“Are you going to the welcome party later?” Jiwon’s voice piped up from his left, barely winded despite having just finished a set of drills.

Seon didn’t answer right away. He was too busy focusing on the dull metal pole in front of him—floating it again, steady this time. His fingers didn’t move, but a subtle tension twitched in his jaw.

“I said—party. Tonight. You know, for the new transfers?” Jiwon added, half-laughing, half-expecting to be ignored.

Seon finally spoke, flat and uninterested. “Not interested.”

Jiwon snorted. “Come on. They brought in someone big this time. S-Class. Another Guide.”

Seon’s control slipped. The pipe wobbled midair before falling with a soft clang.

Jiwon raised a brow. “Ouch. Nerve?”

Seon didn’t look at him. He bent down and picked the pipe up manually. “You done gossiping?”

“Not even close. Word is, the S-Class is cold, real elite-type. You should meet them—maybe it’s fate.”

“I don’t need a Guide.”

Jiwon fell quiet for a beat. “Still?” he said, a little more careful now. “After what happened to Ji-an…?”

Seon flinched before he could stop it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” He straightened, turning away from Jiwon and back to the open space. “But it’s fine. I don’t need anyone holding my hand. I’m fine.”

Jiwon didn't press after that. He’d known Seon long enough to recognize a dead end when he hit one.

Seon exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders. The ache flared in his side again—dull, heavy, lingering. His ribs still weren’t fully healed from the last mission. The medics told him to rest. He didn’t listen.

He never did.

He stood in the middle of the room, eyes focused on a row of rods in front of him. Telekinesis was a quiet kind of power, but when it faltered, it was loud. Unforgiving. He could feel every crack in his control. Every slip. His energy still hadn’t stabilized since that battle—since the blackout.

He remembered the moment everything went white. The pressure. The panic. The way his mind had frayed at the edges before finally snapping.

He’d passed out before the explosion. That’s what they told him.

He didn’t remember most of it.

Now he was here, trying to retrain his own hands.

The rods lifted one by one, hovered a moment, then spun slowly around each other. Good. That was good.

Then someone near the center of the field lost control of their power. The room cracked—an electric flare cut through the space like a whip. Wind, sound, pressure. Everything jolted.

Seon reacted too late.

His balance gave out, the rods scattered, and the blast knocked his footing. His boots skidded, and before he could brace with his power, he tripped—stumbled over someone’s gear—and crashed hard into a figure nearby.

His body hit another chest with a thud, and he groaned. His ribs screamed. Pain lit through his side like fire.

He tried to push himself off the guy, breath caught in his throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he gasped, arms shaking as he struggled to lift himself. “That—wasn’t on purpose, I—someone lost—”

“Get off.”

The voice was clipped. Cold. Irritated.

Seon froze.

The man under him didn’t wait for him to move.

With one harsh shove to the shoulder, he was pushed off and landed hard on the floor. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he winced, eyes scrunched shut from the pain in his ribs.

He turned his head slightly, still on the ground, and finally got a good look at the guy.

Tall. Stiff posture. Dark hair. Sharp eyes, sharper than they needed to be. His uniform looked newer than everyone else's, perfectly pressed, boots clean. Everything about him screamed transfer.

“...You’re new,” Seon muttered, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up again.

The guy just stared at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of his boot.

“Taeo,” he said flatly. “From Sector 7.”

Seon coughed and sat up with difficulty, holding his side. “Seon. Don’t worry, I’m not always this graceful.”

Taeo didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of amusement.

“Maybe avoid the training ground if you can’t stay on your feet.”

That one stung more than it should have.

Seon blinked at him, his tone cooling. “I said it wasn’t on purpose.”

“And I said get off.”

The silence sat heavy between them.

Taeo gave him one last bored glance, then turned and walked off without another word. Like it didn’t matter that someone just crashed into him. Like Seon was a footnote in his day. An inconvenience.

Seon stayed where he was, jaw tight, breath short.

He watched Taeo disappear into the crowd of trainees, calm and untouched, like the blast hadn’t phased him at all.

Jiwon reappeared a few moments later, crouching next to him. “You good?”

Seon nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Was that… the S-Class?”

Seon didn’t answer right away.

“…Yeah.”

Jiwon grinned. “Think he’s your type?”

Seon gave him a look. “Shut up.”

Jiwon just laughed and offered him a hand. Seon ignored it and pushed himself up on his own—slowly, jaw clenched, trying not to show how bad it hurt.

No, he didn’t need a guide.

Especially not that one.