A A R Y A

Pain is just electricity your brain interprets wrong.

That's what my father used to say when I'd scrape my knees as a kid. Electricity signals. Nothing real.

Right now, my wrists don't agree with his theory.

Metal biting skin. Cold so deep it burns. Everything blurs at the edges like the world's melting and reforming wrong.

Voices float above me—clinical, detached, discussing me like I'm an equation to solve.

"—neural pathways responding—"

"—increase dosage—"

I try to move but my body's not taking orders anymore. Try to scream but my throat won't work.

Something glows blue in my peripheral vision. Getting closer.

The needle descends—

"Aarya!"

I jolt awake with my roommate's hand on my shoulder, heart trying to punch through my ribs.

Lyra pulls back, concern and exhaustion fighting for dominance on her face. "Nightmare?"

I nod, not trusting my voice yet.

Third time this week. Same fragments that don't make sense, same terror that clings like oil on skin even after I wake up. Trauma does that, reshapes memory into horror you can't escape.

Lyra's already dressed. Jeans, university sweatshirt, hair in a practical ponytail. Second-year Behavioral Sciences. The department for people who want to study minds, not break them.

"What time is it?"

"Seven-fifteen." She grabs her tablet, checking something. "You need to move. Assembly's at eight."

Right. Department declarations. Today I officially become a Behavioral Sciences student and put distance between myself and whatever killed my father.

I push off the bed, legs shaky. "Assembly's mandatory?"

"For first-years, yeah. They announce trial schedules, department placements, all the bureaucratic fun."

She's gone before I can ask what that means.

The Grand Assembly Hall is already half-full when I arrive. Hundreds of students filling rows of seats, first-years clustered near the front like we're about to be sentenced.

I find Rhea near the middle, saving a seat.

"You look good today." She pauses, reassessing. "Did you actually sleep?"

"Nightmares still count as sleep right?"

"Nightmare again?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough.

"You're somehow pulling off 'exhausted but make it fashion.'" She gestures at my outfit – black jeans, fitted jacket, hair tied a pony.

The platform at the front holds a row of faculty – department heads, administrators, people in tactical uniforms who look like they've killed before and would do it again without losing sleep.

That's when I see him.

Standing with the Defense Intelligence officers. Dark tactical gear, arms crossed, posture that radiates controlled violence.

It's him. The guy from the Archives.

He's here. In command gear. On the platform with faculty. 

Oh fuck.

My stomach drops so fast I actually feel dizzy.

He's not looking at the crowd. Not looking at anyone. Just standing there like gravity works differently in his vicinity and the rest of us are lucky he's allowing us to share his airspace.

"You okay?" Rhea's watching me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something like that."

The woman at the center of the platform steps forward. Fifties, military bearing, iron-gray hair pulled back so tight it could be used as a weapon.

"I am Director Darcy Blackwood." Her voice carries without amplification. "Welcome to Eidolon University. For most of you, today marks the beginning of your chosen path."

She pauses. The silence feels weighted.

"This year, we're implementing a new protocol. Due to increased security concerns and operational needs, selected scholarship recipients will complete mandatory placement in Defense Intelligence trials and training."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I feel Rhea go tense beside me.

"Out of forty scholarship students enrolled this year, fifteen have been selected for this program. You'll complete initial trials beginning today, followed by six months of operational training. This ensures we maintain a reserve force capable of responding to emergencies when needed."

Reserve force. Like we're equipment, not people.

She pulls up a display. Names start scrolling.

"The selected candidates are as follows..."

I stop breathing.

Because halfway down the list, clear as daylight:

AARYA SOREN

Rhea's grip on my arm turns painful. "No."

I can't answer.

"Aarya, this is—they can't just—"

Her voice drops. "You chose Behavioral Sciences."

"I know."

"So why—"

"I don't know."

Director Blackwood continues like she hasn't just upended fifteen lives. "Selected candidates will report to the Operations Sector immediately following this assembly. Trials begin at oh-nine-hundred. Standard gear will be provided. Absence results in expulsion and scholarship termination.”

The hall erupts in whispers. I sit frozen, trying to process.

Defense Intelligence. The department my father died working for.

And somehow, despite choosing the safest possible path, I've been selected for mandatory placement in the most dangerous one.

"This has to be a mistake," Rhea's saying. "You can appeal, right? There's got to be—"

"Aarya!" Professor Rohit appears at the end of our row, expression strained. "I need to speak with you. Now."

He pulls me into a side corridor, checking over his shoulder like he's being followed.

"Listen to me very carefully." His voice drops. "I tried to get you out of this. Filed an appeal with the board this morning."

"And?"

"Denied. Someone flagged your file specifically, Aarya. Someone wants you in these trials."

The corridor tilts. "Who?"

"I don't know. But I need you to understand—DI isn't like other departments. What happens there..." He stops. Restarts. "Don't trust anyone once you're inside. Not the instructors. Not the other candidates. Especially not—"

"Selected candidates to Operations Sector!" A voice booms through the hall. "Report for the trial process immediately!"

Rohit's jaw tightens. "Be smart. Be careful. And beware of your surroundings."

Then he's gone, leaving me with more questions than answers and approximately five minutes to report before they mark me absent.

Perfect start to the day.

The Operations Sector sits at the eastern edge of campus like a fortress. All concrete and narrow windows, security checkpoints at every entrance.

Over a hundred students are crossing the bridge when I arrive. The non-scholarship candidates are obvious—expensive gear, confident strides, talking about training regimens like this is just another Tuesday.

The scholarship group moves differently. Fifteen of us scattered through the crowd, walking like we're waiting for the ground to disappear.

The main operations hall is industrial. High ceilings, harsh lighting, equipment stations set up in rows.

I'm scanning for exits—old habit, always know how to leave before you enter—when someone shoulders past me hard enough that I stumble.

Tall. Blonde. Scandinavian features. Moving through the crowd like he owns every inch of space his shadow touches.

He spots a nervous-looking guy fumbling with his registration tablet. Steps into his space, deliberate.

"First day nerves?" His tone is conversational. Almost friendly. "Understandable. Not everyone's cut out for this."

The guy—Neil, his name tag reads—straightens. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" The blonde tilts his head. "Because you're shaking. And they track that, you know. Heart rate, stress hormones. The system knows when you're scared."

He reaches past Neil to tap the registration screen, movements casual but invasive. Neil flinches.

"Relax." The blonde smiles. "I'm just saying—there are fifty spots and a hundred ten candidates. You might want to consider if this is really where you belong."

My mouth opens before my brain catches up. "Back off."

Every head in the immediate vicinity turns.

The blonde turns. Assesses me with the kind of look that suggests he's already calculating how to eliminate me.

"Sorry, did you say something?"

"I said back off. He's registered. He has as much right to be here as you do."

"Kieran Thorne." He doesn't extend a hand. "My family's been training operatives for three generations. We know what it takes to survive here." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you?"

"You just made a mistake, scholarship." His voice drops. "When we get into that arena, I'll make sure you understand exactly where people like you belong."

I hold his stare. "Can't wait."

He opens his mouth to respond when a voice cuts through.

"Save it for the trials."

Everyone turns.

Two officers approach. The one who spoke –

It's him.

The Commander from the Archives.

My pulse spikes.

He surveys the scene with barely concealed boredom. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to kill each other once trials start. Fighting here just gets you disqualified before the fun begins."

Kieran's jaw tightens but he steps back. "Commander Eriksen."

"Thorne." Eriksen's tone suggests he's already forgotten Kieran exists. His eyes sweep the group, land on me for half a second, move on. "Registration. Now. You're wasting time."

The crowd disperses.

I'm still standing there, heart hammering, when the second officer—darker skin, built like he could throw me through a wall without breaking stride – grins.

"Nice introduction, Commander. Really warms the heart."

"They're not here to feel warm, George. They're here to prove they won't die screaming in the first ten minutes." He moves toward the registration stations, pulling out a tablet. "Let's get this over with."

The other guy follows, shaking his head.

They start calling names. One by one, candidates step forward to receive wristbands—black, sleek, probably tracking more than just our location.

I watch the process, trying to calm my racing pulse.

When my name is called, I step forward.

Eriksen looks up from his tablet.

Our eyes meet.

Recognition flickers across his face—sharp, controlled, gone in less than a heartbeat.

"Extend your left wrist." His voice is flat. Professional. 

I do. He fastens the band with efficient movements, fingers brushing my skin for half a second.

“What is it for?” I ask.  

"This tracks vitals, location, and assessment metrics. Don’t remove it. Don’t tamper with it. Questions?"

The words slip out before I can second-guess myself. “How many people don’t make it through the assessments?”

Something sharp flickers in his eyes, like he’s weighing me, seeing more than I said.

“Enough to keep the rest of you on your toes,” he says, his voice low, deliberate, the corners of his mouth almost, but not quite – curving.

Eriksen doesn’t wait for a response, moving on to call the next name.

I move to the wall. Try to breathe.

But I can't stop watching how he moves – efficient, controlled, like violence on a leash. The uniform doesn't hide much. Neither does the way his jaw tightens when someone asks a stupid question.

He's running the trial that might kill you and you're measuring the sharpness of his face.

Survival instincts at their finest.

Once everyone's processed, they herd us into a briefing room. White walls, rows of chairs, a screen at the front.

An officer I don't recognize takes the podium. Mid-twenties, tactical uniform, expression suggesting he's done this speech too many times.

"I'm Captain Harrison, Trial Coordinator. Here's what you need to know about trials."

A schematic appears on screen—some kind of neural interface diagram.

"You'll be administered a cognitive immersion agent. It places you in a simulation environment that feels completely real. Pain registers. Fear registers. Your brain cannot distinguish between simulation and reality."

A hand shoots up from the scholarship section. "You're drugging us?"

"We're creating accurate assessment conditions," Harrison corrects. "The framework you enter is designed to test combat capability, decision-making under duress, and psychological resilience. You'll have objectives to complete within a time limit."

"And if we die in the simulation?" A girl two rows ahead, dark skin, fighter's build, raises her hand.

Harrison meets her eyes. "Your brain believes you're dead. Your body follows."

The room goes silent.

"Wait—" Neil's voice cracks. "You're saying our bodies will actually shut down if we die in a simulation?"

"Yes. The brain cannot override what it perceives as fatal trauma. If your mind believes you've died, your body will stop functioning." Harrison lets that land. "Questions?"

Nobody speaks.

"Good. You'll enter trials in groups of fifteen. Each group gets two hours. Survive, reach the extraction point, and you advance. Fail, and you're eliminated. Die..." He doesn't finish the sentence. "Trials begin in ten minutes. Medical prep is through those doors. Move."

The prep room is clinical. Fifteen chairs arranged in rows, restraints built into the armrests.

My stomach twists. The nightmare flashes back—restraints, cold metal, voices discussing me like data.

It's just a procedure. Just assessment protocol. Not the same thing.

I take Chair Seven. The restraints click into place automatically when I sit—wrists, ankles, chest strap.

Medical staff move through with IV lines. Syringes filled with liquid that glows faintly blue.

Same color from my nightmare.

My pulse spikes.

"Heart rate elevated, Candidate Seven."

I look up. Commander Eriksen, tablet in hand, reading my vitals.

"I'm aware."

“Fear is the only thing in this room that’s honest,” he says. “Listen to it, or let it bury you.”

The needle slides into my arm. Cold races up my vein, burning and freezing simultaneously.

Captain Harrison's voice sounds distant now, underwater. "The trial begins in sixty seconds. Objective parameters will display upon entry. Good luck."

My vision blurs at the edges.

The drug hits my brain.

Everything tilts.

Fifty-nine.

Fifty-eight.

Sound distorts.

Forty-five.

My heartbeat echoes in my skull.

Thirty.

The room fragments.

Twenty.

Everything goes—

—dark.