The door to Room 714 slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing Theo inside with his new reality.

  Vance Kruger stood with his back to him, already claiming territory. He’d dumped his soot-streaked duffel on the right-side bed, the one closest to the window and, more importantly, closest to the room’s only door to the small, attached hygiene unit.

  “You,” Vance said without turning, his voice a low, crackling ember of a sound. “You better not come to my side of the room.”

  Theo flinched, then steadied himself. Does he always have to be so loud? He cleared his throat. “But… the bathroom’s on your side.”

  Vance finally turned. His eyes, already holding a faint, smoldering glow in the dim room, narrowed. “And?”

  “Well,” Theo said, keeping his voice even. “That’s… kind of unreasonable.”

  A flicker. Then a whoosh.

  Vance’s clenched fist erupted into a wreath of searing, plasma-bright flame. The heat washed over Theo’s face, sudden and terrifying. The fire cast dancing, demonic shadows across Vance’s snarling features.

  “If I catch you on my side,” Vance growled, the fire roaring in time with his words, “I’ll burn you alive.”

  As suddenly as it appeared, the flame vanished, snuffed out like a candle. Vance turned, threw himself onto his claimed bed with a grunt, and within seconds, his breathing deepened into the heavy, instant rhythm of sleep.

  Theo stood frozen for a long moment, the afterimage of the fire still painted on his retinas, the scent of ozone and something faintly sugary hanging in the air. How could he fall asleep that fast?

  He unpacked his few belongings slowly.

  Vance Kruger. Signature: Inferno.

  A walking metabolic inferno. His power didn’t create fire from nothing—it supercharged his own biology, turning fat and blood sugar into fuel for plasma. It was a power of constant, ravenous consumption. Every blaze cost him calories, stability, and control. And his control was a frayed wire, spliced directly into his temper. He's completely powerless without oxygen.

  No wonder he slept. His body was likely screaming for recovery after the race. He was a bully, yes. Arrogant and violent. But he was also a system perpetually on the brink of burning out his own fuel reserves.

  Theo finished arranging his side of the room—sparse, neat, a silent counterpoint to Vance’s chaotic corner. He checked the chrono on the wall. “Well,” he murmured to himself. “Better try to sleep. Have to wake up early tomorrow.”

  His own thoughts interrupted him. Wait. We’re supposed to meet Mr. Stan.

  He looked at Vance’s sleeping form, a knot of reluctance tightening in his stomach. Waking the human wildfire was a risk. But ignoring the instructor’s order was a greater one.

  “Hey,” Theo said, his voice firm. No response. “Wake up. We have to go meet Mr. Stan.”

  A guttural sound came from the bed. Vance’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly again with irritated fire. “Gah! I forgot.” He surged upright, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Move it, then. Don’t make me late.”

  ---

  The central skybridge on the fifth floor was a wide, glass-walled artery connecting RB and RG. The late afternoon sun streamed in, painting the polished floor with gold. The entirety of Class R2 stood in a loose cluster, the energy between them a mix of residual exhaustion and wary observation.

  Not far away, through the transparent wall of the adjacent bridge, they could see the other half of their year—Class R1—standing in similar formation. Their instructor, Marcus Hale, was a solid, unmoving silhouette as he addressed them, his gestures sharp and punctuated. The sounds were muffled, but the disciplined, tense posture of R1 was clear.

  Instructor Frederick Stan stood before R2, a glass of water in hand, its surface perpetually cycling between liquid and a thin skin of ice. His calm, penetrating gaze swept over them.

  “You have seen your quarters. You have met, however briefly, your roommate.” His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on Vance, then Theo, as if he could smell the confrontation. “This is your foundation. What I tell you now is the framework.”

  He proceeded with cool efficiency. The daily schedule appeared on a wall-mounted screen: pre-dawn conditioning, academic blocks on Breach-law and ethics, practical signature control, tactical drills. The point system was explained—a merciless economy where performance dictated privilege, equipment, and opportunity. The weekly rankings. The consequences of falling to the bottom.

  “Your first practical evaluation, will be next Friday. It'll allow me to know the limit of your signatures. That score will become your first official class ranking. Let that motivate you.”

  He then gestured to the transparent bridge, to the world beyond the academy spires. “I have given it some thought. The administrative calendar has a brief acclimation period. Therefore, for this week, your schedule is your own. The campus facilities—gymnasium, library, simulation rooms—are open to you. You may even,” he said, a slight, almost imperceptible edge in his voice, “go home, if you wish. See your families. Settle your affairs.”

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the group. A reprieve?

  Stan’s voice cut through it, clean and final. “Make sure you are in class by 0800, in this on Monday. Classes begin in earnest. Dismissed.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving them standing in the sun-drenched silence of the skybridge, the weight of a fleeting freedom and the looming specter of Monday settling upon them all at once. For a few days, they were not yet soldiers in the academy’s war. They were just students, standing at the edge of everything they’d fought for, with one last weekend to remember who they were before it changed them forever.

  Stolen story; please report.

  ---

  The day had finally come.

  I stood before the monolithic gates of Turboland Academy, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The last week at home had been a quiet, suspended animation—Dad trying to act normal, me trying to pretend I wasn't carrying a miniature sun in my chest. I hadn't seen Stupendous. I hadn't heard from him. The silence felt heavier than any training.

  Now, the gates hummed with contained energy, and the next chapter of my life lay on the other side. I took a deep breath and walked in.

  The halls of the Axiom Block were a river of controlled chaos. The polished floors reflected the frantic energy of a hundred students finding classrooms, comparing schedules, sizing each other up. I found the door marked R2 - RESPONDER FUNDAMENTALS, slipped inside, and took an empty seat near the back.

  The chaos followed me in. Vance Kruger was already holding court, his voice a loud crackle over the general din. Edgar Rodigar sat stiffly, his arms crossed, radiating a stay away field. Lily Cinclare was a statue of calm in the center of it all, her eyes tracking everything without seeming to see.

  I kept my head down. My watch read a safe, stable 0. I hadn't activated Turbo.Just get through the first day.

  Then, without warning, the door hissed shut.

  Silence for a half-second. Then, a collective gasp.

  Thin, whip-like ropes of shimmering water shot from the seam around the doorframe. Not a torrent, but twenty-five precise, seeking tendrils. They moved faster than thought, lashing around wrists, ankles, and—with a soft, wet snap—across everyone’s mouths, forming gag-like seals.

  I tried to jerk my arm away. The water rope tightened, cold and unyielding as steel cable. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. A panicked grunt was all that escaped me. All around the room, twenty-four other students were frozen in place, eyes wide, struggling silently against their liquid bonds.

  Only then did the main door slide open.

  Instructor Frederick Stan walked in, calm as a summer pond. He held a glass of water in one hand. He took a slow sip, his eyes sweeping over his immobilized class. He set the glass down on the teacher’s podium with a soft click.

  “Good morning,” he said, his voice pleasant, conversational. “Now, let’s go over a few rules.”

  He paused, letting the silence and our helplessness sink in.

  “I want no noise.” Another pause. A droplet fell from one of the water-gags, hitting the floor with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet. “That’s it.”

  That’s it? The thought screamed in my head. He said ‘a few rules.’ That’s one!

  Instructor Stan gave a barely perceptible nod. Instantly, the water ropes lost their solidity, splashing harmlessly to the floor in a sudden, synchronized puddle that then flowed unnaturally back into a drain in the corner. Gags vanished, leaving us sputtering and wiping our mouths.

  He didn’t acknowledge the display of power. He simply picked up a tablet.

  “Now,” he continued, as if he’d just asked us to take out a textbook. “You’ve all been assigned numbers. Administrative efficiency. When you hear your number, you will say ‘Present.’ Clearly. Understood?”

  A mute, collective nod.

  “Number One. Charles Blake.”

  From the front row, the sallow, sickly-looking boy flinched. “Present,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Number Two. Leonard Bright.”

  “Present,” came Leo’s low, rumbling reply from the back, his leonine mane shifting.

  One by one, the roll call cut through the tense silence.

  “Number Three. Ethan Carter.” A barely audible whisper from behind dark glasses.

  “Number Four. Felix Chen.” A calm, analytical tone.

  “Number Five. Lily Cinclare.” A flat, detached acknowledgment.

  The list went on, a ledger of future heroes and casualties.

  “Number Nine. Theodore Griffin.”

  “Present,” I said, my own voice sounding strangely steady.

  Stan’s eyes flicked to me for a millisecond longer than the others before moving on.

  “Number Ten. Frederick Hauser.”

  “Number Eleven. Dennis Humphrey.”

  Down the line. The pyrokinetic, the speedster, the crystal-shifter, the bubble-weaver. Each “Present” was a claim staked in this new, brutal territory.

  “Number Twenty-five. Dykes Tucker.”

  “Present and accounted for, boss,” Dykes drawled, a cocky smirk already back on his face.

  Instructor Stan set the tablet down. The digital roster glowed on the wall behind him: R2 - 25/25 PRESENT.

  “Your numbers are your identifiers for drills, gear assignment, and medical,” he stated. “Memorize them. Your first lesson begins now. The lesson is: in my classroom, you are not individuals with dazzling powers. You are resources. You will learn to be efficient, obedient. Or you will be removed.”

  He picked up his glass of water again. It had already refilled itself from the ambient humidity.

  “Open your tablets to Module One: Breach Theory Fundamentals. We have a world to save, and you are wasting my time.”

  As twenty-five tablets lit up in unison, I finally understood. The academy wasn't here to make us heroes.

  It was here to turn us into Efficient Responders.

  To Be Continued...