Sunlight streams through my dorm window at the same angle as yesterday.
The golden beam hits my desk where breakfast waits—scrambled eggs, orange juice, toast cut into triangles.
My stomach clenches.
"Morning, Ez!" Marcus bounces from his bed, already dressed. "Sleep well? You were tossing around a lot last night."
"Yeah. Morning." I swing my legs over the mattress edge. "Just dreams."
"What kind of dreams?"
I pause, trying to grasp the fragments. "I don't remember. They felt familiar somehow."
"Probably just nerves." He grabs his training bag. "Ready for another fantastic day at Meridian
Academy? Strategic Applications first, then combat training."
A chill prickles up my spine. Like I've just woken up in someone else's life. "Marcus, don't you ever get tired of saying the exact same things?"
He pauses, head tilted. "What do you mean?"
"Every morning. Same words, same enthusiasm."
"Well, yeah. I love it here. Don't you?" He sits on his bed. "Why?"
"Do you remember anything from before Meridian?"
His face goes blank. "Before? What do you mean?"
"Your life. Your family. Where you came from."
Marcus blinks slowly. "Of course I remember. I came from..." His voice trails off. "That's weird. I can't quite..."
"You can't remember either."
"No, that's not right. I definitely remember." He stands quickly. "Come on, buddy. We're living the dream here. Elite training, cutting-edge facilities—"
"The best instructors in the sector," I finish.
Marcus stares at me. "How did you know I was going to say that?"
"Because you say it every morning."
"See you in Strategic Applications," he says quietly, for once not smiling.
**
The corridor smells faintly of ozone and sterile plastic, like an unused hospital wing.
Students fill the walkways, offering cheerful greetings. Their smiles look identical.
"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" says a girl with blonde pigtails.
"Another great day ahead!" calls out a boy with freckles.
I slow down, listening. Different voices, same script.
Strategic Applications takes place in a high-ceilinged lecture hall ringed with sleek, glowing panels—like a futuristic courtroom.
I slide into my usual seat. Kira settles beside me, auburn hair catching the artificial lights.
"You look troubled," she says. "More than usual."
"Kira, do you remember anything from before you came here?"
She goes very still. "Before?"
"Your family. Your home. How you got selected for Meridian."
Her green eyes dart around the room. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I can't remember. And neither can Marcus."
"That's not normal, is it?"
Professor Zane enters and begins his lecture on tactical resource allocation. The concepts feel familiar, like I've heard them before.
My fingers fly across the tablet, taking notes with surprising speed.
"Your understanding has improved remarkably," Kira murmurs. "Almost overnight."
"What do you mean?"
"Three weeks ago, you couldn't grasp basic supply chain theory. Now you're analyzing complex scenarios like you've done this for years."
The room feels suddenly too warm. Sweat beads along my collar. "People learn at different rates."
"This isn't normal learning," she whispers. "It's like you're remembering something you already knew."
Professor Zane calls my name. "Ezren, would you walk us through the resource allocation for Scenario Seven?"
I stand, legs steadier than they should be. At the interactive display, my hands move with practiced ease.
"Primary supply depot here. Secondary reserves along these vectors. Personnel rotation every forty-eight hours."
The solution unfolds with crystalline clarity. Each decision feels both foreign and familiar.
The classroom falls silent.
"Excellent analysis," Zane says slowly. "Please see me after class."
I return to my seat. Kira watches me with those green eyes.
"That was incredible," she whispers. "But also terrifying."
After class, I approach Zane's desk.
"Sir? You wanted to see me?"
"Ah, Ezren." He sets down his stylus. "Tell me, how are you feeling lately?"
"Fine. Why?"
"Any headaches? Strange dreams? Moments where you feel disconnected?"
My pulse quickens. "Should I be having those?"
"You tell me." His gray eyes study my face.
"Your performance today was remarkable. Your tactical analysis showed sophistication that typically takes years to develop."
"I've been studying hard."
"Have you? Or is it something else?" He leans forward.
"How long have you been at Meridian Academy, Ezren?"
"Three months."
"And before that?"
I open my mouth, then close it. The memories feel foggy, like trying to grab smoke. "I was selected from my home sector."
"Which sector?"
"Sector..." The word sticks in my throat. "I... why can't I remember?"
"Interesting." He makes a note on his tablet.
"We'll continue this conversation tomorrow. For now, head to combat training."
***
The combat facility sprawls before me, its polished floors reflecting banks of harsh fluorescent lights.
The air carries the metallic tang of training weapons and the sharp scent of disinfectant.
I wrap my hands around the training blade's grip. The weapon feels familiar.
"Looks like you're with me, newbie," Garrett calls out.
He's a senior student with two years of training.
"Try not to embarrass yourself."
"Begin sequence seven," Professor Zane calls from the observation platform.
Garrett activates his blade, blue light casting shadows across his face. "Ready to get schooled?"
We circle each other. He moves with practiced precision—this should be a massacre.
Garrett lunges. My body moves without conscious thought, deflecting his strike and countering. The training weapon stops at his throat.
He stumbles backward, eyes wide. "What the hell? How did you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Again," Zane commands.
This time Garrett comes at me with fury, his blade weaving complex patterns.
But my body responds like it's following muscle memory carved into bone. I flow around his attacks, each movement precise.
My counter-strike drops him to the mat.
"This is impossible," he gasps. "You're a newbie. I've been training for two years!"
"I know. I don't understand it either."
Other students stop their matches to watch.
"Again."
The third bout lasts thirty seconds. I disarm him with a move I don't remember learning.
"This is bullshit!" Garrett throws down his blade. "He's cheating somehow!"
"No one's cheating," Zane says calmly. "Ezren, your technique is exceptional."
"That's enough," Zane announces. "Ezren, remain behind. Everyone else, dismissed."
The facility empties. Zane approaches, circling me slowly.
"Your improvement is remarkable," he says. "Three months ago, you could barely execute a basic parry."
"I've been practicing."
"Have you? Or have you been remembering?"
The question hits like a physical blow. "What does that mean?"
Zane pulls out a device, tapping its screen. He lifts it to his ear.
"Subject 47's response to trigger exposure is earlier than projected. His integration rate is exceeding all previous records. Initiating Protocol Seven assessment."
My blood turns to ice. "Subject 47? What are you talking about?"
He ends the call and looks at me with something like pity.
"Get some rest, Ezren. Tomorrow is going to be a very important day."
"Wait! What's Protocol Seven? What integration rate? What trigger exposure?"
But he's already walking away, leaving me alone in the sterile facility.
I stare at my hands—hands that moved with impossible skill, like they belonged to someone else.
"What the hell is happening to me?"