I wake before Marcus this time, my body alert despite barely sleeping.
The conversation with Professor Zane loops through my mind. Subject 47. Integration rate. Protocol Seven.
This morning, I'm going to break the pattern.
I slip on my uniform and head for the door. The corridors stretch ahead, but something feels wrong.
I've walked these halls dozens of times, yet today nothing looks right.
The east wing should lead to the library. But as I follow the corridor, counting doorways, the hall curves left when it should curve right.
The windows show the same courtyard view I passed three turns ago.
I stop, heart hammering. The corridor ahead looks identical to the one behind me.
"You're up early." Kira's voice makes me jump. She emerges from an alcove I swear wasn't there moments before.
"Testing something," I say. "Have you noticed the east wing corridor doesn't actually lead
anywhere?"
Her green eyes dart left and right, checking for observers. "You shouldn't ask questions like that."
"Why not?"
"Because some questions have answers you're not ready for." She wraps her arms around herself.
I step closer. "But you've noticed it too, haven't you? The way things don't quite make sense?"
Her silence stretches too long. When she finally nods, the movement is barely visible.
"What happened to Martinez?" I ask suddenly. The name pops into my head—a student who should be in our class but isn't.
Kira goes pale. "I don't know who that is."
Her hands shake as she says it, and I catch the flash of recognition before she masks it.
"You do know him."
"I have to go," she backs away down the corridor. "Please, Ezren. Just follow the routine. It's safer that way."
She disappears around a corner.
**
The combat facility buzzes with morning energy. I spot Devon adjusting his gear in the corner.
"Devon," I call, approaching him. "Can I ask you something technical?"
He looks up, dark eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Sure, what's on your mind?"
"Yesterday, during training, I moved faster than I should have been able to. Any idea what could cause that?"
Devon sets down his tool, expression shifting to focused attention. "Faster how? Better technique, or actually faster?"
"Actually faster. Like my reflexes were operating on a different timescale."
He glances around, then leans closer. "I've got a diagnostic program running piggyback on the training sim protocols. Nothing official." His voice drops.
"Your reaction time yesterday was clocked at forty milliseconds. Olympic athletes average around two hundred."
My stomach drops. "That's impossible."
"Yeah, that's what I thought too." His voice carries a nervous edge.
"But I've run the tests three times. Your neural processing speed is literally superhuman. That's not normal improvement, Ezren. That's not normal anything."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But I've been documenting anomalies. Little things that don't add up. System glitches. Performance spikes that shouldn't be possible."
"Others?"
"You're not the only one, but you're accelerating faster than the rest."
His jaw tightens. "I probably shouldn't have said that."
The training blade feels different today—lighter, more responsive. I raise it to guard position and muscle memory floods back.
Garrett steps onto the mat, grinning. "Ready for another round, Ez?"
We circle each other. Garrett moves with practiced competence, but to me, watching him feels like observing someone underwater.
Every strike telegraphs itself seconds before he commits.
My blade slides past his guard, stopping at his throat.
Garrett stumbles backward, confusion replacing his smile.
Devon blinks hard, rubbing his eyes. "What the hell?" he mutters under his breath.
"Again," I hear myself say.
This time I let him attack first. He comes at me with a complex combination that should overwhelm my defenses.
Instead, my body flows around his attacks.
I disarm him in three moves.
Devon's face goes white. He stares at the space above my head, his mouth slightly open. "Combat Precognition Level 3," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
"Threat Assessment: Overwhelming. Efficiency Rating..." He swallows hard. "Perfect."
"How are you doing that?" Garrett breathes, staring at his weapon on the floor.
"I don't know."
"That's not possible. I've been training for two years!"
"Neither did I know yesterday. But here we are."
Devon watches from the sidelines, his expression mixing fascination and concern.
"This is freaking me out," Garrett mutters, retrieving his blade. "No one improves this fast."
When the session ends, Devon pulls me aside.
"Ezren, I need to tell you something, and you're going to think I'm losing my mind." His hands shake as he gestures vaguely above my head.
"I can see numbers floating right there. Combat data, ability ratings.
Your Combat Precognition just hit Level 3, and there's something called Enhanced Reflexes showing Level 5."
He runs a hand through his hair. "The scale goes to 100, and most people don't even register a Level 1."
Level 3. Level 5. The numbers echo in my head as Devon continues talking.
"What I said earlier about others—there are students showing similar patterns. Accelerated learning, impossible skill acquisition. But they don't seem to notice it happening." Devon continues.
"And I do?"
"You're asking questions. That makes you different." He checks to make sure we're not overheard. "Or dangerous."
"To who?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes where information downloads into my brain. By evening, my head pounds.
**
Back in my dorm room, I stand before the bathroom mirror. The face looking back should be familiar, but something feels off.
Devon's words replay in my mind. Combat Precognition Level 3.
What kind of combat am I being prepared for?
I can't remember my mother's face. The realization hits like a physical blow. When I try to picture my parents, I find only vague impressions. Generic memories that could belong to anyone.
"What's my home phone number?" I whisper to my reflection.
My mind offers only static.
A soft knock interrupts my panic. "Ezren? You okay in there?" Kira's voice carries concern.
"Fine," I call back.
Her footsteps retreat. I step closer to the mirror, examining my face in the harsh lighting.
The angles seem wrong, like I'm wearing a mask that almost fits.
I roll up my sleeves to splash cold water on my face, and that's when I see it.
Around my wrist is a translucent bracelet I've never noticed before. It looks medical, made of a
material that shifts between transparent and invisible.
My hands shake as I lift my wrist to the light. Etched into the surface in tiny letters that glow faintly:
SUBJECT 47 - NEURAL INTEGRATION PROTOCOL
The bathroom tilts around me. Subject 47. The number Professor Zane mentioned on his call.
I tug at the bracelet, but there's no clasp, no way to remove it. It's seamless, as if it grew from my skin.
I pull harder, twisting my wrist until the skin burns. The bracelet doesn't budge.
"What the hell is this?" I whisper.
Neural Integration Protocol. The words connect with fragments of overheard conversations and half-remembered dreams.
Marcus's voice drifts from the main room. "Ez? You've been in there a while. Everything okay?"
"Just tired," I manage.
But I'm not tired. The bracelet catches the light as I turn my wrist, and I see my reflection fractured in its surface—dozens of me, all wearing the same expression of dawning horror.
I stare at my reflection—at the stranger wearing my face, at the bracelet that marks me as property rather than person.
"Who am I?" I ask the mirror.
The reflection doesn't answer.