Arayik concludes with a final announcement. “The Syndicate values privacy,” he says, and I almost laugh. They valueprivacy for men. “If anyone requires a private room, speak now. I do not give a shit if you sleep in the mud each night, but I’m obligated to offer.”
I raise my hand without hesitation. There’s no way I’m sharing sleeping quarters with more than a dozen men if I have another option. I’d never have a moment of true privacy, and I absolutely cannot risk being discovered while changing or sleeping.
The leaders stare at me, and someone in the group of recruits barks out a laugh. I bite my tongue as I’m the only one with my hand raised.
The Commander stalks toward me, stopping intimidatingly close. “Why do you need a private room?”
I blurt out the first excuse that comes to mind. “Medical reasons.” I quickly adjust my claim, knowing how that’s likely to backfire on me. “They don’t affect my performance, but I would prefer some privacy for them.”
It’s not a direct lie, I suppose. Being a woman in a facility full of men who would kill me for existing could be considered a medical condition.
“What medical reason?” he presses, and I falter. Fuck.
I have no idea what to say, my head whirling with a thousand thoughts before I recall a passage from Syndicate law I read years ago. According to regulation, no one is allowed to demand another man’s medical history unless said man voluntarily shares the information.
I’m in a predicament. Again. Citing this law will likely antagonize him further, but I cannot share a room with the others.
The risk is worth taking.
“I’m not required to disclose that information,” I say with as steady a voice as I can manage. Then, just to reinforce it, I recite the exact wording from the law, “Section fourteen,paragraph three of the Syndicate Health Code states that no citizen may demand medical information from another without explicit consent, and no position of authority grants exception to this privacy protection.”
Arayik’s answering laugh chills every hair on my body. He bends forward until his mask nearly touches mine, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for me alone. “You have no idea the things I can do with no one batting an eye. Watch yourself, Ashford.”
Then he straightens before announcing, “Ashford gets a private room. Everyone else will bunk together.”
Dizziness floods through me so powerfully I almost stagger. It feels like the first real breath I’ve taken since sitting in the hole under my parents’ room last night.
The leaders show us to the main building without further comment. As I walk through the door, a faint zipping rings above me, which is strange, but I’m too overwhelmed to investigate. No one else seems bothered by it.
The interior is exactly what I would expect from a facility designed to break and rebuild men into weapons. Everything is black and gray metal, the walls and floors gleaming under harsh lighting. There’s nothing soft or welcoming about the space. It feels detached. Impersonal. Much like the masks we all wear, I suppose. A physical manifestation of the emotional distance the Syndicate requires of its Enforcers.
Throughout the rest of the day, I keep my empathy abilities tightly controlled, using them sparingly to gauge the emotions of those around me without drawing attention. There’s a mix of nervousness and determination from the other recruits—feelings which mirror my own internal chaos. Unlike them, however, my legs are shaking and need a long break. Perhaps I should have performed more squats over the years, regardless of how much I loathe them.
Kellen directs us to our quarters with a nod. My private room is small but functional. With just enough space for a bed, a storage unit, and a small desk and chair. After droppingoff our packs, he leads us through the facility with haste, loosely explaining various protocols.
The bathroom and shower arrangements surprise me. They’re communal spaces with stalls for toilets and showers. Thank the stars for the minimal seclusion of the stalls, but I had hoped for my own bathroom. I won’t dare push my luck, though.
The third ranking leader explains meal times in the cafeteria, warning that if we miss scheduled meals, we don’t eat until the next designated time. “This facility doesn’t cater to individual schedules,” he explains, pinning each of us with a hard stare. “You will adapt to ours, or you will leave.”
Something about Kellen’s speaking style draws me in. He reminds me of myself—someone who stores vast knowledge but carefully measures how much to share, holding back to avoid overwhelming others. There’s an alertness in his eyes that suggests he sees far more than he reveals.
After a few more halls, we reach an indoor training area. The space is open, with lines marking the outer perimeter. I recognize their oval shape, commonly used for running exercises. Though I don’t understand why they need painted lines when the walls were built to define the space. It cannot be so difficult to run near them?
Shaking my head and ignoring the rumbling in my abdomen, I scan the rest of the room. There’s various equipment spread throughout the space—weights, a climbing apparatus on one wall, combat rings, and a specialized area for power-practice. It’s a section enclosed in clear glass, and inside, two Enforcers are using their abilities against each other. One creates small electrical charges between him and his opponent while the other dodges with preternatural speed.
The two missing leaders join us in the training area, their postures and builds immediately identifying them even behindidentical masks. I shouldn’t have been worried in my ability to distinguish them from the others. Even in this short time, I’ve gotten better at recognizing specific gaits and movements—another reminder of home.
“The remainder of today will be spent here,” the Commander announces. “We will assess where each of you needs the most training.” His voice hardens, and I swear the air around him tightens. “I will not tolerate weakness in my team. Every member will be equally proficient in all necessary skills, or they’re gone. I have no time or sympathy for anything less than excellence.”
What follows is a grueling series of assessments—strength tests, reflex exercises, combat drills, and power demonstrations. I perform dismally in most physical challenges but excel in the mental ones. My power allows me to anticipate intentions and reactions, giving me a much-needed edge in combat that partially compensates for my lack of strength.
Barely, but they haven’t kicked me out yet so I’ll consider it a win.
By the day’s end, I’m certain I’ve been dragged across the entire perimeter and hung out to bake in the sun. Every muscle aches with a depth of pain I’ve never experienced. My mind spins with exhaustion and the relief-filled anxiety of having survived the first day.
It’s a feat to make it to the dining hall, but I manage and grab a simple dinner—two hard boiled eggs and an apple. I’m no longer hungry, my stomach knotted and sour, but I know my body needs protein and carbohydrates to recover and prepare for the coming days. I will force myself to eat mechanically in private, promising my poor body I’ll do better tomorrow. Today was just about survival.
And survive I barely did.
