance, but there was a deceptive cruelty to its design. It consisted of a sixty-meter stretch of narrow, high-density foam laid across the uneven forest floor. It created a raised, unstable spine barely wider than a tactical boot, with a single, thin white line bisecting the centre. This wasn't a track, it was a tightrope. Anything a hair to the left or right would hit the soft, sloping edge of the foam and send the runner stumbling into the dirt.

  Beside the start line sat a heavy rack of weighted vests, but these weren't the standard light-duty gear used for basic training. The steel plates being slid into the fabric were the kind reserved for adult tactical conditioning. Fifteen kilograms were balanced across the chest and back, while another ten were distributed unevenly along one side, deliberately offset to create a jarring imbalance. The weight was not subtle; it dragged at the spine and tempted the hips to compensate too aggressively with every movement. For enhanced bodies capable of lifting twice their own weight without blinking, this was not a test of raw strength. It was a test of total, calculated restraint.

  “Foot placement,” Murph said as she stepped into her vest. “Stop dancing.”

  She did not rush, nor did she posture for the benefit of the observers. She stepped onto the foam spine with a sense of controlled intent, her weight shifting from one side to the other in a series of deliberate, fluid transfers. Every adjustment she made began at her ankle rather than her shoulder, her knees staying soft to absorb the impact of the shifting foam. Her breathing remained rhythmic and unchanged. The foam dipped and compressed microscopically under the load, not enough to be visible to the untrained eye, but enough to punish any hint of stiffness.

  Sammi followed her, moving slightly slower but remaining perfectly steady. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, allowing the imbalance to exist without wasting energy fighting against the tilt. Royel went next, deliberately exaggerating a wobble halfway down just to provoke a reaction from the group. Ai almost let out a laugh but didn’t. She refused to give him the satisfaction of an audience.

  Rory watched every movement with a predator’s focus. He clocked the weight distribution immediately, noting the way Murph’s shoulder dipped a fraction before she corrected the lean through her ankle to keep her boot centred on that white line. He watched the way Sammi shortened her stride rather than lengthening it, keeping her centre of gravity tight. When it was his turn, he stepped forward and let the vest settle.

  The gear was significantly heavier than it looked. The twenty-five kilos tugged at his core, with the offset ten dragging subtly but persistently to the left, encouraging a clumsy overcorrection that would send him right off the narrow foam. Rory did not resist the pull, instead, he allowed his spine to adjust naturally around the burden. He kept his arms loose at his sides and stepped onto the raised white line.

  He did not move fast, and he did not move slow. He moved with cold, singular intention.

  The imbalance tried to pull him outward with each successive step, the foam threatening to roll out from under him, but he absorbed the tension quietly. He adjusted through the ball of his foot rather than locking his hips, letting his weight roll into the movement rather than bracing against it. He had spent most of his life learning how to make himself smaller in rooms that felt unsafe, and he knew exactly how to control where his weight sat to avoid drawing attention. He knew how to minimise any visible reaction to pressure.

  It was a skill born of survival, and it translated here in a way he did not entirely like.

  Halfway down the strip, he felt the prickly sensation of someone watching him. Jess stood near the cones at the far end, her head tilted slightly and her expression already fixed into a shape that suggested she had already decided how his run would conclude. Rory did not look at her again. He fixed his gaze on the final marker and focused entirely on keeping his centre steady through the chaos of the weight. The vest pulled left again, but he shortened his step by a fraction and allowed his ankle to take the brunt of the adjustment instead of his spine, keeping his boot perfectly centred on the foam.

  He reached the end without a single wobble.

  Joel clapped once, a slow, exaggerated sound of mock approval. “Wow. Look at you. Not falling.”

  Rory glanced at him, his face a mask of indifference. “Is that your standard?”

  Joel shrugged. “My standard is ‘alive.’”

  Cameron nodded with mock solemnity. “Alive is elite here.”

  Rory went again when the instruction was given. This time, he did not attempt to increase his speed, instead, he refined his mechanics. He altered the angle of his foot placement by a fraction, reduced a single unnecessary shift in his shoulder, and shaved seconds off his time without ever appearing to rush or sway. It was not flashy or loud. It was efficient.

  Under the shade structure, Leigh observed the way he treated the narrow foam like it was solid ground. Rory finished the second run as cleanly as the first and stepped aside without offering a comment. His breathing remained steady and his shoulders stayed perfectly level. He had not given the watchers anything dramatic, he had not given them anything to laugh at, and he had not stumbled once.

  The third station was situated beneath a sprawling shaded canopy where heavy, reinforced striking pads hung from adjustable industrial frames. Several instructors loitered at the perimeter with their arms folded, their eyes tracking every movement with a cold, analytical detachment. This was not a sparring ring. There were no counters, no room for improvisation, and no space for ego-driven exchanges.

  Each trainee was assigned a fixed, five-strike combination to be repeated on command, and the primary objective was absolute consistency. The instructors weren't looking for raw, destructive force or theatrical displays of power. Any enhanced recruit could drive a fist through a sheet of plywood without even trying, but in this clearing, that proved nothing. What they demanded was repeatable output: clean lines, identical force across ten consecutive repetitions, and a total absence of emotional bleed. It was a test of precision under total control.

  Ai stepped forward first to take her turn, and Rory stepped into the frame to hold the heavy pads for her. She didn't engage in the usual pre-fight rituals, she didn't bounce on her toes or shake out her shoulders to shed tension. She simply lifted her hands into a guard and waited for the count.

  “Three cycles,” Mads called out.

  Ai struck. Her first jab landed with a muted thud that vibrated through the pads and straight into Rory’s forearms. Her cross followed with sharp, economical hip rotation and a controlled recoil that snapped her hand back to her chin. Hook. Elbow. Reset. There was no wasted motion in her, no heavy, theatrical exhales, and no visible strain. She moved like someone who had mastered the art of being dangerous in total silence.

  Rory braced himself firmly behind the gear to anchor her strikes. He absorbed the impact through his stance rather than his shoulders, letting the energy transfer down through his legs and into the reinforced matting so the pads didn't fly back. Halfway through the second cycle, he noticed a slight drag in her transition through the way the weight of her hit shifted against his left hand.

  “Rotate your hip a touch earlier,” he said quietly, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic thud of the pads.

  Ai corrected the movement on the very next repetition without breaking her rhythm. She finished the sequence with the exact same output she had started with, identical force and identical timing from the first strike to the last. When she finally stepped back and Rory lowered the pads, she looked at him with a newfound curiosity.

  “Have you done this before?”

  Rory offered a noncommittal shrug. “Not like this.”

  She held his gaze for one extra second, searching for something in his expression, then gave him a single, sharp nod of respect.

  They swapped positions, and Cameron stepped in to take the pads from Rory, swinging his arms out and rolling his neck as if he were preparing for a major battle. “Do not break my face,” he said, grinning warmly.

  Joel called out from the sidelines, “Break his ego instead.”

  Rory shot Joel a flat, unimpressed look, which only made Joel grin wider, looking as though he had personally achieved a great victory. Rory turned his focus back to the task and lifted his hands. He deliberately loosened the muscles in his shoulders and let his jaw unclench, measuring his breathing before the first count even started.

  “Go.”

  He struck with a disciplined, mechanical force, every movement anchored firmly through his hips and core. His first cycle landed with surgical precision. The second matched it almost exactly, the sound of the impact hitting the same note. The third carried the same weight, allowing for no escalation and no drop-off in intensity.

  Cameron’s grin began to fade halfway through the second cycle as he realised he was actually having to brace his entire body to keep the pads from buckling against the consistent, driving force. “Okay,” Cam said, his voice pitching slightly higher with the effort of holding the line. “Okay, yeah, cool-”

  Rory completed the final elbow strike and stepped back, his chest rising and falling as he breathed hard through his nose.

  “Okay.” Cameron shook out his hands. “That sucked. For me. I did not enjoy that.”

  A small, involuntary sound, something that almost counted as a laugh, escaped Rory. It was a rare break in his armour that startled him as much as anyone else. Cameron saw it, and his smile only broadened as he shook out the tension in his hands.

  Behind Cameron’s shoulder, however, Jess was watching with narrowed, calculating eyes. She did not look amused by the display of competence.

  Nelson stepped forward immediately afterward, moving with an aggressive urgency as if he needed to reclaim some lost territory. He hit hard, but he hit wide, overcommitting to every single strike as if sheer volume could compensate for a lack of control. The pads bucked awkwardly under his hands, his form fraying at the edges.

  “Bro,” Joel winced from the side. “Wow. You’re just fighting air.”

  “Shut up,” Nelson snapped, his face darkening.

  Joel lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I respect your commitment to being embarrassing.”

  Nelson’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his movements becoming even more erratic. Mads’s voice cut through the tension from behind them, cold and warning. “If anyone damages my equipment, you’re carrying it back.”

  Faced with the threat of manual labour, Nelson finally attempted to recalibrate, though the frustration remained etched into every line of his body.

  The fourth station was arranged in a wide, expectant circle of cones, each paired with a high-fidelity sensor stand mounted at chest height. The glowing screens displayed thin horizontal lines calibrated for a spectrum of enhanced outputs: thermal, kinetic, psionic, and photonic. The system remained indifferent to the form the energy took, it only cared about the level of control behind it. A whiteboard stood propped nearby, bearing a few stark commands in block letters: OUTPUT CONTROL. KEEP IT SMALL. KEEP IT CLEAN.

  Rory read the words twice, letting them sink in. He understood those words in theory. He had heard Ethan say versions of them. He had repeated them in his head while trying not to lose control in his own room.

  Seeing them here felt different.

  Mads paced the perimeter of the circle with her clipboard in hand. “Set to low. Precision only,” she instructed, her voice cutting through the morning air. “If you spike past the mark, you reset.”

  Murph stepped into the focus of her cone first. She didn't offer any dramatic gestures or telegraph her intent through physical tension. Instead, she dropped into a slight crouch and tapped the weighted baton resting at her feet. The baton slid forward in a perfectly clean line, stopping precisely at the tape marker before redirecting at a sharp right angle without losing a shred of its momentum. Rory’s eyes tracked the movement, and he found himself leaning forward without even realising it. The monitor registered a clean, unwavering kinetic pulse, controlled and entirely intentional. Murph stepped back as casually as if she had just adjusted the position of a chair.

  Rory swallowed against a dry mouth, his pulse climbing into his throat. Royel went next, rolling his shoulders and flicking his wrist with a smirk. A faint, shimmering tension tightened between his palm and the weighted plate on the ground. The plate lifted an inch, hovered with perfect stability, and then lowered exactly where it had started. The tether dissolved the instant he relaxed his fingers, and Rory stared at the empty space, feeling something strange and vulnerable open in his chest. They just did that. They could just…do that.

  Sammi stepped into her station next. A soft, contained burst of light pulsed outward from her body, held within a remarkably tight radius. It didn't flare upward or blind the bystanders, it simply expanded and compressed in a precise, rhythmic bloom. The sensor line rose to the mark and held steady. Rory had never witnessed anything like this, it was an entirely different world from the one he had occupied only a month ago.

  Joel took his turn, and the air around him seemed to fold in a way that was subtle and unnerving. He shifted half a meter to the left without ever taking a step, then snapped back to his original position. The displacement was smooth and contained within the circle, as if the world had briefly bent to his will and reset. Rory felt his heart kick against his ribs. He wanted to ask how it worked, what it felt like, and he desperately wanted to see it again.

  When Cameron stepped in, he summoned something faint and translucent between his palms. The shape sharpened for a fleeting heartbeat, twin curved edges forming out of thin, psionic light, before dissolving as he dialled back the output. The sensor line ticked upward and held firm. Rory’s breath caught in his throat. Blades. He had just formed blades out of nothing.

  His brain struggled to catch up with the reality of the situation. A month ago, he had been sneaking joints behind a shed, oblivious to the existence of human enhancement. Now, he was standing in a circle of teenagers who could bend motion, fold space, and shape weapons out of thought, and they were doing it with a casual, unperformed ease. It made his chest feel tight. He wondered what would happen if they ever truly let go, if they stopped holding back, if they-

  “Rory.”

  Mads’s voice sliced through his spiralling thoughts. He stepped into his cone, and the sensor blinked in anticipation.

  “Low setting. Precision,” she reminded him.

  He offered a single nod. The orange band on his wrist felt heavier than usual as he lifted his hand, focusing all his willpower on the pads of his fingertips. Heat gathered there, but it arrived too quickly. The line on the monitor jumped violently past the low mark before he could pull the energy back.

  “Reset,” Mads said calmly.

  His teeth ground against each other. He inhaled slowly, forcing the heat to collapse back into a neutral state before trying again. This time he aimed for something smaller, but he overcorrected, and the sensor barely flickered. Around the circle, the others were already finishing their second attempts, their lines rising and falling with easy, smooth transitions. Rory’s line jittered. He tried to smooth the output, but his awareness of the eyes on him made his focus splinter. He could feel Cameron behind him, and Joel, and Nelson, and Jess…especially Jess.

  He drew the heat inward once more, reaching for a narrow, controlled rise. It steadied for a fraction of a second, but then someone laughed two cones over. His concentration fractured instantly. The line spiked.

  “Reset,” Mads repeated.

  Rory forced down the bitter taste of frustration. He hated this part of the training. Running made sense, hitting and weight transfer were physical and tangible. This, however, felt like standing in front of a mirror that reflected every tremor he was trying to hide.

  Jess stepped into her cone then. She brightened softly, almost imperceptibly, and the air around her tightened in a way Rory could feel in his teeth. Her output rose in a clean, unwavering line and stayed there with effortless stability. Rory watched her, a hot, acidic wave spread low in his abdomen. He stepped forward again and gathered the heat.

  The moment he became aware of how badly he wanted to succeed, his control slipped. The warmth surged too fast, and when he clamped down on it instinctively, the drop was too sharp. The monitor flickered erratically, reflecting the tremor in his fingers. Across the circle, Jess’s line remained a perfect, steady horizon.

  He tried one more time. He breathed through his nose, counted, and tried to imagine still water. He managed a thin thread of controlled warmth that held for two seconds, then three. But then the memory of the night before flashed, the flame sitting calmly in his palm, and his focus tipped toward the memory instead of the sensor. The output rose too high.

  “Reset.”

  His jaw locked so tight it pained him. He stepped back from the cone before anyone could see the frustration boiling in his expression. Behind him, Cameron leaned in. “That one’s annoying,” he muttered, treating the failure like a shared complaint about a boring homework assignment.

  “It’s fine,” Rory said, the response coming out as a reflex.

  Joel tilted his head, observing him. “You look like you’re about to punch the cone.”

  “Mm. Maybe.”

  They didn't push him, and they didn’t lower their voices either. They just let him stand there in the aftermath of the struggle. Rory folded his arms, trying to pretend his hands weren't shaking. He understood the power, but he didn't understand how to stay neutral while wielding it. The moment emotion entered the equation, the embarrassment, the irritation, the desperate need to prove himself, the output followed the feeling.

  At the edge of the field, Leigh had been watching the circle with a lazy indifference until Rory stepped in, but now her gaze remained fixed on him. She didn't look judgmental or surprised, she looked interested. She wasn't watching the spikes in his power, she was watching the pattern. He could generate and sustain energy, but he couldn't detach the power from the person.

  Rory didn't notice her watching. He was too busy watching the dirt, trying to convince himself that no one had seen just how much he wanted to be like the rest of them. Under the shade structure, Leigh had closed her book entirely. She was watching.

  ***

  Mads’s whistle cut sharply through the humid air of the field, signalling a sudden end to the tension.

  “Break. Lunch. Forty-five.”

  Relief rippled outward immediately. A chorus of groans and sighs followed as people began to stretch, their bodies finally relaxing. Trainees shoved each other lightly as they peeled away from their stations, and the rigid order of the drill space dissolved into a chaotic swirl of motion.

  Rory stayed where he was for half a second too long.

  He hadn’t been here before. There was no instinct for what came next. Did he follow? Did he wait? Was there an order? Assigned seating? Another hierarchy he didn’t understand yet?

  He was still debating the logistics of existing when Cameron brushed past him, deep in a rapid-fire conversation with Joel.

  “If it’s stew again, I’m not eating it,” Cam was saying, his voice full of mock tragedy.

  “It doesn’t matter what it is, you always find something to complain about,” Joel pointed out.

  “I can’t help that I have high standards,” Cam replied, sounding deeply misunderstood.

  “It’s a retreat, Cam. It’s not a five-star restaurant,” Joel reminded him.

  Cam let out a small laugh, and without breaking his stride or pausing his banter, he reached back and caught Rory lightly by the arm. He tugged him forward, a casual but firm anchor, as he and Joel continued their march toward the mess canopy.

  Rory stumbled half a step, caught off guard by the contact, before he scrambled to match their pace. Cam didn’t look back at him. He didn’t announce the inclusion or slow the conversation to accommodate him, he just brought him along.

  Rory’s chest did something uncomfortable, a strange, unstable flutter he couldn't quite name. He let himself be pulled. He appreciated the gesture more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Cam was just…easy. He was loose and loud in a way that didn't feel sharp or dangerous. Someone like him, confident, popular, and already placed on a track, didn’t have to be this open to an outsider. And yet he was. That bothered Rory almost as much as it impressed him.

  They reached the canopy just as a line began to form naturally. No one barked instructions, people simply slotted in where they belonged. Rory stood behind Joel, tray in hand, listening to the noise around him. Cam, still mid-rant, leaned sideways to peer toward the serving tables with a suspicious eye.

  “And if it’s salad,” he announced to the line at large, “the lettuce better not be wet.”

  Joel made a strangled noise of pure frustration. “Oh my god, Cam. Enough.”

  Murph turned her head from a few places ahead, not even bothering to hide her smirk. “You do this every single meal. If you care this much, why don’t you volunteer to cook?”

  Cam straightened immediately, looking genuinely offended. “You wish I was in charge of the cooking.”

  “Hard no,” Murph shot back without a beat.

  Joel muttered, “We’d die.” Cam shot him a look, which Joel met with a flat, deadpan stare. “Not from the food,” Joel added calmly. “From the ego.”

  A ripple of genuine laughter moved down the line. Cam shoved Joel’s shoulder with exaggerated offence, but he didn't stop grinning.

  Rory listened, his eyes moving between them. He watched how they moved around each other without friction. Shoulders bumped, elbows nudged, and jokes were layered over jokes with the precision of people who had been doing this for years. He didn’t try to join in. He didn’t know how to navigate that kind of space yet.

  When it was his turn, he stepped forward, collected the food that was handed to him without a word, and stepped aside. He hovered again, the old uncertainty returning. He didn't know where to go. Behind him, someone bumped his shoulder lightly as they passed, Royel, already laughing about something else, oblivious to the contact.

  Rory swept his eyes over the tables. The long wooden benches were already filling up, groups forming like magnets snapping together in the dirt. He started to turn away, the instinct to find a quiet corner of the woods taking over, when Joel shifted without looking and slapped the bench beside him.

  A single, decisive thump.

  Rory paused. Joel didn't out right acknowledge him, he was in the middle of a sentence about how Murph had absolutely cheated at a drill earlier. The spot on the bench remained open, a silent invitation.

  Rory sat.

  Conversation flowed around him like a river. Murph immediately stole a piece of fruit off Royel’s plate, and Royel protested with a mock whine that held no real heat. Sammi leaned across Ai to argue about the finer points of foot placement they'd seen in the second station. Nelson and Jess were sitting two seats down, talking in voices low enough to be private but loud enough to be heard if someone were truly trying to eavesdrop.

  Rory didn't try. He watched the rhythm of the table, listened to the voices rising and falling, and took it all in. They interrupted each other without apology. They passed things without being asked. They leaned into each other’s personal space without a hint of a flinch. None of it was forced. They weren’t performing for anyone. They were just…familiar.

  It made something twist deep under Rory’s ribs.

  Across the clearing, the 33s table had formed as well. Rory’s eyes tracked toward them despite his best efforts. Owen sat with them, and unlike Rory, who was perched on the very edge of his seat as if ready to bolt, Owen sat dead centre. He was at the heart of a conversation he didn't have to fight for. Someone handed him a drink mid-sentence, and he adjusted to take it without even looking away from the person he was talking to. They moved like a single, practiced unit.

  Rory turned away before the envy could settle too deeply.

  The group around him continued to talk and move. Eventually, they seemed to forget about him in the way comfortable groups forget anyone who isn't actively demanding their attention. And in a way, that was worse. Because Rory wanted in. He hated that he wanted in.

  Leigh sat a few seats down next to Murphy, her gaze returning to Rory again and again. She watched the way he sat too straight, the way he didn't lean into the people beside him, and the way he tracked every interaction without participating in a single one.

  Cam noticed it too. He found himself looking at Rory more than he meant to. There was something about the newer boy that didn't match the surface, something held too tight under the skin. It made Cam curious in a way that felt almost unfair.

  Rory focused on his plate. He focused on chewing, on not letting his ribs stiffen when he shifted his weight, on not missing Dan.

  When he finished eating, he stood before anyone could make a comment. Cam glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable.

  “Obstacle course in forty,” he said casually, as if it were just another detail of the day.

  Rory nodded once, offering no promises before he walked away. Behind him, the noise of the table continued as if he had never been there at all. And now, Rory understood exactly what it was like to stand on the outside of it.

  If you are reading along LMK, leave a comment or something. And if you are looking for me I just did an awesome illustration on instagram of Rory holding fire. Handle @rory.atwood. And extra chapters on my .