In the darkness of Building One, Room 201, Lance stared at the ceiling, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. He’d been awake for only a few minutes, but it felt as if it had been hours. The cheap digital clock on the wall silently ticked away: 0352... 0353... 0354...

  Diego’s snores drifted up from below, punctuated by occasional mumbles, while their two new roommates—the one with the glowing patterns etched into his skin and the guy whose hair was threaded with metal—slept soundly in the other bunk. Lance envied their peace. Both seemed decent enough, though Lance had learned the hard way not to trust first impressions. However, he hadn’t died in his sleep so… that was a point in their favor.

  Then again, the United States government hadn’t earned any.

  The copper-scaled man they’d passed. The mist-breathing recruit. The floating figures at the gate. Just how many arma users had they gathered here? And more importantly, what did they plan to do with them all?

  He fidgeted with his HUD as he lay there and found a few extra nifty features:

  [Energy Circulation Analysis]

  └─Current Status: Recovering

  └─Cellular Restructuring: 3% complete

  └─Estimated time to full recovery: 2.4 hours

  The long run yesterday had pushed his abilities further than expected. His body was still adapting, rebuilding itself at the molecular level. Stage 3 evolution brought changes he couldn’t begin to understand.

  [0359]

  His ears registered movement in the hallway. Multiple sets of footsteps. Doors banged open and slammed shut, getting closer each time. His shoulders bunched up. He took a deep breath, kicked off his sheets, and coiled his legs. Years of watching action movies had taught him that military precision at four in the morning never meant the day would be fun.

  Three... two... one...

  BANG!

  The sound exploded through the hallway like a gunshot, immediately followed by more impacts as more doors struck walls in quick succession.

  Their door burst open with a crash that made Diego jerk awake with a startled “What the—”

  “OUTSIDE! NOW!”

  The voice carried such authority that Lance’s body was moving before his mind fully processed the command. He swung down from the top bunk, landing silently beside Diego, who was already stumbling toward the door.

  Their roommates weren’t far behind. As the room blazed with light, the four men shuffled out. None of them remembered putting on their sneakers. The hallway was much brighter. Lance’s eyes watered. Other recruits emerged from their rooms in various states of dress and awareness, forming two lines against the walls as if by instinct. Lance found himself shoulder to shoulder with Diego, trying to blink away the spots in his vision.

  “Line up! Two rows! Move it!”

  More people filled the hallway. Some faces he recognized from their arrival, others were completely new. A man with skin that rippled like liquid metal. A woman whose skin seemed to shift colors like a chameleon. Another whose eyes glowed faintly—

  Then he saw her.

  Pink-tipped hair. Familiar stance. His brain refused to process it for a moment, like a glitch in reality.

  Vicky.

  Eight days of silence, of not knowing if she was okay, if she’d recovered from what Rick had done to her. Their eyes met, and in that instant, he recognized that shadow—the same one he saw in the mirror every morning. They’d both been forced to do things they never wanted to do.

  Without warning, Vicky broke formation. One quick enhanced step brought her across the hall, and before he knew it, her arms were around him, squeezing tight. He caught a whiff of her shampoo—not the generic hotel stuff anymore but something floral and her own—and his chest ached with relief. She was here. She was okay.

  The moment shattered as powerful hands pulled them apart. A female sergeant with biceps like steel cables positioned herself between them, her Boston accent sharp in the pre-dawn air.

  “This ain’t summer camp, recruit,” she snapped at Vicky. “Back in formation. Now.”

  Vicky complied, but not before shooting Lance a look that said they’d talk later. The heat from her hands had left warm spots on his back that slowly faded.

  Two drill sergeants took position at opposite ends of the hall. The male sergeant, tall and intimidating, worked his jaw around what Lance’s enhanced smell identified as nicotine gum. The sergeant who’d separated them waited at the other end, equally commanding.

  “I’M SERGEANT STEELE!” the male drill sergeant bellowed, his voice bouncing off the walls despite the wad of gum in his mouth. “AND YOU ARE HERE TO PROVE WHETHER YOU’RE WORTHY OF THE UNITED STATES ENHANCED CORPS!”

  Lance noticed how he emphasized “whether,” like he personally doubted any of them would make the cut. Given what Lance had seen enhanced individuals do—both good and bad—he couldn’t entirely blame the sergeant’s skepticism.

  “AND I’M SERGEANT REMINGTON!” the female sergeant matched his volume perfectly and her New England tone gave the words extra bite. “Papa Cell, you’re with me! Oscar Cell, you’re with Sergeant Steele!”

  No long speeches. No explanations. Just facts delivered with parade-ground precision. Lance and Diego moved to Remington’s side of the hallway while Vicky went with Steele. The separation happened so quickly and smoothly that Lance barely had time to process it before they were being herded toward the stairwell.

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  Papa Cell turned out to be eleven people total, including Lance and Diego. Besides the two of them, Lance recognized the copper-wire dreads guy from their room, and a woman with sharp green eyes and a scarred cheek. The others were new faces: a tall man with close-cropped red hair and a military bearing, a lanky guy with a five o’clock shadow who couldn’t seem to stand still, a muscular woman with a buzz cut and intense stare, and four others whose abilities weren’t immediately obvious.

  Remington marched them to the supply building, a low concrete structure that smelled of industrial cleaner and new fabric. They were issued identical gray PT uniforms, utility uniforms, running shoes, boots and various toiletries. Lance examined the clothes—some kind of advanced moisture-wicking material—probably necessary given the amount of energy arma users could generate.

  The paperwork came next. Forms about medical history, emergency contacts, family background, and detailed questionnaires about their abilities. Lance’s hand cramped as he tried to explain Energy Circulation and Morphoplasm in terms the military bureaucracy could understand.

  How do you describe cellular restructuring to people who thought “enhanced individual” meant “really strong”?

  The medical exams took even longer. A team of doctors and technicians in white coats and surgical masks ran them through a battery of tests while paying special attention to their enhanced abilities. They prodded and scanned them with equipment Lance had never seen before, and he could tell they were fascinated but also nervous—like scientists studying a new species that might suddenly turn dangerous.

  They took blood samples (Lance noticed the needles were reinforced), measured vital signs, and conducted detailed scans. One doctor spent twenty minutes just watching him cycle energy through his system, scribbling so fast his pen nearly tore through the paper.

  Through the gaggle of doctors and recruits, he caught snippets of conversation as different doctors examined him:

  “—cellular density far exceeding normal parameters—”

  “—unprecedented neural activity in the—”

  “—energy signatures unlike anything we’ve—”

  He understood their interest. Eight years of medical school hadn’t prepared them for people who could manipulate cosmic radiation with their minds. But he also noticed how they maintained careful distance, like they expected him to suddenly start throwing cars around.

  “Remarkable,” a doctor muttered, adjusting his glasses. “The way your cellular structure adapts to the energy flow... Have you noticed any changes in how quickly you heal?”

  Jesus, it’s just like BioNova all over again, Lance sighed. But there was no point in hiding it.

  Lance thought about his rapid recovery from their two-day run. “Yes, sir. It’s getting faster.”

  “Fascinating. And the pain nullification—is it constant or can you control it?”

  “Both, I think. It’s always there, but I can direct it.”

  The doctor made another note, then hesitated. “Would you be willing to participate in some additional studies? The data could help us better understand—”

  “Later, doc,” Sergeant Remington cut in from the doorway. “Mess hall’s waiting.”

  Lance had never been so grateful for an interruption. The doctor’s enthusiasm reminded him too much of BioNova’s researchers, always wanting one more test, one more sample, one more chance to study their new specimens. A new dose.

  The mess hall turned out to be a massive room filled with square tables and the smell of fresh coffee. Industrial-grade lighting cast everything in a slightly harsh glow, but the food looked real and hot—a major upgrade from the protein bars they’d been surviving on. Diego’s face… well…

  “Bro, they have REAL eggs!” He loaded his plate with everything he could fit. “Not that powdered stuff. And look at this bacon!”

  His enthusiasm was infectious. Lance had to smile as he filled his own tray with eggs, bacon, pancakes, fresh fruit, and coffee that actually smelled like coffee instead of burnt rubber. They found seats at one of the square tables, and Diego was already planning his second trip while Lance took his first bite.

  “PAPA CELL—YOU’VE GOT TEN MINUTES TO EAT.”

  Two men approached their table. Lance recognized them from last night. One with luminous designs marking his skin, the other with metallic strands woven through his hair.

  “Mind if we join you guys?”

  “Go ahead,” Diego said between mouthfuls of eggs.

  “I’m Thad, by the way. This is Cairo. We’re your other roommates.”

  “Sorry about sneaking in so late—car trouble. Tried to be quiet.”

  “You’re good,” Lance said. “I was already awake.”

  “Car trouble?” Diego gestured at their trays. “You guys look as hungry as we are.”

  “Yeah, drove all the way from Atlanta. Cherry Point was the closest screening center we could get into.” Cairo’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Did you know Georgia has exactly zero USEC facilities? Fun fact.”

  “I bet it’s because they’re still arguing about whether to classify enhanced individuals as residents or weather phenomena,” Thad said.

  Diego snorted coffee through his nose.

  “Eight hours on the road, then three hours trying to fix a radiator in the dark.” Cairo shook his head. “Though I guess I could’ve just frozen the engine block.”

  “Would that have worked?” Lance asked.

  “Honestly? No idea. But it would’ve been fun to try.”

  “FIVE MINUTES!” Sergeant Remington’s voice sliced through the chatter.

  “Oh man, did you guys try the bacon yet?” Diego pushed his tray toward them. “Here, you gotta try this.”

  For just a moment, Lance allowed himself to relax. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. They had real food, a clear purpose, and a chance to learn how to use their abilities properly. Even the constant supervision felt more reassuring than oppressive—like someone had finally taken responsibility for dealing with the enhanced situation instead of just reacting to it.

  However…

  They weren’t just recruits anymore. They were test subjects, soldiers, and possibly weapons—all rolled into one convenient package. And somewhere in this base, behind all the uniforms and regulations and carefully structured training, someone was watching to see the exact limits of what they could do.

  Lance caught Vicky’s eye across the mess hall. She sat with Oscar Cell, but her attention was fixed on him. She gave him a slight nod, and he knew she felt it too. The weight of what was coming. The sense that everything was about to change.

  Diego returned with his third plate of food, oblivious to the tension. “Man, you should try the hash browns. They’re actually crispy!”

  “Not burnt?” Lance chuckled.

  Past the windows, recruits ran drills on the far field under harsh floodlights. Their movements were too fast, too precise to be normal. One figure leaped impossibly high, while another seemed to flicker in and out of visibility.

  Welcome to the Enhanced Corps, where even the shadows had teeth.

  Lance turned back to his coffee, now cold in his hands, and waited for whatever came next. After all, they’d asked for this. Begged for it, even. And now they were going to find out the true meaning of that choice.

  The mess hall’s double doors swung open. Sergeant Steele marched in, chomped his gum, and locked eyes with Remington. The female sergeant checked her watch and turned to Papa Cell.

  Time was up.