You don’t picture your life changing on a train that smells like burnt wiring and old sweat.

But that’s where it happens.

The windows are scratched so badly you can’t see your reflection, which is probably for the best. Outside, the land flickers past in broken pieces—collapsed buildings, rusted watchtowers, the occasional neon sign still clinging to power like it refuses to die. Someone once told you this used to be farmland. You don’t believe them. It looks more like a graveyard that forgot to stop growing.

The train rattles like it’s annoyed to be moving at all. Every time it jerks, your scar pulses.

That scar.

Right under your collarbone.

Left side.

You got it when you were twelve, the night the sky cracked open and everything burned. Doctors said it was shrapnel. You’ve always thought that was a lazy explanation. Shrapnel doesn’t throb. Shrapnel doesn’t wake up when you’re scared.

Across from you, a girl keeps glancing over like she’s trying not to stare but failing anyway.

She’s got clean gloves. That’s the first thing you notice. Academy-issued, bright white, not a single smudge. The kind of gloves people wear when they already know they’ll survive.

“You’re Quinn, right?” she asks.

You nod. Talking feels like effort today.

“Rhea Solenne.” She taps the glowing badge clipped to her chest. Light-class. Of course. “You’re… unbound.”

She doesn’t say it like an insult. That almost makes it worse.

“Yeah,” you say. “I left my spare fortune back home.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. Then the smile fades. “People are already talking.”

“Let me guess,” you mutter. “Bloodless cadet. Charity case. Future body bag.”

She doesn’t deny it.

That’s when you look away, because outside the window, you pass a crater you recognize. The shape’s wrong now, half-filled with black water, but your body knows it anyway. That’s where your parents died. Right there. The place where Extraordinary heroes turned into Ability Books and everyone called it noble.

You call it theft.

The train slows. Gates rise ahead—Aureon Military Academy. Glass spires, polished steel, banners hanging like it’s a celebration instead of a slaughterhouse with better marketing. The kind of place people dream about if they’ve never had to bleed for real.

Rhea stands when the doors open. Light flickers around her boots, subtle and controlled.

She pauses. “Hey. Just… keep your head down.”

You almost laugh.

The intake officer doesn’t even look at you when he scans your wrist.

“No Ability Book registered,” he says flatly.

“No, sir.”

A pause. Just long enough to sting.

“You’ll be placed in Unbound Housing. Sector Twelve.” He hands you a dull gray band. “Don’t expect accommodations.”

You take it anyway. Because what else are you supposed to do?

Sector Twelve smells like mildew and old iron. The walls are cracked. One of the ceiling lights flickers like it’s thinking about quitting. You drop your bag on the bottom bunk and sit there longer than necessary, listening to your heartbeat.

It sounds wrong.

Too loud.

Too close.

That night, sleep doesn’t come so much as it sneaks up on you and hits you with a chair.

You dream you’re standing in knee-deep water. The water’s warm. You realize too late it isn’t water at all.

Your parents are there. Smiling. Whole. Untouched.

You reach for them.

They dissolve.

You wake up choking, your sheets damp and red where your palm pressed too hard into your skin.

You tell yourself it’s just a nosebleed.

You don’t believe it.

Morning drills start before the sun fully rises. The unbound cadets line up like leftovers. You recognize that look—people who already know they’re expendable.

The instructor calls your name. “Veyra. Step forward.”

Your opponent grins when he sees your wristband.

“Aric Mordane,” he says, like the name alone should scare you. It probably does. His family makes Ability Books. His bloodline’s practically trademarked.

“Try not to die,” he adds. “Paperwork’s annoying.”

The match starts.

Fire slams into the ground where you were standing a second ago. You dodge, barely. Heat scorches your arm.

It should hurt more than it does.

That’s when the blood hits the dirt.

Just one drop.

You feel it before you see it. The way it spreads wrong. The way it doesn’t soak in.

Your blood moves.

Not splashing.

Not dripping.

Listening.

A shield snaps into place like it’s always known where to be. Fire scatters. The crowd goes dead silent.

You’re breathing hard. Your arm doesn’t hurt anymore.

Aric stares at you like you just spoke in a dead language.

“What are you?” he whispers.

You don’t have an answer.

The whistle blows. Commander Vale’s voice cuts through everything. “Match over.”

Later, in the infirmary, a medic squints at your chart and mutters, “That’s… not possible.”

You watch the cut on your arm seal itself shut, neat as a zipper.

That night, Vale finds you on the observation deck.

“I’ve seen blood like yours before,” he says. “Once.”

Your scar burns.

“Listen carefully,” he adds. “If your blood ever starts listening to you…”

He pauses.

“…stop bleeding.”

When you finally fall asleep, you hear it. Not a voice exactly. More like a suggestion pressed gently against your thoughts.

You’re not broken.

You’re early.

You wake up with your heart racing and the certainty that something inside you just smiled.