Rory lingered across the street from Karmal for much longer than he had intended.
The building loomed before him, a towering monument of glass, clean architectural lines, and absolute authority. It looked exactly as it had yesterday, untouched and indifferent. It was as if nothing traumatic had occurred within its walls, as if he hadn't walked out of those same doors less than twenty-four hours ago feeling entirely hollowed out.
He reached up to tug his hood a little lower, adjusting the brim of the cap beneath it. He wasn't wearing his school uniform today, instead, he'd opted for a plain white T-shirt and his old school hoodie. The fabric was soft and familiar, with sleeves that hung slightly too long over his hands. It served its purpose well enough, masking the colourful blooms of bruising on his arms and collarbone. The faint, stubborn stains on the fabric were darker now, far less conspicuous than they would have been against the crisp white shirt Liz had spent the morning scrubbing.
He knew he looked ridiculous, like a boy trying far too hard to be invisible, which, in a place like this, only made him stand out more.
But he didn't care. His face still throbbed with a rhythmic heat, and his ribs protested with a sharp ache every time he drew a breath. The bruises along his cheek and jaw felt as if they were glowing beneath his skin, hot and undeniable, even if the shadows of his hood kept them from public view. He kept his head down as he crossed the street, his shoulders hunched and his pulse beginning to gallop against his chest.
At any moment, someone could walk out. Ethan. Alex. Will.The sudden thought of Owen made his stomach twist with a sharp, sickening lurch. When his mind drifted to Beau, his chest tightened instinctively, his body reacting to a threat it hadn't yet realised was gone.
He slipped through the heavy front doors and into the lobby, his heart hammering against his ribs. The space was exactly as he remembered, polished and public, bright enough to feel like a spotlight. It was the kind of environment that noticed every detail, even when it feigned indifference.
Rory hovered near the entrance, feeling painfully exposed. He was certain that at any second, someone would clock his presence and demand to know why he was back so soon, why he wasn't in school, or why he was hiding behind a hood. Eventually, he forced his leaden feet to move.
The front desk sat in the same spot where Ethan had led him before. Stephanie, the receptionist, looked up as he approached. She offered an automatic, professional smile, before she paused. Confusion flickered across her features as she truly took him in.
"Hey," she said gently, her voice trailing off as she waited for him to speak.
Rory swallowed hard, his mouth feeling like it was filled with wool. "Um...hi."
She didn't rush him. She simply waited, her hands folded neatly atop the polished surface of the desk.
"I...I was wondering," Rory began, then stopped abruptly as a flush of heat crept up his neck. He took a steadying breath and tried again. "Could I see Sullivan?"
Stephanie blinked in surprise. "Director Sullivan?" she asked. She wasn't unkind, but the sheer improbability of the request was evident in her tone.
Rory felt the heat in his face intensify. "I...yeah," he said quickly, the embarrassment stinging. "Sorry. Director Sullivan."
The formal correction did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. He already felt like he'd fumbled the entire encounter. Stephanie studied him for a moment, her expression a mix of politeness and uncertainty. "Do you have an appointment?"
His pulse kicked hard. His stomach dropped. "No," Rory admitted, the word sounding much smaller than he'd intended.
Her smile softened into something truly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'll be able to-"
Panic flared within him, sharp and desperate. "Could you just...could you just try?" he blurted out, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear the thrum of it in his ears. "She said...yesterday, she said to reach out. If I changed my mind. So I just...I thought-"
His voice trailed off into a miserable silence. He hated the desperate edge in his tone and waited for the inevitable rejection. Stephanie hesitated, and for a heartbeat, Rory was certain he'd made a massive mistake, that he'd misunderstood the offer or that he'd come all this way just to be humiliated.
Then, Stephanie nodded once. "Okay," she said. "Why don't you go sit over there for a moment. I'll let her know you're here. It's Rory, right?"
Relief hit him with such force that it made him feel momentarily dizzy. He nodded. "Thank you," he murmured.
He moved to the couch she'd indicated, perching tentatively on the very edge of the cushion. He kept his hood up, his gaze darting between the doors and the hallways, tracking every figure that moved through the lobby. His knee bounced with nervous energy, his foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor. At any moment, the wrong person could walk in and ask what he was doing here.
Someone nearly clipped his knee as they hurried past.
Leigh was halfway through the lobby, her bag slung over one shoulder, her mind already racing through her morning schedule. She was definitely going to be late if she didn't stop getting delayed by security clearances and people who felt the need to chat.
She glanced sideways instinctively and then slowed her pace.
The boy on the couch caught her attention immediately. Not because he was loud or doing anything wrong. Because he was doing the opposite.
Hood up. Cap low. Sitting right on the edge of the seat like he didn't trust it not to disappear under him. Too still in a space built for people who took up room.
He looked... hurt.
Not dramatically or in a way that asked for attention. Just enough that it made something in her chest tighten. The way his shoulders were hunched. The way his sharp eyes that kept darting to the exits. Like a stray bracing for a sudden noise.
Oh, she thought, recognition clicking into place. That must be him.
She'd heard the name Rory mentioned in passing, the new kid, the one who was already the subject of so much office gossip. He was cuter than she'd expected. Softer. And clearly trying very hard not to be seen. Leigh hesitated, checking the time on her phone.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath.
She continued walking, but not before glancing back once more. She caught the receptionist saying his name, confirming her suspicion. Rory, she filed away. Then she was gone, moving through the lobby, leaving behind the strange, lingering impression that she had just witnessed something significant.
The waiting stretched on until Rory's ribs began to throb with a dull ache. Doubt began to whisper in his ear, telling him this was a mistake and that he should run while he still had the chance. Finally, a pair of footsteps stopped directly in front of him.
"Rory?"
He startled, his head snapping up. A woman he didn't recognise stood there. She was neatly dressed and carried herself with a relaxed but unmistakably official posture.
"You're here to see Director Sullivan?" she asked with a smile.
Rory nodded, feeling awkward and stiff as he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah."
"All right," she said. "This way."
Rory followed her without further question. They moved past the public areas of the building and deeper into its core, toward the hushed corridors and heavy, restricted doors of the executive wing. The lobby had been bright and performative, this felt like the part of the building that didn't care if you could breathe. They were heading exactly toward the place he had rejected yesterday.
His body protested every step, his movements sore and sluggish, but he refused to stop. He was nervous, he was frightened, and he felt entirely out of place, acutely aware that he could still turn back. But he didn't. This felt like the only move he had left on the board. Even if it was terrifying, even if it promised more pain, at least this time, it was his choice to make.
Sullivan was already standing when Rory was shown into the office.
She didn't move toward him. She simply watched from beside her desk, her posture relaxed and her hands folded, taking him in with a calm, clinical thoroughness. She noted everything: the oversized hoodie, the low-tucked cap, and the way he hovered just inside the threshold as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to be here. She saw the stiffness in his gait and the faint, rust coloured traces of dried blood still clinging to the cuff of his sleeve.
None of those markers had been present yesterday.
"Rory," she said evenly. "Come in."
He stepped inside but stopped well short of the chair, his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the floor. The door clicked shut behind him, a soft, final sound that made his pulse jump anyway. Sullivan waited a beat, letting the silence settle.
"Before we start," she said gently, "I need you to take off the cap. And the hood."
Rory's jaw tightened. He hesitated, his fingers curling into the hem of the fabric. For half a second, he considered pretending he hadn't heard her, a desperate attempt to keep his shield intact.
"I won't continue the conversation until I can see your face," Sullivan added. Her tone was calm, not unkind, but entirely non-negotiable.
Rory swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the cap brim until his knuckles blanched, too much pressure, a tell he couldn't control. He tugged the hood down first, then lifted the cap away, clutching it awkwardly in both hands. Even then, he kept his head tilted, instinctively trying to angle the worst of the damage away from her line of sight.
Sullivan's eyes flicked over him. She didn't react the way adults usually did; there was no sharp inhale of breath, no performative shock. It was a slow, quiet assessment. She noted the deep bruising along his cheekbone, the split in his lip, the swelling at the bridge of his nose, and the way his left arm stayed protectively tucked against his ribs.
"That wasn't there yesterday," she observed.
Rory felt a familiar spike of panic, not at the words themselves, but at the looming threat of being misunderstood. "I didn't..." He stopped, his jaw working as he fought for composure. "I didn't get into a fight."
He kept his eyes downcast, his expression set as if he were daring her to call him a liar. Sullivan studied him for a moment. "I didn't accuse you of anything," she said calmly.
He glanced up briefly before his eyes darted away again. "I slipped," he said, the lie coming out quick and defensive. "In the rain. Yesterday. That's all."
The explanation wasn't convincing. Sullivan knew it, and Rory knew she knew it. Yet, she didn't challenge him.
"Alright," she said instead. "Thank you for clarifying."
The relief that washed through him was small, but it was real. She gestured toward the seat across from her. "Sit."
Rory obeyed, feeling the protest of his sore muscles as he lowered himself into the chair. Sullivan sat opposite him and folded her hands on the desk.
"You're not here by accident," she said. "So tell me why you came back."
Rory stared at the polished tabletop. His thoughts felt like a tangled mess, and the speech he had rehearsed dissolved the moment he had to speak. "I just wanted to..." He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose, and tried again. "Yesterday you said...if I changed my mind."
"Yes," Sullivan prompted.
"I think I want to," Rory said, the words tumbling out too fast, as if he were afraid they would vanish if he didn't catch them. "Change it. My mind."
Sullivan didn't answer immediately. She watched him carefully, weighing not just the value of the answer, but his ownership of it. "Tell me what you mean by that," she said.
Rory frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Say it your way," Sullivan clarified. "Not mine."
He shifted in his seat, his discomfort evident. "I just...think it makes more sense. Being here. Training." He offered a defensive shrug. "I'm not saying it fixes anything. But...it's already happened to me. I just don't want to sit around doing nothing anymore."
It was as close as he would ever get to admitting he was drowning. Sullivan nodded slightly, as if his words had confirmed a private theory.
"This wouldn't be a punishment," she said. "And it wouldn't be charity."
Rory's eyes flicked up, sharp and guarded. "I don't want charity."
"I know," Sullivan said simply. "Which is why this only works if you're choosing it."
He nodded once, a sharp movement.
"Good. Then let's be clear about what that choice involves." She slid a folder across the desk, not all the way to him, but just enough to make its presence felt. "You return to control training. The band comes off. Medical oversight resumes. But compliance checks will cease, and there will be no forced escalation."
Rory's shoulders eased a fraction at the mention of the checks ending.
"And," Sullivan added casually, "when you turn eighteen, we'll formalise your placement. Karmal has a long memory for talent."
That landed with more weight than she let on. Rory stiffened, a reaction Sullivan caught instantly.
"I'm not asking you to commit today," she said smoothly. "I'm merely stating a pathway."
Rory didn't like the sound of that; it felt too much like an assumption. Before he could object, she continued, "Now. About the upgrades."
Rory's stomach dropped. "Those would be integrated during your reintegration phase," she explained.
"I don't think I can accept those," Rory said quickly.
Sullivan blinked, showing genuine surprise. "Why not?"
He hesitated, then forced himself to meet her gaze. "You need my guardians to sign off for me to officially join Karmal. So...I'm guessing you'd need them to approve upgrades, too." His mouth tightened. "They won't."
Sullivan studied him for a long moment. Then, she smiled, not with warmth or cruelty, but with the cold satisfaction of a problem being solved.
"You're correct," she said. "If this were a standard Karmal enlistment. But you didn't receive your enhancement through us. And you are not currently signing a contract."
She let the implication hang in the air.
"You were already undergoing control training here without parental notification under a legal loophole," she went on. "Because the enhancement was illegal, it fell outside standard jurisdiction. By that same logic, we could reasonably assume your illegal enhancement came with a full suite of internal upgrades already present."
Rory's breath caught. "You mean...pretend?" he asked quietly.
"I mean," Sullivan said evenly, "we document stabilisation. Calibration. The optimisation of an existing system. No one needs to know the difference."
Rory's chest felt tight. "That's...lying."
"That's administrative interpretation," Sullivan corrected calmly. "And it protects you."
Silence pressed into the room. Rory stared at the folder, then at his own hands, his mind racing. His instincts screamed caution, but a quieter, more desperate voice whispered about safety. Finally, he looked up.
"You're sure...this would be okay? With your people? I don't want to get into any more trouble."
Sullivan didn't hesitate. "I wouldn't offer it if it wasn't."
That was the moment. It wasn't relief or hope, but the sense that the ground had shifted and he was already stepping forward. "Okay," Rory said. His voice didn't shake, but he didn't feel brave, he just felt tired of losing without choosing where he fell. "I'll do it."
Sullivan nodded once, decisive. "Then welcome back." She rose smoothly from her chair. "Alright. Here's what happens next."
Rory tensed, his shoulders drawing in.
"First," Sullivan continued, moving around the desk, "you're not returning to school today. This will be logged as a medical absence. If necessary, we can provide a certificate for your guardians. You're not skipping, and you're not in trouble."
That mattered more than Rory wanted to admit. "O-okay... medical certificate's fine."
"Second," Sullivan said, moving toward the door, "we'll handle the administrative reinstatement. You'll be removed from fortnightly compliance check-ins and placed back under Karmal care as an enhanced minor."
The phrase enhanced minor under Karmal care sounded massive, official and permanent.
"You are not signing a contract," she reminded him, reading the concern on his face. "But you will be operating within our system again. Which means paperwork. Third, we're reinstating medical oversight, not because you're unstable, but because this transition needs to be clean."
Rory nodded, his jaw tight.
"Fourth," she said, "you'll remain on-site for the rest of the day for observation. Low stimulus. No combat training, no performance metrics. And," she added deliberately, "light control work. That will require removing the band."
Rory stared at her wrist, then at his own sleeve.
"You won't be cleared for independent use today," Sullivan cautioned, anticipating his thoughts. "This is not freedom. This is re-entry. And it is contingent on your cooperation."
There it was. Not a threat, not a reassurance, but a condition.
Rory nodded. "Okay."
Sullivan studied him for a beat longer, assessing if his resolve would hold. "Good," she said again. "Then let's begin."
The walk through the building felt different today.
Yesterday, he had been an outsider following Ethan's lead. Today, he followed Sullivan, and the shift in dynamic was palpable. People stepped aside for her without a word, doors seemed to sense her approach, sliding open before she even reached them. Rory trailed in her wake with his head bowed, acutely aware of his disheveled appearance.
They reached the administration wing. It wasn't intimidating in a cinematic way, no interrogation rooms, no cages, just glass-walled offices and quiet faces that didn't look up for long. Instead, he found neutral tones and an atmosphere of terrifying efficiency.
Sullivan guided him into a small conference space where a man was already waiting, a tablet gripped in his hand. He offered Rory a professional, polished smile.
"Rory Atwood," the man said. "I'm just going to walk you through a few things."
Rory sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, hands clasped tightly between his knees. He listened as the man explained the new reality of his life in language that felt deliberately smooth and sanitised.
Oversight exemption. Enhanced minor classification. Internal monitoring. Revocation of compliance checks.
None of it sounded optional, and none of it sounded particularly kind. But it did sound structured, and in his current state, structure felt like a safer harbour than the chaos he had left behind. Sullivan remained largely silent, her mere presence acting as a catalyst that kept the gears of the bureaucracy turning cleanly.
When the last digital form was toggled, she stood. "That's all for now," she told the administrator. "I'll take him from here."
Rory followed her out, his chest tightening with the realisation that this was far larger and more permanent than he had initially grasped.
Medical was their next stop. Sullivan didn't bother to knock, she simply stepped inside with Rory trailing behind her. He was immediately hit by the clinical scent of antiseptic and clean linen, a smell that sent a wave of unease through him as old, jagged memories threatened to surface.
Alex looked up from her tablet, and her reaction was instantaneous. It wasn't judgment or shock that crossed her face, but a deep, visible concern.
"Rory?" she asked, her brows knitting together as she took him in. "What are you-"
Sullivan cut across her before Alex could even stand. "He's returning. We're reinstating medical oversight as part of his reorientation."
Alex's gaze flicked from Sullivan back to Rory. In that single second, she saw everything—the fresh bruising that hadn't been there yesterday, the guarded way he held his body, and the way his eyes stubbornly refused to meet hers.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"Oh," Alex said quietly.
Rory shifted his weight, suddenly and painfully self-conscious. "I'm fine," he insisted quickly. "I just-"
"He slipped yesterday," Sullivan interjected smoothly. "In the rain. A minor impact. He's here for intake, not treatment."
The subtext was clear, and Alex caught it immediately. She didn't argue.
"...okay," she said instead, her voice turning gentle. "Why don't you come sit down, Rory."
He hesitated before perching stiffly on the edge of the examination table. Alex moved closer, maintaining a respectful distance while she worked. Her voice remained light and unthreatening. "I'm just going to check a few things. No digging. No interrogations."
Rory offered a small nod, feeling a confusing mixture of gratitude and misery. She checked his pupils first, then moved to his cheekbone with fingers that barely grazed the skin. Rory flinched anyway, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.
"That tender?" she asked softly.
"A bit," he muttered.
She didn't push him for more. Next, she examined his ribs, noting the sharp hitch in his breath as he moved. "Can you take a slow breath for me?"
He complied. It hurt, but he kept his expression neutral. As she worked, Alex silently cataloged the evidence she wasn't permitted to voice: the specific angle of the bruising, the defensive tension in his frame, and the way he looked away whenever her fingers brushed a particularly sore spot. She knew this hadn't been a fall, and she knew he knew it, too.
But with Sullivan standing guard at the door, Alex did what good doctors do when the truth is restricted—she made sure he was safe anyway.
"You didn't break anything," she concluded. "But you're going to be sore for a while."
Rory nodded, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.
"I'll log a soft tissue injury," Alex continued. "I recommend rest and light monitoring. Nothing strenuous today."
Sullivan inclined her head once. "That's the idea."
Alex glanced at the Director, then back at the boy. Her voice softened just a fraction. "If anything feels worse, you come straight back to me. No toughing it out."
Rory's jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Alex stepped back and tapped a few clinical notes into her tablet, being careful with her phrasing. Under the guise of finishing the log, her thumb moved with speed on her phone.
Alex: Rory's back. Reinstatement in progress.
She slipped the device away before Sullivan could notice.
"That's all for this morning," Sullivan announced. "Admin, medical, observation." She paused, looking at Rory. "And after lunch, you'll begin light control work. We'll consider band removal tomorrow. See how you go today."
A reward for his compliance. Rory's stomach flipped, his throat feeling tight.
Sullivan glanced toward the door. "Mara."
A woman stepped into view as if she had been waiting for her cue. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with dark hair pulled back and a slate-grey jacket that bore no insignia. She wasn't security or medical, but something precisely administrative. Her ID badge tapped softly against her hip as she stopped, once, twice, like she was calibrating the room before stepping into it.
"Yes, Director?"
"This is Rory. You'll take him for lunch, then bring him to the training rooms at fourteen hundred."
Rory's head snapped up. Lunch meant being out in the open. It meant corridors, public spaces, and the risk of being recognised. His anxiety flared; he could already see the curious glances and the questions he couldn't answer.
Alex saw the panic in him immediately. "I can take him," she offered, stepping forward. "Or at least walk with him-"
"No," Sullivan said. The word wasn't sharp, but it was absolute. Alex stopped in her tracks. "Mara has it. You have work to do."
The implication hung heavy in the air. Alex hesitated, then nodded, her professional mask sliding back into place. "Of course." She looked at Rory one last time, seeing the way his shoulders had climbed toward his ears. "I'll see you later, okay?"
Rory gave a quick, silent nod.
Sullivan turned back to him. "Mara will handle the logistics. You're not expected anywhere else today." She added as an afterthought, "And we'll handle the medical certificate for your absence."
And just like that, Sullivan stepped away, not hurried, not lingering. The door closed behind her with quiet finality, and the weight of her presence lifted all at once. Rory stood disoriented for a second. He wasn't being escorted by Ethan or monitored by Alex. He was being processed.
Mara turned to him, her expression neutral. "Ready?"
Rory tugged his hood lower as they stepped into the hallway. The building felt louder now, the slap of footsteps and the murmur of voices felt like a personal threat. He stayed close to Mara, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"Lunch is just the staff cafeteria," she mentioned conversationally. "It's quieter this time of day." She glanced at him once, quick and matter-of-fact. "And if anyone stares, you don't owe them a thing. You stay with me."
As they moved deeper into the facility, one thought grounded him: Owen and Beau were at school. They wouldn't be here. They wouldn't see him like this. The knot in his chest loosened, if only by a fraction.
Mara swiped them through a restricted door into a quieter wing with less glass and fewer people. "You can sit wherever you like," she said. "Take your time. I'll be right over there."
Rory picked a seat tucked against the far wall, his back to the corner. He peeled his hood back just enough to breathe but kept his cap low. He didn't look at the food lines or the menus. Instead, he pulled an old, cracked iPhone from his pocket and began the slow, meditative process of untangling a pair of wired headphones.
He slid the earbuds in and pressed play. Music flooded his head, a digital barrier that drowned out the clatter of trays and the mechanical whir of the building. It didn't matter what the song was, it only mattered that the silence was gone.
Rory drew his knees up, curling into himself on the chair, his chin resting on his knee. Small. Contained. Still. To anyone passing by, he looked like a kid killing time, like someone waiting for a friend. Like someone who belonged here. But inside, he was just...paused. He wasn't resting or planning, he was merely holding for the next instruction, the next room, the next thing that would happen to him.
People moved around him, staff, trainees, people in uniform, people in suits, but he didn't track them individually anymore. Just shapes. Motion. Noise softened by music.
Every now and then, his eyes flicked to a doorway without him meaning to.
Habit. Instinct. Old survival wiring that never switched off.
He watched the cafeteria like it was an aquarium, distant and unreal, while he stayed very quiet and very small, waiting for the afternoon to begin.***
Ethan didn't check his phone the moment it vibrated.
It buzzed once against the hard surface of the table, a low, rhythmic thrum he felt through the wood more than he actually heard. He ignored it, his eyes remaining fixed on the presentation at the front of the room, his posture as disciplined as ever. The meeting continued to drone on, a chorus of voices discussing oversight thresholds and resource allocation. Ethan nodded at the appropriate intervals and made a note he didn't strictly need, keeping his expression a mask of neutral professionalism.
The phone buzzed a second time.
That, finally, drew his focus. He glanced down, just briefly, his thumb flicking the screen awake beneath the edge of the table where it remained hidden from the others. Two lines of text stared back at him. That was all it took.
Alex: Rory's back. Reinstatement in progress.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Then, something in Ethan's face went still in a way it hadn't been a second before. It wasn't shock, and it wasn't anger. It was a sudden, chilling absence, like a door being shut somewhere deep behind his eyes. He read the message again, slower this time, his thumb hovering motionless over the glass.
Across the table, Will noticed the shift. He didn't understand the cause at first, only that the atmosphere had fundamentally altered. Ethan's shoulders hadn't moved, and his expression hadn't shifted in any overt way, yet the air around him felt tighter and quieter, the specific kind of tension that precedes something going wrong.
Will leaned back slightly, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye. Ethan slid the phone face-down beside his notebook, his jaw flexing once. Just once.
The meeting proceeded. When spoken to, Ethan answered in a voice that was calm and perfectly even. He offered a measured response regarding risk mitigation and nodded at a suggestion from across the room, but he wasn't truly present anymore. Will recognised that look—it was the expression Ethan wore when he had just learned something that couldn't be unlearned.
When the meeting finally adjourned and the room filled with the sound of scraping chairs and low-level chatter, Ethan stood smoothly. He began gathering his things with methodical, almost surgical precision. Will waited until they were out in the corridor and the door had clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the boardroom.
He didn't ask right away. He walked beside Ethan for several paces, matching his stride and letting the silence stretch until it felt deliberate.
Then, quietly, he asked, "What just happened?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. They turned a corner and passed a long glass wall, the constant rumbling sounds of the building wrapping around them again. Finally, Ethan spoke.
"Alex messaged me."
Will slowed his pace, his eyes sharpening. "About?"
Ethan stopped walking. He didn't halt abruptly, he simply chose to stop. Will followed suit, turning to face him fully.
"Rory's back," Ethan said.
The words were flat and controlled, placed into the air with careful intent. Will let out a slow, heavy breath. "Back where?"
Ethan met his gaze. "Here."
There it was. Will swore under his breath, his hand lifting to scrub over his mouth in a gesture of frustration. "He came back on his own?"
"Yes. Went straight to Sullivan."
Will exhaled. "Fuck."
Ethan didn't react. His gaze had gone distant, his mind already working through the myriad implications, angles, and consequences of the boy's return.
"He didn't tell you," Will said. It wasn't a question.
Ethan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "No."
Will studied him for a beat. "That bothers you."
"Yes." It wasn't defensive or emotional, it was just the truth.
They stood there for a moment longer as the hallway emptied around them, leaving them in a pocket of stillness.
"What are you going to do?" Will asked.
Ethan looked down the long stretch of the corridor toward the administrative wing, toward the places Rory might already be, moving through the gears of the system without his guidance.
"Nothing," he said.
Will's eyebrows shot up. "Nothing?"
"For now," Ethan clarified. "If I step in too early, I make it worse."
Will nodded slowly. He followed the logic even if he didn't particularly like it. "And later?"
Ethan's eyes refocused, becoming sharp and cold once more. "Later," he said, "I find out why a fifteen-year-old felt like this was his only option."
Will didn't doubt him for a second. They started walking again, the space between them heavy with everything left unsaid. Behind them, the machinery of Karmal kept moving, and somewhere within it, Rory was already being folded back into the belly of the machine.
They didn't speak again until they were halfway down the long stretch of the corridor.
Ethan walked with the unwavering focus of a man whose destination was already fixed in his mind, even if he hadn't voiced it. His pace was steady and controlled, yet there was an undeniable tension radiating from him, something coiled and purposeful in the set of his shoulders. Will matched his stride easily, observing him with the quiet vigilance he always maintained when Ethan fell into this particular brand of silence.
"We're going to find Alex," Will said eventually. It wasn't a question, but a confirmation of the obvious.
Ethan offered a single, sharp nod. Of course they were.
They cut through a side hall, passing through a security door that slid open automatically for Ethan's clearance, then navigated another. The medical wing was bustling but far from chaotic. It was a place of controlled movement, where voices were kept low and the only constant was the soft, rhythmic glow of monitors behind glass partitions.
Alex was halfway through a sandwich when the knock sounded at her door. She didn't look up immediately, she simply exhaled a long, soft breath, the weight of the day already pressing on her. She already knew who was on the other side.
"Come in," she called out.
The door slid open, and Ethan stepped inside, with Will hovering just a step behind him. Alex glanced at the digital clock on her wall and offered a tired, knowing look. "Took you longer than I thought it would."
Ethan shut the door, sealing the room. His eyes went straight to hers, intense and searching. "Is he here?"
Alex arched a brow, taking a moment to finish a bite before she answered. "Here, in this office?" she echoed lightly. "No."
Ethan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the deflection.
"In Karmal?" she added, her tone turning somber. "Yes."
The confirmation landed heavily. Will let out a low, weary breath. Alex swallowed, set the remainder of her sandwich down, and wiped her hands on a napkin before turning her full attention toward them.
"He came through medical about thirty minutes ago," she said. "He walked back into Karmal entirely on his own."
Ethan's gaze flicked briefly to the side, his mind already mapping out timelines and protocols. "Why?"
Alex hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. Will noticed the pause immediately. "You don't know," he stated.
"No," Alex admitted quietly. "Not really." She paused, her voice dropping an octave as she added, "But...he was hurt."
Ethan's head snapped back to her, his focus sharpening into something dangerous. "Hurt?"
The word was controlled, but the lightning-fast reaction behind it was anything but.
Alex met his eyes steadily. "Bruised. Banged up."
Will's brow furrowed in a deep scowl. "Did he say what happened?"
Alex gave a small, humourless smile that didn't reach her eyes. "He said he slipped in the rain."
Will let out a short, scoffing huff of disbelief. "And you believe that?"
Alex's mouth twitched. "No."
"A kid turns up the day after telling Sullivan no," Will said carefully, his voice low and analytical. "He's injured, he's suddenly changed his mind, and he's claiming gravity did all the damage?" He glanced at Ethan. "You know there's more to it than that."
"I know," Alex agreed. She hesitated again before adding, "He didn't say anything else, and I didn't push him. Sullivan was right there."
Ethan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He already knew the architecture of this situation. "Of course she was," he murmured. He refocused on Alex. "What's his status? Is the red band still on?"
"For now," Alex said. "Reinstatement is already underway. Administration has cleared the paperwork, and medical oversight has officially resumed."
Will shook his head, leaning back against the wall. "That was fast."
Alex huffed a dry, cynical sound. "It was always going to be."
Ethan looked past her, his gaze fixating on the office window. For a moment, he wasn't in the room, he was imagining Rory somewhere in the vastness of the building, quiet, sore, and trying desperately not to take up space.
"Did he ask for me?" Ethan asked.
Alex's expression softened despite her professional mask. "No."
The answer shouldn't have stung. It did anyway.
"He didn't ask for anyone," she said gently. "He just...showed up. Like he'd already made the decision and was just waiting for the gears to move."
Ethan shifted where he stood, rubbing the back of his neck, his resolve hardening. Alex studied him for a long beat. "You should go find him, Ethan."
He shook his head immediately. "No."
Alex frowned, stepping toward him. "Ethan-"
"If I show up now," he said, his voice regaining its calm, authoritative edge, "I complicate things. I turn this into a moment of reassurance, or guilt, or pressure. That's not what he needs right now."
Will glanced between the two of them. "You sure about that?"
Ethan nodded firmly. "Yes."
Alex studied him, and though she clearly didn't like the decision, she understood the logic. "He's scheduled for light control work this afternoon," she mentioned. "You were the one handling that with him before."
Ethan's gaze flicked back to her, alert.
"You were training him. It would make sense if Sullivan looped you back in for it," Alex added.
The possibility sat in the air between them. Ethan felt a small, dangerous flicker of something akin to relief at the thought of having a reason to be in the same room as the boy. Before he could respond, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the notification.
Sullivan's Assistant: Director Sullivan would like to see you at your earliest convenience.
Will noticed the shift in Ethan's posture instantly. "That her?"
Ethan slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Yes."
Alex watched him carefully, her eyes narrow. "She's always had great timing."
"Yes," Ethan agreed. "She has." He straightened his jacket, locking his emotions back behind his standard mantle of discipline. "Thanks, Alex. For letting me know."
She nodded, her gaze lingering on him. "Just...don't wait too long, Ethan."
"I won't," he replied. He stepped back into the corridor, and Will fell into step beside him without a word.
Behind them, Alex sat back down at her desk, her appetite completely gone. She found herself worrying about a boy who had learned long ago never to ask for help. And ahead of Ethan, Sullivan was already several moves ahead on a board he was only just beginning to see.***
Sullivan's office looked the same as it always did. There was nothing out of place and nothing personal; it was the kind of room that suggested life-altering decisions were made here every single day, yet none of them lingered long enough to leave a mark on the decor.
Ethan was shown in without ceremony. Sullivan was standing by the window when he entered, her hands clasped loosely behind her back as she gazed out over the grounds. She didn't turn immediately.
"Ethan," she said. "Thank you for coming so promptly."
He came to a halt a few steps inside the doorway. "You asked for me."
She turned then, offering a small, polite smile that was neither warm nor hostile. "Sit," she said, gesturing toward the chair opposite her desk.
Ethan obeyed, his posture perfectly straight and his hands folded neatly in his lap, controlled, professional, and alert. "I assume this is about Rory," he said.
Sullivan inclined her head. "It is." A beat of silence passed between them. "You won't be conducting control work with him today," she continued.
Ethan didn't bother to hide the flicker of surprise this time. "I was under the impression I was assigned to his rotation."
"You were," Sullivan said calmly. "And you will be again. Tomorrow."
Not today.
"Why?" Ethan asked.
Sullivan returned to her seat, folding her hands atop the desk. "Because today is about re-entry, not attachment."
Ethan frowned slightly, the word striking a discordant note. "Attachment?"
"Yes," she said, as if it were a purely neutral term. "Rory made a decision this morning. A significant one. The immediate priority is to stabilise that choice."
Ethan held her gaze steadily. "Seeing someone he trusts would help with that stabilisation."
Sullivan smiled faintly. "Or complicate it."
That landed with the weight of an accusation.
"He's already emotionally oriented toward you," she continued. "That connection is useful, but only if applied deliberately. Today, it would introduce variables we simply don't need."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "He's fifteen."
Sullivan didn't react to the reminder of his age. "He's an enhanced minor undergoing reintegration," she corrected. "Emotional regulation is part of that process. So is delayed reinforcement."
Ethan leaned back slightly, his fingers tightening together. "You're withholding contact on purpose."
"I'm sequencing it," Sullivan replied evenly. "Tomorrow, when he begins structured control work again, your presence will serve as a stabilising anchor. Today, your presence would only serve as a distraction from compliance."
Compliance.
Ethan let out a slow, measured breath. "And you're comfortable with that."
"Yes," Sullivan said simply.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and cold.
"Why did he come back?" Ethan asked finally. "Yesterday he was clear. He said no."
Sullivan's expression remained unchanged. "The timing isn't relevant."
"It is to me," Ethan said, his voice remaining calm but gaining a firmer edge. "He came back injured. And suddenly, the answer changes."
Sullivan regarded him for a moment. "Alex assessed him. He's fine."
"That's not the point," Ethan said quietly.
"What is the point, Ethan?" she asked, appearing genuinely curious.
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Was he afraid?"
Sullivan's gaze sharpened, not with anger, but with an intense, predatory focus. "What would you like me to do?" she asked. "Retroactively prevent whatever occurred outside our jurisdiction? Divert resources to investigate whether he was involved in another schoolyard altercation?" Her tone stayed measured. "He's here now. We can help him now."
Ethan leaned forward. "If something happened to him-"
"-then Karmal is the safest place for him to be," Sullivan cut in smoothly. "Which is exactly where he is."
The logic was airtight. That was the problem.
"You're asking me to treat this like a win," Ethan said.
"I'm asking you to treat this like progress," Sullivan replied. "And to remember your role in it."
Ethan went still.
"Tomorrow," she continued, "you'll resume control training with him. Your history provides continuity. Familiarity. Emotional grounding." She met his eyes. "He trusts you," she said plainly. "That's an asset. Don't misuse it by rushing."
Ethan swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. "And today?" he asked.
"Today," Sullivan said, "he eats. He rests. He acclimates. He completes light work with a neutral handler. He learns that returning was the correct decision."
She stood, signalling that the conversation was nearing its end. "You'll see him tomorrow. I expect professionalism."
Ethan rose as well. He turned toward the door, then paused with his hand near the handle. "For what it's worth," he said without looking back, "he didn't come back because of you."
Sullivan smiled. "Of course not," she said. "He came back because this was inevitable."
Ethan left without responding. Behind him, Sullivan returned to the window, her gaze settling on the grounds below, watching a system continue exactly as it was designed to.***
Someone said his name.
It wasn't loud or sharp, just a soft vibration in the air, close enough to pierce through the wall of sound he'd built around himself.
"Rory."
It took a several seconds for the name to register. The music had muffled the world so effectively that his body had grown heavy and loose, a sign that he'd stopped bracing and slipped sideways into a shallow, unplanned sleep.
"Rory."
A hand hovered in his peripheral vision, stopping just short of making physical contact. Rory bolted upright with a violent start, his heart slamming against his ribs. He gasped, his hands flying up instinctively as the cafeteria swam back into focus in jagged pieces: the harsh overhead lights, the blur of moving bodies, and the hard, unforgiving edge of the table pressed against his knee. He relaxed a fraction pulling one earbud out, the sudden rush of ambient noise making him wince. "...sorry," he mumbled automatically, his voice thick with sleep. "I didn't mean to-"
"That's okay," Mara said easily. She stood beside the table, her posture relaxed and unthreatening. "You've been here a while."
Rory glanced at his phone screen. Two hours. His stomach sank with a heavy, leaden feeling.
"I..." He tried to straighten up too quickly and immediately winced, his breath catching in a sharp hiss as his ribs protested the movement. He forced his features back into a neutral mask and tugged the remaining earbud out, winding the cord around his phone with clumsy, trembling fingers. "Sorry. I didn't-" He stopped, suddenly unsure what he was even trying to say. Apologise? Explain?
"You didn't do anything wrong, Rory," Mara reassured him. "It's just about time."
His pulse picked up an immediate, frantic pace. "For...?" he asked, though the answer was already looming in his mind.
"Control training," she replied. "We're booked in for two."
Right. Of course.
He nodded, swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat. "Okay."
He stood up, more slowly this time, making every movement deliberate. His body felt stiff and agonisingly sore. Sleep hadn't offered any reprieve. If anything, the stillness had allowed the aches to settle in and harden.
Mara waited without comment while he shoved his phone into his pocket and pulled his hood back over his head, adjusting the cap until the brim was low enough to shadow his face. When he finally looked up, she turned and led the way toward the exit, setting a measured pace that didn't force him to struggle.
As they navigated the corridors, the familiar cold finger of anxiety began to creep back in. Control training. That meant focus. It meant expectations. It meant eyes tracking his every move.
And, more than anything, it meant Ethan.
The thought made his chest tighten. It made sense. He'd always done it with Ethan. Same space. Same routine. Same calm voice telling him when to breathe, when to stop, when to push. He tried not to think about it, but his mind kept circling back anyway. The last time Ethan had seen him, yesterday, he'd said no. He'd walked away. He hadn't explained. He hadn't said why.
What was he supposed to say now?
Sorry, I changed my mind because everything fell apart?Sorry, I came back hurt?Sorry, I didn't tell you?
By the time they reached the training wing, his palms were damp inside his sleeves. He followed Mara closely, eyes fixed on the floor, counting his steps and mapping the exits out of habit. He catalogued every person they passed, just enough to confirm that none of them were the people he was afraid to face.
Mara stopped outside one of the training rooms and turned to face him fully. "Before we go in," she said, her tone serious but not unkind, "I want to be clear about what today is."
Rory nodded, bracing himself for the requirements.
"This isn't a full session," she continued. "There will be no exertion and no escalation. We're starting with simple grounding and breath work."
He frowned slightly, the tension in his shoulders shifting into confusion. "That's it?"
"For today," she confirmed. "The band stays on until we've established a baseline of calm."
The weight of the red band felt heavier on his wrist at the mention of it. Not just a restraint, an announcement. A label.
"Once you're settled," she added, glancing at him, "we'll reassess."
Reassess. It was a "maybe." Maybe the band would come off, maybe it wouldn't. He had to work for the reward. Rory swallowed, then asked in a voice much smaller than he'd intended, "Is...um...is Ethan-"
Mara looked at him, her expression softening. "No," she said gently. "He won't be running today's session."
Something in Rory's chest dipped.
Relief hit him first. His muscles eased, and the crushing tension drained out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He didn't have to explain himself yet. He didn't have to see the look in Ethan's eyes.
But disappointment followed immediately after, a cold shadow trailing the relief. He hadn't realised until that moment that he'd been hoping for the opposite.
"Oh," he said, the word sounding flat. His eyes flicked, quick, involuntary, to the door behind her, as if Ethan might still appear anyway.
Mara watched his face with a practiced, observant eye. "He'll be back on your rotation," she added. "Just not today."
Rory nodded, trying to convince himself this was for the best. "Okay."
It was exactly what he had wanted. It was also, somehow, the last thing he wanted.
Mara keyed the door open and stepped aside to let him enter first. The room was familiar in its layout but felt empty. There were only mats, low, amber lighting, and the faint, sterile scent of recycled air.
"Go ahead and sit," she instructed, gesturing to the centre mat. "Shoes off."
Rory did as he was told, his movements careful and guarded. He lowered himself down slowly, folding his legs in front of him and pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands. Mara took a seat across from him, keeping a respectful distance.
The room fell into a deep silence.
No one was poking or prodding him. No one was watching from behind the glass, judging his metrics. No one was asking anything of him other than to breathe.
Just breathe.
In. Out.
His ribs complained with every expansion of his lungs, a dull, insistent reminder of the night before. He breathed through the pain anyway. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet, disappointing realisation flickered.
Ethan wasn't here. Not today.
And for some reason, that mattered more than everything else combined.
What part of “The Choice” felt most dangerous?
