The first rule of Veridian:
Nothing is ever explained.
Everything is implied.
I learned that at breakfast.
The dining hall was a vast, glass-walled room overlooking the valley. Sunlight poured in, sharp and clean. Students sat in small groups, voices low, postures upright. No one slouched. No one spilled. Even the way they buttered their toast looked practiced.
I took a tray, moved down the line — fruit, toast, black coffee — and scanned the room for an empty seat.
There weren't any.
Not a single one.
I stood there, tray in hand, feeling the weight of eyes that weren't quite looking at me. A girl near the window glanced up, then quickly away. A boy shifted his bag onto the empty chair beside him.
I was being airlocked.
And no one had to say a word.
Then a voice, low and precise:
"You can sit here. If you don't mind the view."
I turned.
A girl sat alone at a corner table, sipping tea, a thin silver earpiece glinting behind her ear. She didn't look up as she spoke. Her uniform was perfect, but her hair — dark, coiled, pulled into a loose knot — had one strand loose, curling down her neck like a question.
I sat.
"I'm Sage," I said.
"Nia Chen," she said. "Class of '25. Rank Seven. Or I was, until last week."
I paused. "Rank?"
She gave a small, dry laugh. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
She studied me. Not unkindly. More like a mechanic assessing an unfamiliar engine.
"The Index," she said. "They haven't told you. That's interesting."
"What index?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her blazer and slid a single sheet of paper across the table.
It was a printout — black and white, no header, no logo. Just a list of names, ranked from one to fifty.
At the top:
Kieran Vale – 98.7
Below him, a cascade of names I didn't know.
Then, near the bottom:
Sage Morrow – 38 – New Entry
My stomach dropped.
"That's not real," I said.
Nia sipped her tea. "Is your earpiece real? Is the way people avoid you real? Is the fact that Luka Abara's name was erased from the alumni board real?"
I looked down at the paper. My name. My number.
As if I'd already been judged.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"It updates every seventy-two hours," she said. "Some of us know how to find it."
"Why show me?"
She leaned forward, just slightly.
"Because you walked in like you don't care what they think. And that's the one thing the Index can't predict."
Before I could answer, a chime rang through the hall — soft, melodic, like wind through glass.
Nia stood. "Wellness check. Mandatory. Don't be late."
She left the paper on the table.
I didn't move.
Around me, students rose in unison, trays cleared, voices quieted, movements synchronized.
Like they'd been trained.
Maybe they had.
I folded the list and slipped it into my pocket.
Then I touched the silver disc behind my ear.
Cold. Smooth.
Watching.