My heart started pounding in my chest. I knew how important this was—I'd already trained with James, using a Skindo in secret. He'd warned me not to breathe a word of it, or we’d face serious consequences. But now, the chance to earn one officially… This was bigger than I’d anticipated. This was the validation I’d been striving for—the proof I was where I belonged.
I would get below the second before the rest of my fellow students, even if it was the last thing I ever did. I would die trying if I had to.
Nino scanned the room, her expression the epitome of "I’ve seen it all and it’s rarely impressive." Her eyes briefly locked with mine before moving on, like she’d already dismissed me as unremarkable. "Your progress will be closely monitored, and an envoy from the Council will determine when you're ready."
Right on cue, a man I once fought beside entered the room. His presence screamed important guy energy, the kind which practically demanded a dramatic soundtrack. The air shifted like we were all supposed to register his arrival on some deeper level.
“For those of you who don’t know,” Nino announced, “this is Maurice. He’ll be auditing a class every now and then. So, let’s begin.”
The gravity of the day’s announcements seemed to settle in deeper—or maybe it was Maurice’s overwhelming I’m-better-than-you energy, radiating like an invisible force field of authority. Honestly, it was hard to tell.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth, one probably toeing the line between confident and obnoxious. Time to show everyone what I was made of—and make it crystal clear I wasn’t here to take up space like a decorative potted plant.
FOUR
EMMA
The next few weeks were a blur of sweat, bruises, and an overwhelming sense of please-let-this-be-worth-it at the Academy. Every waking minute was spent either sparring with Nino—who had an impressive knack for kicking my ass with alarming enthusiasm—or trying to get my haze to appear in less time than it took to sneeze.
James came by my dorm during the first week, looking uncharacteristically apologetic. He owned up to his behavior after my first class, and blamed it on the stress of his position. I forgave him quickly—maybe too quickly—but not before squeezing in a guilt trip about second-placing me in his life.
I was joking (mostly), but some part of me had meant it, and he must’ve picked up on it. What started as an apology quickly turned into a makeup kissing session for the ages, and by the end of it, there was no room left for doubt—or breath.
After that, we slipped back into our happy couple phase— like Belle and her Beast after their awkward ballroom scene,who couldn’t decide whether to flirt or fight but did both with alarming efficiency.
Things were smooth again, even if I saw less of him than I wanted, but with the weight of the entire international community resting on his shoulders, I had no right to hold it against him.
Still, when I asked James to help shorten my interface time, he agreed—though with some reluctance, and with his guidance, I managed to cut my interface from 2.04 to 1.08 seconds in just three weeks.
I was now third in my class, competing against two other Superiors who were clocking in at 1.06 and 1.03. I was close—so close—but I knew I wouldn’t stop until I was the first one below the second.
Which is why for the third Saturday in a row, I found myself in the training room, trying to shorten my time. Every millisecond shaved off was a step closer to the top. I wasobsessedwith breaking the one-second barrier. The rush of nearing my goal sent a thrill through me, but it was a constant, gnawing frustration too—I was so close, yet not quite there.
James was with me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, doing his best impression of someone paying attention. He’d been with me every step of the way, sure, but unlike last year—when he had basically been my personal drill sergeant—he was softer now. Less pushy.
Actually, scratch that. He was distracted. He kept checking his Nexus like he was waiting for an apocalypse update, his jaw tight, his answers clipped, and his attention miles away.
It was weird. And not the ha-ha quirky kind of weird, but the something-is-definitely-going-on-and-I’m-the-last-to-know kind.
“James, is everything okay?” I asked, spinning around after finishing my latest try. 1.09 seconds—not enough.
He blinked, snapping out of whatever thoughts had pulled him away. “What?”
“You’ve been checking your Nexus like every two minutes. What’s going on?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His focus flicked from me to his device, a worry in his features I hadn’t seen in a long time. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, but even as he said it, I could tell it wasn’t true.
Before I could press further, his Nexus flared to life. He read the message quickly, and suddenly, his face was drained of color.
“James?” My voice wavered. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Silence.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as my worry mounted at his sudden change.
“I got a message from the United Chiefs. The Radicals who attacked Cyclos…” His voice trailed off, and I noticed his hands starting to tremble.
“What about them?” I breathed, fear creeping into my bones.
