"Here are the results of the test."
Commander Reeves' voice cut through the arena's settling dust like a blade. Class B arranged themselves in a ragged line before her, some still catching their breath, others nursing cuts and bruises. The metallic scent of destroyed drones hung in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of burnt circuitry and human sweat.
Mateo found himself standing between two strangers, his torn shirt clinging to his back with perspiration. The arena's harsh lights cast long shadows across their faces, making everyone look older, more worn than they had that morning.
"Results will be based on your finishing position and drone elimination count," Reeves continued, her military bearing unchanged despite the late hour. She'd descended from the ceiling platforms moments after the last contestant crossed the line, not giving them a second to process what they'd just survived.
Here it comes. Mateo's stomach clenched.
"First place: Anon Alan. Zero drones destroyed. Total score: 120 points."
The boy with the sheep-wool hair—Anon—shifted nervously beside Mateo. His glasses had somehow survived the chaos, though they sat slightly crooked on his nose. "That's... that's good, right?" His voice cracked slightly.
Mateo's hands balled into fists. The bastard who stole my victory. The memory of that last-second position swap. He'd trusted Anon, worked with him, and gotten betrayed for his trouble.
Reeves ignored the question, her pale blue eyes scanning her tablet. "Second place: Ken Kokun. Four drones destroyed. Total score: 154."
Ken—the tall blond who'd somehow ended up falling with Glasses instead of Mateo—ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He looked uncomfortable with the attention, his shoulders hunched slightly forward.
My turn. Mateo's throat felt dry.
"Third place: Mateo Mendoza. Eleven drones destroyed. Total score: 210."
The number hit him like a physical blow. 210. Higher than both the guys who'd screwed him over. The tension in his chest eased slightly, replaced by a cautious pride.
But how does the scoring work? The math didn't add up in any obvious way.
"Fourth place: Alex Velez. Position four, thirty-eight drones destroyed. Total score: 432."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the line. Alex stood three people down from Mateo, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that had somehow stayed neat despite everything. She didn't react to the score, just stared straight ahead with that same intensity she'd shown during their fight.
Thirty-eight drones. The number was staggering. Mateo had thought eleven was impressive.
The fire-powered guy—whose name Mateo still hadn't caught—scored 440, making him the highest. His red costume was singed but intact, and he accepted the news with a curt nod.
The remaining scores cascaded downward: 200s, 150s, some dropping into double digits. Mateo felt his anxiety ebb as he realized he wasn't at the bottom. Not even close.
"Last place: Ben Matthews. Position twelve, one drone destroyed. Total score: 11 points."
Ben's face crumpled. The guy who'd seemed untouchable during the exercise now looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His quirk might have kept him safe, but it hadn't helped him advance or fight.
"Now." Commander Reeves' voice took on a different tone—still authoritative, but with an undercurrent of something that might have been sympathy. "This test may seem unfair. It doesn't measure the full scope of your abilities."
She's right. Ben's defensive quirk could be invaluable in the right situation. Ken's position-swapping could disorient enemies. Even Anon's analytical mind could be crucial with proper planning.
"But fairness isn't the point," Reeves continued, her words hitting like hammer blows. "This test measures how you perform in chaos. How you adapt when your comfortable strategies fail."
Some of the tension left the line as shoulders relaxed slightly. But Reeves wasn't finished.
"You've heard rumors about the training program being shortened from four years to one month."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Everyone nodded, hope flickering in their eyes that she was about to debunk those whispers.
"Those rumors are incorrect." A pause that stretched like eternity. "The program is now one week. Today was day one."
One week. The words echoed in Mateo's skull like a death sentence. Six more days, and then they'd be thrown into real combat zones. Against real villains. With powers that could actually kill them.
Eyes widened around him. Someone—maybe the girl with the snake—made a small choking sound. The boy next to Ben swayed on his feet.
Thirty top heroes dead. Eliza's words came flooding back. This wasn't about glory anymore. It was about survival. About being efficient enough to stay alive in a war zone.
Most faces showed varying degrees of horror, but not all. Alex's expression remained unchanged—if anything, her slight smile looked almost eager. The fire guy straightened, his jaw set with grim determination.
They're ready for this. The realization was both inspiring and terrifying. These were the people he'd be competing against, working with, maybe dying beside.
"We'll continue analyzing your abilities," Reeves said, her voice carrying the weight of military pragmatism. "Every day counts now. The war pushes deeper into our territory with each passing hour. We're going to push every one of you to your absolute limit."
She paused, studying their faces. "Are you ready?"
The response was halfhearted at best—tired fists raised without conviction, mumbled affirmatives. Reeves didn't press for enthusiasm. She understood exhaustion when she saw it.
But we're not done yet.
Instead of dismissal, she led them through another doorway into a cavernous gym that could have housed a small aircraft. Treadmills and weight machines stretched into the distance, punctuated by rows of training dummies and punching bags equipped with force meters. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh white relief.
"One hour of physical conditioning," Reeves announced, and then—impossibly—she yawned. An actual, human yawn that transformed her from military commander to tired woman for just a moment.
Even she's exhausted.
Mateo found himself assigned to a heavy bag, and for the first time all day, he felt his muscles relax. This was familiar territory. Two years of desperate training, of trying to become strong enough to matter without his quirk.
He slipped on the gloves, the leather worn smooth by countless other hands. The first punch felt like coming home.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythm was meditative, each impact sending shockwaves up his arms and into his shoulders. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he fell into the pattern that had sustained him through two years of self-doubt.
Left hook. Right cross. Left jab.
The bag swayed with each hit, the force meter registering numbers he didn't bother to read. This wasn't about scores anymore. It was about the burn in his muscles, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the familiar ache that meant progress.
Thirty minutes in, he paused to catch his breath. His reflection in the gym's mirrors showed a young man pushed to his limits—shirt soaked with perspiration, hair plastered to his skull, but eyes bright with something that might have been hope.
He looked at his right hand, palm up.
The familiar tingle as his pores dilated slightly. A single drop of green slime appeared in his palm, no bigger than a tear. He concentrated, willing it back, and watched it disappear into his skin like it had never existed.
Every victory today came from this power. The interview with Atlas. The fight with Alex. The drone exercise. Without his quirk, he'd still be the failure who couldn't make it into hero school.
But does that make me weak? The question had haunted him since childhood. If he was nothing without his power, what did that say about who he really was?
He pushed the thought away. Philosophy could wait. Right now, he had a choice to make.
If this slime can make me a hero, then I'll embrace it completely. No more running from what he was. No more shame about the green goo that had humiliated him countless times.
His brother's dream. His brother's death. Both demanded that he become something more than his fears.
"Hey, Mateo? Got a minute?"
He turned to find Anon and Ken approaching, both looking as wrung out as he felt. Their hair was slick with sweat, Anon's face flushed red from exertion.
Here we go.
"About the switching thing at the end," Anon said, his voice careful. "You understand why I had to do it, right? No hard feelings?" He extended his hand.
Mateo stared at the offered handshake. Part of him wanted to walk away, to nurse his resentment like a wound. But that would be childish. They were all fighting for survival now.
He took the hand. "We're good."
"And us?" Ken asked, offering his own hand with a tight smile. "We cool?"
"Yeah, we're cool... Ken."
Ken's smile faltered. "Actually, everyone calls me Switch. After my quirk. Just... use that, okay?"
Interesting. There was something in Switch's voice—not quite pain, but something close to it. Whatever reason he had for avoiding his real name, it ran deep.
"Switch it is," Mateo agreed.
Neither of them apologized for the betrayal, but that was fine. They weren't friends. Just colleagues in a war that had already begun.
Looking around the gym, Mateo noticed most of the others had stopped their exercises. Conversations had broken out in small clusters—Ben was talking to the girl with the snake, their voices low and worried. Others stretched or just sat on benches, too exhausted to continue.
Where's Reeves? He spotted her in the corner, watching them with an expression that was more sad than stern. Like she was looking at children who'd been forced to grow up too fast.
Only Alex and the fire guy—what was his name?—continued their routines with mechanical precision. Alex pounded out miles on a treadmill, her pace never varying. Fire guy pressed weights that should have been impossible for someone his size, his face set in granite determination.
They're going to be the ones to watch.
The remaining thirty minutes passed in a blur of casual conversation and shared exhaustion. When Reeves finally called time, there was almost a collective sigh of relief.
The walk back to the dormitories felt endless. Mateo's legs wobbled with fatigue, and more than once he had to steady himself against the wall. The others looked equally destroyed—even Alex's perfect posture had started to sag.
The dormitory hallway stretched ahead of them, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that buzzed like angry insects.
Mateo found his room number and pushed open the door to find the room he had lodged in earlier that evening.
His roommates were already settling in. Switch claimed the upper bunk across from him, while Ben took the lower.
This is home now.
The sheets were military-issue thin, the mattress barely thick enough to qualify as such. But after the day he'd had, it looked like luxury.
He changed into a clean shirt—one of only two he'd brought—and collapsed onto the narrow bed. The springs creaked ominously under his weight.
Above him, Switch was already breathing heavily, either asleep or pretending to be. Ben sat on his bed across the small room.
One day down. Six to go.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead until someone—probably the invisible fourth roommate—hit the switch. Darkness fell like a blanket, broken only by the faint glow of emergency lighting in the hallway.
Mateo stared at the ceiling, or where he imagined the ceiling to be. His body ached in places he'd forgotten existed. His mind raced despite his exhaustion, replaying every moment of the day: Atlas's penetrating questions, Alex's devastating power, the chaos of the drone exercise, the shocking revelation about their shortened timeline.
Six more days. Each one would probably be worse than the last. More tests, more challenges, more opportunities to fail or succeed in spectacular fashion.
What kind of hero will I be? The question felt different now than it had that morning. Less about idealistic dreams and more about practical survival. Heroes were dying out there—real heroes with real experience. What chance did a bunch of teenagers have?
But I made it this far.
The slime drop in his palm had been so small, so controlled. Maybe, with the right training, the right mindset, he could become something more than the failure everyone expected.
His brother's face flickered in his memory—not the broken, dying version from that terrible night, but the younger Alec who'd dreamed of saving people, of making the world better.
I'll carry that dream forward. No matter what the next six days brought.
I will avenge you, Brother.