The Forsaken-only building was smaller than the main
lecture halls. More clinical. White walls, reinforced doors, the faint hum of
suppression wards built into the structure itself.
Very welcoming. Very "we care about your education
and also containing potential explosions."
Aki arrived at 0950. Early, but not eager. Just
didn't want to walk in late and give everyone another reason to stare at the
Thread 3 anomaly.
The classroom was arranged differently than Maren's
lecture hall. No tiered seating. Just a circle of chairs facing inward.
Intimate. Uncomfortable. The kind of setup therapists used when they wanted you
to "share your feelings."
Great. Fantastic. Aki's favorite activity.
About fifteen Forsaken were already there. The
green-scarred kid from yesterday's dinner disaster sat in the front row,
looking like he was trying very hard not to cry. Again. The black-veined guy
from dinner sat with arms crossed, glaring at nothing. A girl with red scars
branching down both arms sat rigidly, like moving would shatter her.
Everyone looked like they were one bad thought away
from destabilizing.
Very inspiring group energy. Really motivating.
Aki took a seat with his back to the wall. Not part
of the circle, but close enough that it didn't look like deliberate isolation.
Strategic positioning. Old habit.
More students filtered in. At 0958, someone dropped
into the seat beside him without asking.
No grey uniform. Casual clothes—dark pants, a jacket
that looked slept-in. Ash-brown hair falling loose around sharp features. Hazel
eyes that swept the room once, cataloging everyone with the kind of assessment
that came from experience, then settled into bored attention.
She was attractive. Annoyingly so. The kind of face
that probably got her out of trouble more often than into it.
Aki immediately distrusted her.
"Morning," she said. Not to him. Just to the air.
Like she was commenting on the weather.
Aki said nothing. Kept his eyes forward. Strangers
who sat too close without asking were never good news.
At exactly 1001, the instructor entered.
She was younger than expected. Late twenties, maybe
early thirties. Dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Sharp grey eyes
that swept the room with the kind of focus that said she'd seen people break
down and knew the warning signs.
Not Vael. Different instructor. Great. Another
person to disappoint.
"Emotional Intelligence," she announced. "I'm
Instructor Artia Grueren. This course is mandatory. Miss more than two sessions
and you're flagged for containment review. Understood?"
Murmurs of agreement. The nervous kind.
Artia's eyes landed on the girl beside Aki. "Miss
Ashtray. Punctual as always."
"I try." The girl's voice was lighter than Aki
expected. Amused. "Traffic was hell."
"You live on campus."
"Emotional traffic. Very congested."
A few people laughed nervously. Artia's expression
cracked slightly—almost a smile, quickly suppressed.
Aki's opinion of the girl beside him dropped
further. Making jokes in a class about not exploding. Very responsible. Very
appropriate.
"For those who don't know," Artia continued, "Reya
Ashtray is a senior Forsaken student. Thread 4. She's assigned as peer support
for this cohort. She's also one of the few from last year who didn't explode or
get expelled. Pay attention to her."
Thread 4.
Aki processed that. Thread 4 meant she'd survived at
least two years when most didn't make it past six months. Meant she'd advanced
through Thread levels that most Forsaken never reached. Meant she'd figured out
something the rest of them hadn't.
He glanced at her again. Reassessed.
The casual clothes weren't laziness—they were
confidence. She wasn't wearing the suppression weave uniform because she didn't
need it as much anymore. The scars were hidden under her jacket, but they were
there. Had to be.
Still didn't mean he had to like her.
Still didn't explain why she'd sat next to him
specifically.
Artia pulled up a projection—diagrams of emotional
pathways, core fragmentation patterns, the usual technical imagery that made
suffering look scientific. "Emotional regulation for Forsaken. Core concept:
you can't suppress what's trying to kill you. You can only direct it."
The lecture began. Shattered cores. Emotional
triggers. The difference between acknowledgment and suppression. The biological
reality of what they were dealing with.
Aki listened. Took mental notes. Filed away anything
useful.
Ignored the way Reya kept glancing at him like she
was solving a puzzle he hadn't asked her to work on.
Across the circle, the green-scarred kid was taking
actual notes. Writing everything down with the kind of desperate focus that
meant he was trying to memorize every word. Like if he just studied hard
enough, he could pass the "don't explode" exam.
The kid's hands were shaking slightly. His green
scars glowed faint through his uniform sleeves.
Not Aki's problem. The kid needed to figure this out
himself. Just like everyone else.
"Let's practice," Artia said after twenty minutes.
"Everyone think of the strongest emotion you've felt in the last twenty-four
hours. Don't share it. Just identify it internally."
Aki thought back. The Thread 3 reveal. The hostility
in Maren's class. Nearly destabilizing in front of everyone while they watched
and waited for him to prove them right.
Humiliation. That was the word.
Sharp and hot and living in his chest like a second
heartbeat.
"Now feel where that emotion sits in your body,"
Artia continued. Her voice was calm, professional. Like she wasn't asking them
to poke at the thing that could kill them.
Aki focused. Chest. Hot and tight. The same place
the anger always lived.
"Good. Now breathe. Acknowledge the emotion without
fighting it."
Aki breathed. Gee Style. Deep and slow. The way
Maren had taught.
The heat pulsed but settled slightly. Less chaotic.
Still there—always there—but not spiraling.
Small victories measured in not exploding.
Reya leaned over. Whispered. "You're the Thread 3
who nearly exploded this morning."
Aki kept his eyes forward. "News travels."
"At light speed when it's entertaining." She tilted
her head, studying him. "You panicked. Let the leak spiral because you tried
suppressing instead of channeling."
"Thanks for the recap." Aki's voice was flat. "Very
helpful. Really insightful."
"Just saying, if you'd acknowledged the emotion
instead of fighting it, you might've avoided the whole public humiliation
thing."
"I'll keep that in mind for next time I'm surrounded
by people waiting for me to fail."
"See, that's your problem. You assume everyone's
against you."
"Experience suggests otherwise."
Reya was quiet for a moment. Then: "Fair. But
operating like that will isolate you until you fragment."
Aki didn't respond. Because she was right and that
was annoying.
Also because part of him—small, pathetic, easily
ignored—didn't actually want to be isolated. Wanted someone to say his name
like it meant something instead of like it was a warning label.
But wanting things was how you got hurt. How you
ended up watching your mother die in a hospital bed while rich people's
donations reshuffled the transplant list. How you ended up caring about people
who'd inevitably prove they didn't care back.
Better to expect nothing. Safer that way.
The practice continued. Artia walked the circle,
correcting postures, observing breathing patterns.
When she reached Aki, she stopped. Assessed him for
a long moment. "You're fighting it less than this morning. Good. Keep that up."
She moved on.
Reya glanced at him. Didn't say anything. Just a
look that said she'd noticed too.
Across the circle, the green-scarred kid was
struggling. His breathing was too fast, too shallow. His green scars were
glowing brighter. Panic breathing, not regulatory breathing.
Artia noticed. Approached him. "Four count. In
through your nose. Hold. Out through your mouth. Hold."
The kid tried. His breathing hitched but slowed
gradually.
"Better. Keep practicing."
She moved on. The kid looked like he wanted to cry
from relief or frustration or both.
Still not Aki's problem.
The rest of the session covered destabilization
warning signs. Emergency protocols. What to do if you felt yourself
fragmenting. Who to call. Where to go. Questions from students who looked
barely held together.
At 1150, Artia paused. "Ten minutes left.
Questions?"
A voice from the back. Rough. Exhausted. "What if
acknowledging emotions makes them worse? What if naming the anger just makes
you angrier?"
Aki turned slightly. The blue-scarred woman from
this morning's Pulse class. Mid-twenties. Sharp features deliberately kept
blank. Pale blue scars pulsing across her neck.
"Then you're not acknowledging it," Artia said.
"You're dwelling on it. Acknowledgment is: 'I'm angry.' Full stop. Dwelling is:
'I'm angry because they'll never respect me and I'll always be a threat and—'
That feeds the emotion instead of processing it."
The woman nodded slowly. Looked down.
At exactly 1200, Artia dismissed the class.
Students filed out. Aki stayed behind, waiting for
the hallway to clear. Didn't want to walk through crowds of people who'd just
spent an hour learning techniques to not explode.
Reya stood, stretched. "You planning to hide in here
all lunch period?"
"Considering it."
"Bold strategy. Socially isolating yourself right
after a lecture about how isolation kills Forsaken." She grabbed her jacket.
"Dining hall's this way if you change your mind."
She left.
Aki sat there for another minute. The classroom was
emptying out.
Footsteps approached. He looked up.
The blue-scarred woman. Standing three feet away.
Arms crossed. Her hair was a washed-out blue, the kind that looked pale in
daylight and almost silver under the fluorescent wards. Dark grey eyes — calm,
unreadable, like storm clouds before they broke.
"You're Aki," she said. Not a question.
"And you're observant."
Her expression didn't change. "Thread 3. Fresh
awakening. Nearly destabilized this morning in mixed cohort." Her pale blue
scars pulsed slightly. "Her pale blue scars pulsed slightly. "I'm Thread 1.
Also just got here. Also barely holding it together."
Aki said nothing.
"You know what that makes you?" Her voice stayed
flat but something sharp edged into it. "Lucky. Or connected. Because nobody
gets Thread 3 efficiency on a shattered core without something being
different."
"Or the device is broken."
"Maren's devices don't break." She stepped closer.
"I'm not saying this to be hostile. I'm saying it because whatever makes you
Thread 3 is going to make you a target. Fated students will resent you.
Forsaken will resent you. And if you keep trying to handle everything alone,
you'll burn out before you figure out what you're actually dealing with."
Aki held her stare. "Thanks for the life advice.
Very inspiring."
"Wasn't trying to inspire. Just stating facts." She
turned to leave, then paused. "I'm Lira, by the way. In case you actually
survive long enough to need allies."
She left.
Aki stood. Started gathering his things.
More footsteps. Different pace—hesitant, nervous.
The green-scarred kid appeared in the doorway.
Looked like he'd been working up the courage to approach.
"Um. Hi." The kid's voice was quiet. "We—I sat at
your table yesterday. At dinner. You said I probably couldn't do this and
I—sorry, that's not—I'm not trying to—" He stopped. Took a breath. Started
over. "My name's Sol. Sol Apollon."
Apollon. The healing family from Creslan. The ones
with the genetic mutation that made healing cost them more.
"I know you probably don't want to talk to anyone,"
Sol continued, words coming faster now. Nervous rambling. "And that's fine, I
just wanted to say I'm sorry for—for sitting at your table yesterday and
bothering you and I'll try not to—I mean, if we're in the same classes I can't
really avoid you but I won't—" He was spiraling. "Sorry. I'm talking too much.
I do that when I'm nervous. My sister used to say—" He stopped abruptly. Looked
down.
Aki watched him. The kid was a mess. Hands shaking.
Scars glowing. On the edge of either crying or destabilizing or both.
"Breathe," Aki said. Flat. Not kind, just practical.
Sol looked up. "What?"
"You're spiraling. Four count breathing. Do it."
Sol stared at him for a second. Then tried. Four in.
Hold. Four out. Hold.
His breathing steadied slightly. The green scars
dimmed.
"Better," Aki said. Then, because the kid looked
like he was waiting for something: "Was there a point to this?"
"I just—I wanted to introduce myself properly. Since
we're in the same class and I thought—" Sol stopped. "Never mind. I'll leave
you alone now. Sorry for bothering you."
He turned to leave.
Aki should let him. Should let the kid walk away and
stop trying to make connections that would inevitably fall apart.
But that was the second person in five minutes who'd
basically told Aki he was going to fail if he stayed isolated. Both of them
probably right. Both of them annoying about it.
"Sol," Aki said.
The kid stopped. Turned.
"Next time you feel like you're destabilizing in
class, use the four count breathing. Don't wait for the instructor."
Sol's expression shifted. Something between surprise
and hope. "Okay. I will. Thank you—"
"Don't thank me." Aki grabbed his things. "It's just
practical. You exploding in class would be disruptive."
He walked past Sol toward the door.
"Aki?" Sol's voice was quiet.
Aki stopped. Didn't turn around.
"I won't bother you again. I promise."
Aki left without responding.
But as he walked down the empty hallway, he could
hear Sol let out a long, shaky breath behind him.
That was the second person today who'd basically
told him he was going to fail if he stayed isolated. Both of them probably
right. Both of them annoying about it.
Three people now, counting Reya.
The hallway was mostly empty. Voices drifted from
the dining hall. Laughter. The clatter of trays. The sound of people existing
together without it being a problem.
Aki had wanted that once. When he was younger.
Before he learned that belonging somewhere just meant more to lose when it got
taken away.
He passed a window. Stopped.
Through the glass, he could see a group of Fated
students on the lawn. Four of them. Purple uniforms. Pulse Path. Sitting in a
circle, talking, completely relaxed.
One of them laughed at something another said. Open.
Easy. Like laughing was the most natural thing in the world.
Aki watched for three seconds longer than he meant
to.
Then caught himself. Felt the spike of bitterness in
his chest. At them for having what he didn't. At himself for caring.
Pathetic.
He kept walking.
The Forsaken dining hall was half-full. Aki grabbed
food—real protein, fresh vegetables, the kind of meal that should've been
savored—and found a table by the window.
Green forest beyond campus. Quiet. No judgment.
He was three bites in when someone dropped into the
seat across from him.
Reya. Still in her casual clothes. Tray in hand.
"Did you follow me here?" Aki asked.
"Don't flatter yourself. I eat lunch. This is the
dining hall. Shocking coincidence." She started eating. "Though if I were
following you, I'd be more subtle."
"Reassuring."
They ate in silence for a moment.
Aki wanted to ask why she was really sitting here.
Whether this was genuine or just peer support obligation. Whether she actually
gave a shit or if he was just a checkbox on her assignment list.
But asking would make it matter. And if it mattered,
it could hurt.
"So." Reya's voice cut through. "Thread 3 reading.
Fresh awakening. That's unusual."
"Or the device is—"
"—broken. Yeah, you said that already. It's not."
She tilted her head. "Which means your leak is more stable than typical
shattered cores. Which means you're going to be a target for everyone who
thinks Forsaken shouldn't test that high."
"Already got that lecture. Twice now."
"Good. Then you know to watch your back." She
paused. "Also, stop sitting alone all the time. Makes you look like you're
planning something."
"I'm eating lunch."
"Alone. At a table by the window. Staring at the
forest like it personally wronged you. Very suspicious."
"I'm not—" Aki stopped. "I'm just eating."
"You're brooding. It's your whole aesthetic." Her
hazel eyes were amused but sharp. "Look, I'm not trying to be your friend. I'm
assigned peer support. My job is making sure first-year Forsaken don't implode
from isolation. So here I am. Preventing implosion through forced social
interaction."
"How noble."
"I know. I'm basically a hero." She took another
bite. "But real talk—why are you actually sitting alone?"
The question caught him off guard. Not hostile. Just
curious.
Aki's jaw tightened. "Because people don't typically
enjoy my company."
"Have you tried being less prickly?"
"Have you tried being less intrusive?"
Reya actually smiled. "Touché." She leaned back.
"Okay, here's the thing. You're not as alone as you think you are. Lira talked
to you after class, right?"
"She introduced herself. Gave me a warning about
being Thread 3."
"See? That's significant. Lira doesn't talk to
people. Like, ever. The fact that she approached you means something. Probably
that you're both equally fucked and she's pragmatic about it."
"Inspiring assessment."
"Just calling it like I see it." Reya finished her
food. "What's your next class?"
"Survival of the Fittest. 1300."
"Mixed cohort?"
"Yeah."
"Fun. Nothing says team-building like making
Forsaken and Fated students trust each other in combat drills." She stood,
grabbed her tray. "Word of advice—don't rise to bait. They'll test you. Poke at
the Thread 3 thing. Try to make you lose control. Don't give them the
satisfaction."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Do that." She turned to leave, then paused. "And
Aki? You're allowed to want things. Just so you know."
She left before he could respond.
Aki sat there, staring at his half-finished meal.
The food was good. The kind of meal that should've
been enjoyed at a real table with real people instead of alone by a window.
But this was what he had.
He finished eating. Checked the time. 1245.
As he stood to leave, voices drifted from the table
behind him. Two Fated students—not Forsaken, just passing through to use the
shortcut.
"—heard one of them almost exploded in Maren's
class."
"Which one?"
"The gold-scarred one. Thread 3 supposedly, but
obviously can't control it."
"They shouldn't be in mixed cohorts. It's
dangerous."
"It's political. Integration Act bullshit. They'll
change the policy after one of them kills someone."
Aki stood frozen. Tray in hand. Three steps from
their table.
They hadn't seen him yet. Didn't know he was there.
He could walk past. Ignore it. Let it slide.
Or he could turn around. Say something. Prove them
right about Forsaken being unstable threats.
The anger pulsed. Hot. Immediate. Sharp.
He acknowledged it. Named it. Felt where it
sat—chest, burning, always burning.
Then forced himself to walk past without reacting.
Their voices faded behind him.
Aki left the dining hall. The hallway was empty now.
His hands shook slightly. Not from the leak. From
the effort of swallowing what he wanted to say.
One class down. Four more today.
Six months to Thread 2.
And an entire Academy that thought he was a bomb
waiting to go off.
He checked the time. Fifteen minutes until Survival
of the Fittest.
The anger pulsed. Not steady anymore. Sharper. Fed
by humiliation and isolation and the knowledge that no matter what he did,
people would always see him as a threat first.
Control. That's all that mattered.
He acknowledged the anger. Let it exist without
fighting it. Channeled it inward.
The heat settled. Barely.
Small victories.
Except this one tasted like ash.
-----