The common room was thick with the scent of stale sweat, burnt coffee, and the clinical tang of whatever cleaning spray Karmal favoured that week. On the wall, a monitor looped a highlights reel from last month’s drills, the volume turned low enough to fade into the background.
Someone had shoved two couches into a lopsided L-shape around a low table. The surface was a graveyard of half-empty takeaway cartons, energy drink cans, and abandoned boots and training gear. Outside, the big windows were fogged from the rain, turning the city lights into a blur of soft, bleeding colour against the glass.
Joel lay upside down across one of the couches, legs hooked over the armrest as he idly scrolled through his phone.
“I’m telling you,” he said through a mouthful of gum, “if the retreat food is still that protein chilli crap, I’m smuggling snacks again”.
“You say that every year,” Sammi replied from her spot on the floor, back against the cushions and legs crossed. “And every year you get caught”.
“Only because Nelson rats me out”.
Nelson looked up from his tablet, appearing affronted. “I don’t rat. I just…selectively disclose”.
Murphy, draped across Leigh’s lap on the opposite couch, snorted as she absentmindedly braided a strand of her own hair. “That’s ratting”.
Royel leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead. “I don’t even care about the food. I just want the obstacle course again. The night run was insane last time”.
“That’s because you’re insane,” Sammi noted fondly.
The room was a sprawl of casual motion: Cam sat half-turned on the couch with one ankle over his knee, more focused on listening than participating. Ai and Mari were embroiled in a quiet argument about a reality show contestant, while Jess stood by the window, absently tracing patterns in the condensation.
Owen sat at the far end of the couch, a game paused on the phone in his lap. He was physically present, but his posture was too rigid for the setting, his eyes flicking restlessly between conversations. Opposite him, Beau lounged with his boots on the table, tilting his chair back on two legs as if gravity were merely a suggestion.
“So,” Murphy said, swinging herself upright until her hair fell into her face. “Two weeks. Retreat time”.
The announcement triggered a collective groan-and-cheer.
“Thank god,” Sammi sighed. “I need out of the city”.
“Same,” Leigh agreed. “My dad’s actually letting me come this time. I mean…I won't be allowed near the drills or the obstacle course, but hey…it’s progress.” Owen offered her a small, fond smile; the news that Leigh was joining them made the prospect of the trip feel significantly better.
“Yeah, but no Wi-Fi,” Joel pointed out, gesturing upside down toward Leigh. That comment earned him a round of glares.
“Okay, no Wi-Fi, but we have Owen,” Royel countered quickly. “He's basically a walking router.”
Owen rolled his eyes, mumbling, “Not how it works, Roy.”
Beau snorted and let the front legs of his chair hit the floor with a heavy thud. The shift in the room's energy was immediate, subtle, but undeniable.
“Yeah, well. Have fun,” Beau said.
Cam’s head lifted slightly. “What?”
“I’m not going,” Beau replied, cracking his fingers.
A ripple of silence spread through the group. “What do you mean, you’re not going?” Murphy asked, blinking in surprise.
“It’s a retreat,” Royel added slowly. “It’s…kind of mandatory.”
“Not for me,” Beau said.
Owen’s stomach dropped as Nelson frowned, asking the obvious: “Why?”
Beau didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached down, tugged back his sleeve, and lifted his arm. The red band caught the overhead light, glowing with a sharp, ugly clarity. It took the room a heartbeat to register the sight.
“What the hell?” Jess breathed.
Owen felt a sudden, frantic urge to vanish. He felt as though if he weren't in the room, none of this would be his fault.
“Beau-” Sammi started, sitting up straighter. Murphy swore quietly under her breath while Cam went completely still. Owen felt a coldness wash over him.
“Suspended,” Beau said lightly, his tone carrying the weight of a joke that didn't quite land. “Congrats to me.”
“Since when?” Joel stared.
“Since last week.”
“So that’s why you haven’t been at training!” Nelson exclaimed as the pieces finally clicked.
Royel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What happened?”
Beau’s mouth twisted into a bitter line. “That Rory kid happened.”
The name landed like a weight in the room. Owen’s grip on his phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“What?” Murphy asked. “How?”
“He made me his scapegoat,” Beau said flatly. “Pulled some shit, freaked out, and suddenly I’m the problem.”
Leigh’s expression sharpened. “That’s…not how that went down.”
Beau shot her a venomous look. “Oh? You were there?”
“No,” Leigh replied calmly. “But I know you.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably in the wake of her words. Cam spoke up quietly, his voice steady. “Beau, you don’t get red-banded for nothing.”
Beau’s jaw clenched. “So now you’re taking his side?”
“I’m saying there’s probably more to it,” Cam replied.
Murphy nodded slowly in agreement. “Yeah. Rory barely knows you. Why would he throw you under the bus?”
“And we barely know him!” Beau snapped. “You saw him hit me in the common room.” He looked around at those who had witnessed Rory landing a punch against him weeks prior.
“Again, more to it than just that,” Cam replied, his tone growing a touch colder.
Owen kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
“What did Rory do?” Sammi asked tentatively.
“He hit a civvy. Sent him to the hospital,” Mari interrupted. All eyes turned to her as she shrugged. “Heard my mum talking about it. Said it was his best friend.”
“He hit his best friend?” Nelson pulled a face. “Geez, the guy really is crazy.”
“You don’t know what really happened,” Joel countered.
“I mean… two fights in three weeks? That’s not normal,” Nelson scoffed.
“Do we know if they’re okay? Rory and his friend?” Murphy asked, looking between her teammates.
Beau let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Oh, he’s fine. Apparently.”
Leigh’s eyes flicked to him. “You know that, do you?”
“He got off easy,” Beau scoffed.
Mari tilted her head. “Did he, though? He’s red-banded too. That’s not ‘easy.’ He’s basically been blacklisted.”
The comment seemed to give Beau pause, but only for a fraction of a second. Leigh then spoke again, her voice too casual. “I heard he’s coming in this week. Check-in.”
Owen’s heart lurched.
“You mean he’s checking in with his parole officer,” Jess added with a scoff.
Beau’s head snapped up. “He is?”
“Mandated,” Leigh said. “Oversight.”
Beau seemed to relax slightly at the news, clearly believing Rory was only appearing to satisfy the rules of his monitoring. Then Ai looked up from her phone. “I heard they’re trying to get him back into training.”
The room went deathly quiet. Owen felt the air in the common room thicken.
Beau’s next laugh was devoid of any humour. “You’re kidding.”
“Who said that?” Cam asked, looking genuinely interested.
“I heard Eddie and Mads talking about it in the training rooms the other day,” Ai replied.
Beau stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. “So let me get this straight,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “I get suspended. Locked out. And he gets invited back?”
Owen looked away, focusing intently on the rain trailing down the windowpanes.
“That’s not—” Royel began.
“He shouldn’t even be here,” Beau cut in. “He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t respect it. He’s a fucking chop shop! He doesn’t belong here!”
Leigh remained seated, watching him with a cool, unflinching gaze. “Neither do you, half the time.”
Beau rounded on her, his temper boiling over. “Watch it, Archer! You’re not even enhanced. You don’t get a say in this just because your dad—”
“Beau! Stop!” Owen finally looked up, his voice cracking the tension.
Beau’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and knowing. Owen froze under the gaze.
“You’ve been real quiet until now, Owen,” Beau said. “Funny, that.”
Owen swallowed hard. “I just…” He trailed off, unable to get the words out.
“Yeah.” Beau looked at him darkly for a long moment before nodding. “Thought so.”
Cam stepped in, his voice firm and final. “Enough.”
Beau sneered and paced the small space. “You think I’m just going to sit back and watch him walk back in like nothing happened?”
“What are you saying?” Royel asked, crossing his arms.
Beau stopped pacing. “I’m saying,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, “that he doesn’t belong here. And if Karmal thinks they can just change the rules for him? They’re wrong.”
Leigh’s brow furrowed in distaste. “Jesus, Beau. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m embarrassing myself? What about you? Why are you even here, Leigh? You aren’t like us!” Beau spat back.
Leigh didn't flinch, but a ripple of unease moved through the group. Murphy jumped to her feet to defend her best friend. “Beau! Back the fuck off! Leigh has every right to be here.”
“She has more right to be here than you do right now,” Joel added, pointing pointedly at the red band on Beau’s wrist.
Beau offered a thin, cold smile as the rain continued to tap against the glass. Owen stared down at the phone in his hands, his pulse roaring in his ears. Deep in his gut, he knew this wasn't over. If Rory walked back into Karmal this week, Beau was going to make sure it wasn't a quiet return.
***By the time Rory left Abbey at the gates, Karmal was already sitting like a stone in his stomach. Morning settled over the city in a way that felt almost cruel in its normalcy. The sky was pale and overcast, the air cool but not cold, the streets already moving with the quiet routines of people heading somewhere they didn’t resent. Rory stood at the curb outside Abbey’s school and watched her disappear through the gates with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, one last glance thrown over her shoulder before she was swallowed by the crowd.
He waited until she was fully out of sight before turning away.
The walk to the bus stop took him a few blocks. He’d done it a hundred times before, usually with music in his ears, usually with his head down, pretending he was just another kid going somewhere unremarkable. Today, every step felt heavier, like the pavement was subtly resisting him. His bag hung awkwardly against his side, straps biting into his shoulder in a way that reminded him too much that he was really here, really doing this.
He wasn’t panicking. That was almost the worst part.
The anxiety sat under his skin like a low electrical buzz, constant but contained, threaded through with a dull numbness that made everything feel slightly unreal. He kept expecting his chest to tighten, his breath to hitch, his thoughts to spiral, but they didn’t. Instead, his mind circled the same flat, exhausted loop.
How they’d look at him.
How they already were.
He imagined walking through the Karmal doors again, the way conversations would pause just a fraction too long. The way people would glance at his wrist, at the red band he could feel even when it was hidden under his sleeve. The way Beau’s mouth might curl if he saw him. The way Owen would just stare.
That part hurt more than he wanted to admit.
It wasn’t that he was scared of running into them, not exactly. He wasn’t afraid of Beau starting something here, not with oversight and cameras and rules stacked high around them. What twisted in his stomach was the idea of being seen. Of being reduced to a story that had already been told without him in it.
Unstable. Violent. Liability.
He kicked a loose pebble off the footpath harder than necessary and watched it skitter into the gutter.
The bus stop came into view, just a metal pole and a bench scarred with old scratches and half-peeled stickers. A couple of people were already there: a woman in office wear scrolling through her phone, a man with headphones and a coffee cup, a student with a too-big jacket and a tired expression that Rory recognised a little too well.
He stopped a few feet back from the bench instead of sitting. Leaned against the pole. Put his hands in his pockets.
Two weeks, he thought dully. Every two weeks.
The words landed heavy in his head. Not just now. Not just this morning. Every fortnight, marked out in polite, neutral messages and mandatory reminders, stretching forward into something that felt unending. He tried not to think about the maths of it, how many check-ins that was in a year, how many years that might turn into, how much of his life would be carved up into neat, monitored slices.
Forever felt too big, too dramatic. But indefinitely wasn’t much better.
A bus roared past on the opposite side of the road, wind tugging at his clothes, and Rory flinched despite himself. He dragged in a slow breath and let it out again, grounding himself in the simple rhythm of standing there, waiting, like he’d done a thousand times before.
He told himself he just had to get through this one. Just show up. Just answer the questions. Just leave.
He didn’t need them to like him. He didn’t need them to trust him. He just needed to be done with it, to get back on the bus afterward and blend back into the city where he could be anonymous again.
The bus pulled up with a hiss of brakes.
Rory stepped forward with the others, tapping his phone and taking a seat near the back, choosing the window out of habit. As the bus lurched into motion, the city slid past in muted colours, shops, fences, people walking dogs or arguing quietly or laughing about things that had nothing to do with red bands or oversight or power.
He rested his forehead briefly against the cool glass.
For a moment, he let himself imagine a version of his life where this wasn’t his reality. Where he was just going to school, worrying about exams and friends and whether he’d remembered to do his homework. The thought felt distant, like remembering a dream you’d had years ago.
The bus turned toward the Karmal district, buildings growing taller, cleaner, more controlled.
Rory straightened slightly in his seat.
Anxious. Numb. Tired.
He watched the road ahead and waited for it to be over.
The bus dropped him two streets away. Karmal rose ahead of him in clean lines and glass, all sharp angles and controlled symmetry, it looked calm because it had been designed to be. Rory slowed as he approached the front steps, his shoes scuffing softly against the stone. People moved in and out through the main doors with purpose, staff, trainees, contractors, everyone seeming to know exactly where they were going.
He hovered at the base of the stairs for a beat too long.
Then he forced himself up them.
Each step felt deliberate, counted. He kept his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, acutely aware of his wrist even though the red band was hidden beneath his sleeve. He pressed a button and waited. The doors slid open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and suddenly he was inside.
The lobby was bright in a way that felt intentional rather than harsh. Polished floors, wide open space, the quiet sounds of voices and distant movement Rory stopped just inside the threshold, uncertainty freezing him in place. He knew what he was supposed to do, go to the desk, say his name, say why he was here, but the words lodged stubbornly in his throat.
He took a breath and stepped forward.
“Rory.”
The sound of his name made his stomach drop.
He turned, instinctively bracing himself, and saw Ethan a few metres away near the edge of the lobby. He was holding two takeaway coffee cups, jacket unzipped, expression easy and familiar. Not startled. Not concerned. Just… there.
Ethan smiled when he saw Rory properly. Not a tight, professional smile. A real one.
Rory’s feet hesitated, then carried him over almost despite himself.
“Hey,” Ethan said, holding one of the cups out. “Thought you might want this.”
Rory took it automatically, fingers closing around the warm cardboard. He stared down at it, confused, like he didn’t quite understand what was happening or what he was supposed to do with it.
Ethan nudged his shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. “It’s black,” he added. “I noticed that’s what you usually drink.”
Something uncomfortable and unfamiliar bloomed in Rory’s chest. Warm. Not quite relief, not quite gratitude, just the strange sensation of being noticed without it being used against him.
“Thanks,” Rory muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the lid of the cup.
Ethan didn’t comment on the lack of eye contact. “Come on,” he said instead. “Let’s get you signed in.”
They crossed the lobby together. Rory walked half a step behind, matching Ethan’s pace without thinking, the coffee still clutched awkwardly in his hand. At the reception desk, a woman with dark hair pulled into a neat bun looked up from her screen.
“Morning,” she said easily.
“Hey, Steph,” Ethan replied. “This is Rory Atwood. He’s here for a scheduled oversight check-in.”
Stephanie’s gaze shifted to Rory. She smiled, not polite, not assessing. Just… normal.
“Hi, Rory,” she said, like she might’ve been greeting anyone else coming through the doors. “You’re a bit early. That’s okay.”
Rory nodded, unsure if he was meant to speak. His pulse was loud in his ears.
Stephanie tapped a few things into her system, then slid a temporary pass across the desk. Ethan picked it up and handed it to Rory.
“This one’s yours,” Ethan said. “It’ll get you through most of the main doors for a couple of hours.”
Rory turned the pass over in his hands, the weight of it feeling symbolic in a way he didn’t have the energy to unpack.
“I’ll take you up,” Ethan continued. “Oversight’s expecting you.”
The word landed heavy.
Oversight.
It sounded big. Institutional. Final. Like something that didn’t just watch but judged, recorded, remembered. Rory’s picked nervously at the paper cups seam, his shoulders instinctively drawing in.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
And that was it. No arguing. No hesitation.
Compliance came easily. It always had.
They moved deeper into the building, footsteps echoing softly through the corridors. Ethan kept his pace relaxed, glancing over at Rory now and then.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, casual enough that it didn’t feel like an interrogation.
Rory shrugged. “Fine.”
Ethan didn’t push. “You still at school?”
“Yeah,” Rory replied after a beat. “You know I am.”
Ethan nodded, filing it away. “Okay.”
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with Alex coming the other way, tablet tucked under her arm. She looked up, did a double take, then smiled.
“There you are,” she said lightly. “Hey, Rory.”
“Hey,” Rory replied, surprised by how normal the word sounded coming out of his mouth.
Alex glanced between him and Ethan. “You’re right on time. Don’t stress, this’ll be quick.”
She didn’t lower her voice. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t look at him like he was fragile or dangerous or a problem waiting to happen.
Just a kid who’d shown up.
Something in Rory loosened, just a fraction.
Then they kept walking, coffee warm in his hands, pass clipped to his pocket, the looming word still hanging ahead of him, but now flanked, steadied, less sharp than it had been moments before.
***
The Oversight room did not possess the clinical chill of a space designed for punishment. That was the first detail Rory registered.
The room was bathed in a wash of neutral tones, soft grey walls and panels of frosted glass that seemed curated to lower a visitor's heart rate on entry. A low table sat between two identical chairs, neither one positioned higher or more dominantly than the other. There were no visible restraints and no obvious cameras, though Rory knew better than to assume they weren’t there. The lighting was even and warm, a far cry from the harsh fluorescence of the training halls or the sterile, stark white of the medical wing.
It looked like a place designed for conversation, which only served to keep Rory’s shoulders locked in a permanent state of tension.
“Take a seat,” the woman said gently.
She had introduced herself as nothing more than an Oversight Officer. Her badge was angled just enough that her name remained a mystery unless Rory leaned forward to squint at it. She waited for him to settle into his chair before she sat opposite him, folding her hands loosely in her lap.
Ethan lingered by the threshold for a fleeting moment. “I’ll be just outside,” he said quietly.
Rory offered a small nod without making eye contact. The door slid shut with a soft, almost polite hiss of hydraulics.
Silence settled over them, not an awkward or sharp silence, but one that felt heavy with expectation. The officer studied him for several seconds. She wasn't scrutinising him or staring him down; she was simply observing, taking in the way his hands were white-knuckled between his knees and the slight, irregular hitch in his breathing that he couldn't quite smooth out.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Do you know why you’re here today?” she asked.
Rory swallowed against a dry throat. “Check-in.”
She offered a faint, reassuring smile. “That’s right. This isn’t disciplinary. This is a routine assessment.”
Routine. The word slid over him like water, failing to find purchase.
She reached for a tablet resting on the table but didn't look at the screen just yet. “We’ll start with some general questions. There are no right or wrong answers, Rory. Just answer honestly.”
Rory nodded again. He always nodded.
“How have you been sleeping?”
Rory frowned, that seemed like an odd place to start.
“Okay,” he replied.
“How many hours, roughly?”
He hesitated, trying to calculate a normal answer. “I dunno. Five. Sometimes six.”
She made a brief note on the screen. “Any nightmares?”
“No.” It wasn't a total lie; he rarely slept deeply enough to actually dream.
“And school?”
Rory’s fingers tightened together. “Fine.”
“Attendance?”
“Yes.”
“Which school are you at now?”
Panic flared in his chest for a split second before he found his footing. “Marwood.”
The woman looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. “It says here you were expelled from Marwood?”
“My stepdad talked to them. Got me back in,” Rory lied, the untruth coming to his lips with ease this time.
“Performance?”
A pause. “Fine.”
She looked up again, her gaze attentive but not suspicious. “Fine how?”
“I’m passing.”
“Is that typical for you?”
The pause this time was longer. Rory forced his features into a neutral mask. “Yeah.”
The officer nodded and finally began scrolling through the data on her tablet. She asked Rory a series of other questions before she brought up the topic Rory had been dreading. “There have been two incidents since you first appeared on our books. One involving another enhanced trainee. One involving a civilian.”
Rory felt his chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin. He waited for the lecture to begin. His body had learned this script well: stay still, don't interrupt, and never offer a justification unless it's dragged out of you.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked.
Rory focused on a small scratch on the edge of the table. “I lost control.”
Her voice remained perfectly even. “Both times?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question was deceptively small, yet it felt like it filled the entire room. Rory’s mouth felt like it was full of sand. “I was provoked.”
She didn’t attempt to correct him. “How?”
He hesitated. Every word felt like a trap being laid out in front of him. “I felt threatened.”
“Physically?”
“...Emotionally.”
She nodded, her stylus tapping rhythmically against the glass. “Do you feel angry often, Rory?”
He thought of the constant, leaden tightness in his chest and the way the world seemed to be pressing in on him from every side. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you feel scared?”
“Um...” The officer looked up, her patient silence forcing him to continue. “I guess sometimes.”
“Of what?” she prompted.
Rory considered his options. He could lie, he could minimise the feeling, or he could be honest. He watched those choices slide past before finally settling on one of the truths. “Messing up,” he said quietly.
Her gaze softened, if only for a fraction of a second. “And what happens if you do?”
Rory didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched between them, but she didn't move to break it.
“I get... in trouble,” he said eventually. When she didn't respond, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling the need to elaborate. “I get restricted. Erm... monitored.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
The honest answer burned in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. “Safer,” he said. The word tasted like ash the moment it left his lips.
The officer’s fingers stilled on the tablet. “Safer,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Than where?”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “Than being on my own.”
She nodded slowly, as if his answer confirmed a theory she had already formed. “Do you feel in control of your abilities right now?”
Confused, Rory held up his wrist and tugged back his sleeve to reveal the red band. “I mean... yeah.”
The woman simply smiled. “I mean without the band.”
Rory thought of the way his pulse spiked when a voice was raised, the way heat crawled up his spine when he felt cornered, and the way his body reacted long before his brain could catch up. “I think so,” he whispered.
“That wasn’t a yes.”
He met her eyes briefly before looking away. “I’m trying.”
“Do you want additional training?”
The question caught him off guard. “I…I don’t know.”
“Do you want additional support?” she clarified.
That felt worse, somehow more invasive. Rory shook his head. “No.”
She watched him carefully, her head tilted. “Why not?”
“Because,” he said, his voice barely audible, “it comes with expectations. And you people all think you already know me.”
Her expression remained unchanged, but something sharp flickered behind her eyes. “That’s very perceptive,” she said after a beat. She set the tablet down on the low table. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll remain on red-band status. Fortnightly check-ins will continue. There will be no escalation of your monitoring at this time.”
Relief hit him with the force of a physical blow, making him momentarily dizzy. But she wasn't finished. She picked up the tablet again, tapping the screen twice.
“So, you’re cleared for today,” the officer said, her voice returning to its neutral, administrative tone. “You’re not in violation of your current conditions.”
Rory exhaled a long, shaky breath, the first proper breath he’d taken since stepping into the Karmal lobby.
“But before you leave,” the officer added, standing up, “Director Sullivan would like a word.”
The relief evaporated instantly. Rory’s shoulders snapped back into their tense position, his spine going rigid. “I…” He cut himself off. There was no point in arguing. “Okay.”
“It won’t take long,” she said, moving toward the exit. “Mr.Berfield will take you.”
The door slid open with the same unobtrusive hum. Ethan straightened immediately from his position against the wall. Alex stood beside him with her arms crossed, though her relaxed posture felt a little too intentional.
The officer gave them a polite nod. “You’re free to go, Rory.”
Alex offered him a small, reassuring smile. “Hey. How’d it go?”
Rory shrugged, his fingers tightening around the takeaway coffee cup he was still carrying. The liquid had gone lukewarm, but he hadn't let go of it once during the assessment. Hadn’t sipped from it either. “Fine.”
Alex’s gaze flicked over him, reading the tension he was struggling to hide. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Rory nodded once. It was easier than trying to explain the hollow feeling in his gut.
Ethan hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Before you head out—”
“I know,” Rory interrupted, his voice a bit too sharp. “Sullivan.”
A heavy pause followed. Alex stepped in smoothly to bridge the gap. “It really won’t be long. She just wants to touch base.”
Rory huffed a humourless breath. Touch base. “I can drive you home after, if you want,” Ethan offered, the invitation hanging fragile in the air between them.
Rory shook his head immediately. “Nah. Bus is fine.”
The disappointment on Ethan’s face was brief but unmistakable. Rory knew it wasn't really about the ride; it was about the distance Rory insisted on maintaining, the quiet refusal to let anyone get close.
“Okay,” Ethan said after a beat. “Alright. This way.”
He gestured down the corridor, and they began to walk. The executive wing was significantly quieter than the training floors, the sounds of industry dampened by thick carpets and glass walls that reflected the hallway more than they revealed the offices behind them. Rory walked between the two adults, his coffee held like a shield against his chest, his eyes fixed on the floor ahead. Ethan tried to spark light conversation, asking about Rory’s sister and his plans for the city, but Rory’s answers were short, clipped sentences that offered no room for follow-up.
Alex remained silent. The word oversight continued to echo in Rory’s mind, growing heavier with every step they took toward Sullivan’s office.
***
Across the courtyard, outside the glass corridor, Beau was mid-rant when it happened.
“I swear, if I have to sit through one more ‘adjustment period’ lecture,” he scoffed, kicking irritably at the metal railing as he leaned his weight against the exterior glass wall. “Like I’m the problem.”
Nelson snorted beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. “You are the problem.”
Beau shot him a sharp look. “I’m saying comparatively.”
Nelson rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “You say that every time you get called out.”
Beau opened his mouth to fire back a retort, then froze mid-breath.
Through the glass corridor across the courtyard, three figures moved into view, silhouetted against the internal lights of the building. Ethan was in the lead, with Alex walking pace-for-pace beside him.
And between them...
Beau’s jaw clenched so hard the bone ached.
Rory.
He was walking quietly, his shoulders drawn inward as if trying to minimise his presence. He clutched a takeaway cup tightly to his chest with both hands, his head bowed and his expression hidden behind the shadows of his hair.
For half a second, Beau just stared, paralysed by the sight. Then, a surge of heat climbed up his spine, sharp, ugly, and visceral.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.
Nelson followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes. “What?”
Beau straightened up, his posture shifting from a slouch to a predatory focus. His eyes tracked the trio as they passed beneath the overhead lights of the glass hallway, appearing as clean and clear as specimens in a display case.
“He’s here,” Beau said flatly.
Nelson blinked, squinting. “Who? Rory? Is his check-in today then?”
Beau didn’t answer immediately. He watched the direction Rory was being guided, noting that they were bypassing the public corridors and the standard intake rooms. They were headed straight toward the elevators for the executive wing.
Not toward compliance. Not toward processing.
Up.
“Yeah.” Beau’s voice was tight now, vibrating with a controlled, simmering rage. “But that is not where check-ins happen.”
Nelson watched for a beat longer, the realisation finally clicking into place. His expression hardened into a matching scowl. “You think Ai was right?”
Beau let out a short, bitter laugh that held no humour. “I think they’re already walking him back in.”
“That’s…” Nelson hesitated, then scoffed in disbelief. “That’s bullshit.”
Rory disappeared through the secured doors at the far end of the corridor. Ethan’s hand lifted briefly, a guiding gesture to usher him forward, while Alex leaned in to say something that Rory didn't acknowledge.
Beau felt the heat in his chest bloom into a full-scale burn.
“So let me get this straight,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “I get locked out. Red-banded. Benched. And he gets a personal escort upstairs?”
Nelson’s jaw tightened in solidarity. “How? He doesn’t even have a legal enhancement. And he hasn’t even finished stabilisation.”
“He doesn’t respect the system,” Beau snapped, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. “He didn’t earn any of this!”
Nelson nodded, a slow and grim movement. “And they’re still bending over backwards for him.”
Beau pushed off the railing, his movements jerky and filled with restless energy. “This place has rules for a reason.”
Nelson glanced at him, gauging the depth of his anger.
Beau’s mouth curved into a sharp, jagged smile. “If they change those rules for him-”
“Makes the rest of us look like idiots,” Nelson finished.
Beau stared at the empty, brightly lit corridor where Rory had vanished, his anger settling into something colder and far more deliberate.
“They’re not bringing him back,” Beau said quietly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Nelson didn’t argue. Both of them remained anchored to the spot, staring at the vacant hallway as if half-expecting Rory to reappear, just so they could have something to aim their resentment at.
***
Back in the executive corridor Rory felt a world away from the rest of the facility. The rumble of the training floors and the bustle of foot traffic vanished as they moved deeper into the wing, the silence punctuated only by the soft padding of feet on plush carpet. The walls were a seamless blend of frosted glass and brushed steel, cold and impeccably clean. Rory walked between Ethan and Alex, his hands retreated deep into his hoodie sleeves and his coffee cooling in a grip that refused to loosen. Every step made his chest tighten; it felt like he was being ushered toward a destination he hadn't agreed to, yet lacked the power to refuse.
They stopped before a door that was less an entrance and more of a statement: floor-to-ceiling frosted glass with minimal signage and a discreet access panel glowing with a soft, steady light.
Ethan cleared his throat, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hall. “This is it.”
Alex tapped the panel. After a short pause, a calm, efficient voice crackled through. “Yes?”
“Alex Quinn, with Ethan Berfield and Rory Atwood.”
A beat later, the door slid open with a whisper. Sullivan’s assistant sat just inside, his posture immaculate and a tablet resting lightly in his hands. He looked up, his eyes flicking briefly to the two adults before settling on Rory. It wasn't a stare; it was a professional appraisal, a quick noting of the new variable.
“She’s expecting you,” the assistant said. “You can go in.”
As the inner door slid back, Rory froze for a split second. The office was enormous. Huge windows spanned the far wall, framing the city like a curated model. The skyline gleamed in the morning light, all sharp edges and distant, untouchable movement. The room itself was sleek and understated, filled with dark wood and steel accents, centred around a desk that looked less like furniture and more like a command surface. There was no clutter, no personal photos, no warmth. This wasn't just an office; it was power made physical.
Rory stepped inside, suddenly acutely aware of how small he was. His hoodie felt like a child’s costume, his lukewarm coffee cup an absurdity. His pulse thudded in his ears.
Karen Sullivan stood behind the desk. She didn't move to greet them immediately, choosing instead to watch Rory enter. Her eyes were sharp, measuring him against some internal standard only she understood.
So this is her, Rory thought, his stomach twisting.
“Ethan, Alex,” Sullivan said smoothly, finally stepping around the desk. Her voice was perfectly modulated, like silk over steel. “Thank you for bringing him.” Her gaze settled on Rory. “And you. Rory Atwood. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
The words were polite, but the tone was clinical. She gestured toward a seating area where low, expensive chairs faced her desk. Ethan and Alex sat, and Rory followed after a moment of hesitation, perching on the very edge of the seat as if ready to bolt.
Sullivan took her seat, crossing one leg over the other with unhurried grace. For a long moment, she simply looked at him.
“I won’t pretend I haven’t been curious,” she said at last. “It’s not every day I get to sit across from Robert Atwood’s son.”
The name hit Rory like a physical blow. His fingers clenched the paper cup.
“He was the greatest enhancement engineer this world has ever seen,” Sullivan continued. “A mind decades ahead of his time. We still build entire systems around the principles he pioneered.” Rory swallowed, staring at the floor. He didn't want to look at Ethan, but he could feel the man go still beside him. “You have his eyes. And, if I’m not mistaken, his aptitude.”
Rory remained silent, unsure if he was even allowed to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Sullivan added lightly, “for the… unpleasantness with Beau. It was mishandled. While responsibility is being addressed internally, I wanted you to know that Karmal takes incidents like that seriously.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. Rory noticed what she didn't say: there was no mention of Owen. The omission felt loud, filling the gaps in her carefully constructed apology.
“We understand the situation has impacted your perception of this institution,” Sullivan said, her gaze returning to Rory. “Which is precisely why I wanted to speak with you personally.” She tapped her tablet, and a holographic display flickered to life between them, rotating models, clean schematics, and data streams.
“Upgrades,” Sullivan said.
“Upgrades?” Rory mumbled, his brow furrowing. He remembered what Ethan had told him about how the wealthy paid for these things.
“Pyrokinetic and cryokinetic amplification,” Sullivan continued. “Generation. Control. Thermal regulation at the cellular level. Enhanced tolerance, precision modulation, extended output without destabilisation.” She paused, catching his eye. “In simpler terms: fire and ice. Refined. Disciplined.”
Rory’s mind reeled.
Fire. Ice.
Powers.
The word felt ridiculous and intoxicating all at once.
The thought made his skin buzz, excitement flaring despite himself. He imagined what it would feel like to not just react, to choose. To control. To be more than the scared, red-banded kid everyone watched like a live wire.
He stayed silent, but Sullivan saw the hunger.
“These aren’t experimental,” she added. “They’re proven. Safe. These would be a gift from Karmal to make amends, and to support your development.”
Rory watched the coffee in his hands tremble. “And in exchange?” he asked quietly.
Sullivan smiled. “There’s no exchange. This is restitution. A gesture of goodwill.”
Ethan’s posture suggested he didn't trust the word gesture.
“However,” Sullivan continued smoothly, “we can’t ethically provide enhancements without structured stabilisation and control training.”
There it was.
“Karmal would oversee your development,” she said. “No more oversight check-ins. No red band.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Rory’s wrist.
Rory’s head snapped up.
“No red band?” he echoed.
Sullivan nodded. “Full access. Increased autonomy. Protection. A community that understands what you are and wants to help you succeed. Karmal would take care of you, Rory. You wouldn’t be alone in this.”
Ethan didn’t look at Rory. Alex’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Sullivan leaned back slightly. “So,” she said. “Do you agree?”
Rory blinked. “Agree to… what, exactly?”
Her smile sharpened, just a fraction. “Will you accept the upgrades,” she clarified, “and return to structured training at Karmal?”
The words didn’t land like a question.
They landed like a door opening.
For a split second, something dangerous sparked in him.
Not just curiosity, want.
Because it sounded good. Too good.
A place to go. A name that meant something. A community he could belong to. A reason not to dread every day.
He hated that he wanted it so much. Because wanting meant hoping. And hoping meant someone could take it away.
Alex could feel it, how sharply he wanted it, how the want had teeth. It wasn’t greed. It wasn’t hunger for power.
It was hunger for relief.
For something that didn’t get taken or ruined the second he touched it.
Ethan didn’t move. He didn’t rescue Rory from the moment. He just sat there, steady, like an anchor Rory could choose to grab or not.
Sullivan watched Rory very carefully, like she could see the shape of his thoughts even if he never spoke them.
Rory swallowed.
His hands tightened together in his lap until his knuckles ached.
He pictured it, walking these halls without the band biting into his wrist. Not having to flinch every time someone looked at him. Being one of them, even if he didn’t deserve it. Even if he didn’t know how.
Then, a colder realisation rose up. And then the rest of it crashed in.
It wouldn’t bring Dan back.
Wouldn’t undo the punch.
Wouldn’t fix school.
Wouldn’t stop people looking at him like he was dangerous or broken or something that needed managing.
They’d already decided who he was.
Already put the band on him.
Already humiliated him.
Already wrecked everything good in his life like it was collateral damage.
And now they were sitting across from him, acting like they could make it better by offering him upgrades and a place at the table.
Like it was that simple.
Rory’s jaw tightened.
It felt like an apology that wasn’t really an apology.
Like being told sorry we ruined your life, here’s something shiny instead.
He hated that part of him wanted it anyway.
Because wanting it made him feel stupid.
Made him feel like if he said yes, they’d win. Like they’d get to rewrite what they’d done as help instead of harm.
Across from him, Sullivan didn’t move. She didn’t rush him. She just waited, like she knew exactly where this was going.
Rory stared at the desk, at the smooth surface that didn’t have a single smudge or scratch on it, and felt something stubborn and ugly settle in his chest.
They already burned me, he thought.
They don’t get to fix it.
“No,” he said. The word was small, but it was solid.
Ethan let out a quiet breath. Not surprised. Just… steady. Alex’s eyes softened with a flicker of sadness.
Sullivan’s expression sharpened. “No?”
Rory shook his head, his shoulders hunching as he braced for the fallout. “I don’t want it,” he said, his voice rough. “I didn’t ask for any of this. You all just… decided who I was, and now you’re acting like this makes it okay.”
Sullivan studied him, gaze cool and assessing.
“You understand,” she said calmly, “that things won’t return to how they were.”
Rory swallowed. His throat burned.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“You’ll remain monitored,” she continued. “You’ll attend oversight check-ins. Indefinitely.”
“I know.”
“And this is still your choice?”
Rory hesitated.
Not because he wasn’t sure.
Because some part of him was screaming take it, begging him not to walk back out into the mess he’d been barely surviving.
He glanced at Ethan without meaning to, just a flicker, like maybe someone would tell him it was okay to stop fighting. To let someone help. To not do this alone.
Ethan didn’t push. Didn’t plead. Just met his eyes, calm and present.
Rory looked back at Sullivan.
And the stubborn part of him dug in hard.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I don’t need this. I don’t need… you.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Sullivan leaned back in her chair, fingers interlacing, her expression smoothing into something unreadable.
“This is a significant decision,” she said evenly. “I don’t expect you to make it today.”
Rory frowned, thrown.
She continued, unbothered. “I want you to take some time. Think about what this could give you. What it could make easier.”
Her eyes flicked, deliberately, to the red band hidden under his sleeve.
“Control,” she added. “Freedom. A place where you don’t have to keep fighting the same battles.”
Rory’s chest tightened despite himself.
Sullivan’s smile was faint and controlled. Not kind. Calculated.
“When you’re ready,” she said, “you’ll know where to find me.”
And Rory realised, with a sinking feeling, that she wasn’t done with him.
She was just waiting.
Letting him sit in the wreckage a little longer, until the offer didn’t feel like surrender anymore.
Until it felt like the only way out.
***
The door to Sullivan’s office closed behind them with a soft, expensive click, a sound that seemed to linger in the air much longer than it should have.
Rory stood paralysed for a heartbeat, his body lagging behind the reality of the exit. He felt physically brittle, his muscles tight from the sheer effort of holding himself together under Sullivan’s clinical gaze. The hallway outside felt disorientingly wide compared to the room they had just vacated; the glass walls stretched out in clean, endless lines, and the morning sunlight spilled across the polished floors with an indifferent brilliance.
No one spoke.
Ethan walked a half-step ahead, hands buried in his pockets and his posture held steady. Alex moved alongside Rory, maintaining a careful distance, close enough to offer a sense of presence, but far enough not to crowd him. Neither of them looked back toward the office, and neither offered a commentary on the trial they had just endured.
They simply let him walk.
They were nearly at the end of the long corridor before Ethan finally broke the silence. "You okay?"
It wasn’t said gently. It wasn’t said carefully. It was just a check-in, offered without expectation.
Rory shrugged, the motion small and jerky. "Sure."
The lie passed between them without being challenged. Ethan nodded once, accepting the answer exactly as it was given. He didn’t press for more, didn’t try to reframe the situation, and didn’t tell Rory what he should be feeling. That lack of pressure, somehow, made Rory’s chest ache more than an interrogation would have.
Alex glanced at Rory’s profile. She could still feel the sharp, electric tangle of want and fear buzzing just beneath his skin, the way his stubbornness was acting like a heavy lid pressed down on a boiling pot. She didn't call him out on it. She just said, quietly, "You didn’t do anything wrong in there."
Rory’s mouth twitched, a half-formed scoff dying before it could reach his lips. He kept his eyes fixed ahead on the city far below, tiny, distant, and impossibly normal.
They reached the lift bank, and the doors slid open with a quiet, melodic chime. Inside, the silence settled over them once more. Rory leaned back against the mirrored wall, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. His reflection caught him at a cruel angle: he looked too thin, too young, and the red band was a stark, ugly brand against his wrist. He looked away.
Ethan watched the floor numbers tick down, his jaw tight. He wanted to offer a word of reassurance, an explanation, or even an apology, but every syllable felt like the wrong tool for the job. This wasn't the time to fill the void with noise.
The lift slowed and the doors opened. They stepped out into the main corridor, where the volume of the world rose to meet them, the murmur of voices, the rhythm of footsteps, and the ambient sounds of a building that never truly slept.
“Hey,” Ethan said as they slowed near the sign-out desk. “You sure I can’t drive you home?”
Rory’s response was quick, a defensive reflex. “Nah. Said bus is fine.”
Ethan nodded. He saw the refusal for what it was: not a matter of logistics or independence, but a boundary. A line in the sand that Rory still desperately needed to draw. “Okay,” he said evenly.
Alex watched the two of them, sensing the quiet ripple of disappointment in Ethan and the stubborn, grounding relief in Rory’s chest. For Rory, saying no was the only thing he still had the power to do.
They stopped near the exit. Rory hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. For a second, it looked as though he might say something more, soften the refusal or explain the turmoil inside, but the thought flickered out before it reached his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said instead, his eyes flicking briefly to the coffee cup. “For... this.”
Ethan gave him a small, weary smile. “Anytime.”
“Text me when you get home, yeah?” Alex added gently.
Rory nodded. “Yeah.”
He turned away then, pulling his hoodie tighter around his frame as he headed toward the glass doors. The red band flashed one last time under the lobby lights before his sleeve slid back over it. The doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him away from the building, from Sullivan’s office, and from the life-changing choice he had just walked away from.
Ethan and Alex remained at the glass, watching until his figure disappeared from view.
“Well,” Ethan said finally, the word sounding dry and hollow.
Alex exhaled slowly, folding her arms. “That went... exactly how it was always going to go.”
Ethan let out a quiet breath through his nose and shook his head with a tired, almost fond sense of disbelief. “Stubborn kid.”
“He wanted it,” Alex said softly.
Ethan glanced at her.
“I felt it,” she continued. “Not just the upgrades. All of it. The structure. The belonging. The idea that someone might actually choose him instead of just managing him. It was loud, Ethan.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “And he still said no.”
“Because he doesn’t know how to ask for help without feeling like he’s losing,” Alex replied.
They stood in the silence of the lobby, the weight of that truth sitting between them. Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s not okay.”
“No,” Alex agreed. “But he’s tough.” She hesitated, and then a small, unmistakable curve appeared at the corner of her mouth. “I kind of love that he said no to her.”
Ethan blinked, then huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Yeah. Me too.”
Alex’s smile was fleeting, but genuine. “She didn’t expect it.”
“No,” Ethan said, his eyes returning to the doors. “She really didn't.” He straightened his shoulders, the mantle of responsibility settling back into place. “She’ll regroup. She always does.”
Alex nodded. “And Rory will knuckle through it on his own until he can’t anymore.”
Ethan didn't look away from the exit. “Which is exactly when we need to be there.”
***
Rory paused just beyond the threshold of Karmal, inhaling the sharp, biting air through his nose and letting it out slowly through his mouth. For a moment, a wave of lightheadedness washed over him, making the pavement feel unsteady beneath his sneakers. It wasn’t exactly relief; it was more like the sudden, jarring absence of a weight that had been crushing his ribs for the last hour.
He started walking.
Behind him, the Karmal building loomed, tall, silent, and reflective. Its vast glass skin caught the dull grey of the sky, watching his retreat like a cold, unblinking eye. Rory refused to look over his shoulder. Looking back felt dangerous, as if acknowledging the building’s presence might cause his feet to turn around of their own volition.
The further he moved away, the tighter his chest became. The expected sense of freedom didn't come; instead, he felt a mounting, suffocating pressure. He shoved his hand deeper into the pocket of his hoodie and kept moving, keeping his head down as the city began to blur into a smear of grey and neon. Strangers brushed past him without a second glance. Cars hissed over the damp asphalt. Somewhere nearby, a horn blared, sharp, impatient, and once again, utterly normal.
Everyone else was just…going on.
He tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing. He told himself it mattered that he hadn't caved, that he hadn't let them pretend their clinical "care" could somehow erase the fact that they had already wrecked his life. He told himself that saying no was a victory.
But the thought wouldn't settle. It felt hollow, and a quieter, meaner voice began to whisper underneath his resolve.
You could’ve just said yes.
The idea hit him with more force than Sullivan’s presence ever had. He could have had it all. He had seen the life they were offering, felt the pull of it in that room. He could have finally belonged to something.
Anger flared, hot and sudden, twisting in his gut. Idiot.
He kicked a loose stone on the footpath, sending it skittering into the gutter with unnecessary violence. His jaw was clamped so tight his teeth ground together.
Why didn’t you just take it?
He knew it wouldn’t have fixed everything. He wasn't that naive. But it might have made everything else quieter. It might have made the daily act of existing a little easier. It would have given him something to hold onto besides his own bruised ribs and a sense of mounting dread.
The thought burned because he knew how close he had been. For one shimmering, desperate second in that office, he had stood before a door he was never meant to open, and all he’d had to do was speak a single word to step through.
Instead, he’d slammed it shut himself.
Rory dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the tangles as if even his own body were resisting his choices. The anger turned inward, becoming something jagged and ugly.
You always do this. You always push things away before they can leave you. You decide you don't need anyone just so you don't have to admit how much it hurts when they go.
His breath hitched, coming in fast, shallow bursts. He slowed down, his steps faltering as the sheer weight of his own stubbornness pressed down on his shoulders. He hated himself for wanting it. He hated that even now, blocks away, a part of him was screaming to go back, to sit in that chair for one second longer and take the offer. To finally stop fighting.
But the want felt like weakness. If he went back now, they would win. Everything they’d done to him, the humiliation, the red band, the destruction of his life at home, would be rewritten as a "necessary step" toward his improvement.
They had burned his world to the ground. They didn't get to hand him a match and call it help.
He realised he was still clutching the takeaway coffee cup. He looked down at it and realised he hadn't even had more than a single sip; he hadn't found the focus or the strength to even drink. Now, the liquid inside was stone-cold. With a sudden surge of loathing, he dropped it into a nearby bin. It landed with a dull, heavy splash, the contents staining the discarded newspapers at the bottom.
He forced himself to keep walking toward the bus stop, his shoulders hunched and his head down. The stubbornness settled back into place like a suit of armour he’d worn for so long it had fused to his skin.
Fine. He’d deal with it the way he always did. On his own.
He was only a block from the shelter, the bus stop visible at the end of the street, when the air around him seemed to shift. A familiar prickle rose at the base of his neck, the distinct, cold sensation of being watched.
Rory slowed, unease threading through the remnants of his anger. Before he could even lift his head…
“Hey.”
The voice came from directly in front of him. Too close. Too familiar.
Rory’s stomach dropped through the floor. He stopped dead. He didn't look up yet; he didn't need to. He already knew exactly who was standing there.
Who do you think is waiting for Rory?
