The woman looks at me with the same flat expression she’s had since the day I got here. “This way.”
I follow her again. Different direction this time. The corridor curves, opens into a wider hallway with actual windows—first natural light I’ve seen in three days—and then stops at a door that looks different from the others. Warmer somehow. Less institutional.
She opens it.
“Wait here.”
Then she’s gone.
The room is small but not a cell. There’s a chair that isn’t bolted down, a small table, a window with actual light coming through it. No bed. No food tray. Just a space that feels like it’s meant for people, not processing.
I sink into the chair because my legs are shaking and I’m not sure how much longer I can hide it.
Five minutes. Ten.
The door opens.
The woman who enters is not the same one. Different age, different build, different everything. She’s maybe forty, with lines around her eyes that look like they come from expression, not exhaustion. She’s carrying a cup of water and a blanket and she’s looking at me.
Actually looking. At my face. Like I’m a person.
“I’m Linda,” she says. “I’m sorry it took this long.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.
She sets the water on the table. Holds out the blanket.
“You’re shaking,” she says. Not an accusation. An observation. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She sits in a chair across from me. Doesn’t push the water closer, doesn’t insist on the blanket, just leaves them there. “Three days without food is not fine. I can see your hands trembling from here.”
I curl my fingers into fists under the table.
“I’m not going to force you to eat,” she says. “I’m not going to force you to do anything. But I need to tell you what happens next, and I’d rather do that when you’re not about to pass out.”
The water is right there. Clear and cold and probably not drugged, probably not a trap, probably just water.
I don’t reach for it.
Linda watches me. I wait for the lecture about taking care of myself, the soft voice people use when they’re about to make you do something for your own good.
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll do this your way.”
She folds her hands on the table.
“We’ve had a team working on your case since you arrived. Searching for precedent—any record of someone your age without a mark. We couldn’t find one. You’re the first documented case of a permanent unmarked adult in the system.”
I knew that already. I’ve always known that. Probably.
“The decision came down this morning. You’re being transferred to the Academy.”
The Academy. I’ve heard of it. Everyone’s heard of it. The place where marks get confirmed, where House assignments get finalized, where people get sorted into the lives they’re going to live.
I never thought I’d see the inside of it.
“There are three reasons,” Linda continues. “First, you’ve never been through intake. The Academy is the standard process, even now. Second, there’s some belief that the environment might increase the likelihood of manifestation. If there’s a mark that hasn’t surfaced yet, that’s the most likely place for it to appear.”
