The elevator was silent.
Not the kind of silence that signaled peace. The kind that enforced it. A silence designed by someone who believed noise was weakness.
Hernan stood at the center, arms relaxed, back straight, his eyes locked on the vertical strip of rising white lights. There were no buttons. No panels. No music. Just a sharp hum as kinetic lifts pulled him up through the spine of the academy tower — past the cadet living tiers, through faculty floors, beyond administration.
The elevator shaft ended in secrecy.
Above him, a recessed light flickered once.
A soft voice, synthetic and cold, whispered:"Cadet Rook Vale. Clearance confirmed. Level Seven access granted."
The doors whispered open.
And the air... changed.
Cleaner. Sharper. Sterilized past human comfort. It didn't smell like a place where people worked — it smelled like a place where mistakes had never happened.
Zodiac Floor 7.
