I didn’t shrink.
I walked. Step by step, each boot striking the stone floor with calculated rhythm: click, click, click.
Every sound echoed.
Every echo carried my presence further into the room.
Each click was a declaration:I am here. I exist. I refuse to disappear.
Their eyes followed me, moving over me like hands, probing for weakness.
I kept my back straight.
Chin lifted. Face calm.
At the front of the hall, he stood.
Renzo.
Renzo’s gaze followed me the entire way to my seat.
I didn’t need to look to know it was there.
It pressed into my back, heavy, impossible to ignore.
I kept my pace steady.
I slid into the last seat along the end, pressed against the wall.
Strategic.
A spot that offered a full view of exits, minimized exposure, and gave me a semblance of control in a hall designed to strip it away.
Beside me, a man shifted.
Broad-shouldered. Late twenties.
Renzo didn’t resume speaking until I had finished this small ritual of preparation, before resuming—as if I had never entered the room at all.
“—as I was saying,” his voice cut through the quiet, clipped, precise, “orientation week is not about coddling.”
He began pacing the platform, each step measured. “It is about stripping away illusions.”
A few recruits shifted slightly in their seats.
Subtle, nervous, human.
“You think you’re hard,” he continued, voice smooth but edged, “because you survived street fights. Because you completed jobs that others failed. Because you betrayed—or were betrayed. That means nothing here.”
He paused, turning slightly on his platform, gaze sweeping over the room. “Hardness here is measured in two things.”
The silence tightened around us like a vice.
“Loyalty and Obedience.”
No one breathed louder than the others.
I forced myself to look straight ahead.
