Chapter 11: Bully

  The HQ doors hissed open with a familiar hydraulic sigh.

  Sym stepped in, wearing a simple coat over his issued uniform. The number 33 sat square on his chest.

  The first thing he saw was Sandra.

  She walked past him from within the HQ, head low, hair a tangled halo of sweat and blood. One eye was swollen shut, her cheek dark with bruising, her gait unsteady.

  She didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t need to.

  The silence between them said everything.

  Behind her, an assistant smiled politely.

  “Good work today, Number Two. See you tomorrow.”

  Sym raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  Then the assistant turned to him. “Welcome, Thirty-Three. Follow me.”

  He obeyed, but not before gncing back once, watching Sandra vanish down the hallway like a broken shadow.

  The assistant led him deeper into the facility, down narrow staircases with old rails and old warning signs, past dimly lit corridors where pipes hissed and flickered.

  Eventually, they entered a room that looked more like a mechanical cathedral than a training space.

  Wires snaked across the ceiling like veins. Projector-like devices hovered silently near the top.

  And there, in the center of the room, stood Evin.

  The faction’s golden boy. The Blessed.

  He wore his usual light armor, axes sheathed at his sides, cape draped over one shoulder like a trophy. His presence was composed, but his smile... that was the grin of a predator before a meal.

  “Welcome, Thirty Three,” Evin said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  Sym said nothing, but his eyes took in everything: floor grip, room exits, light angle, spacing.

  Sage spoke quietly in his mind.

  “Warning. Subject Evin is exhibiting elevated heart rate and combat anticipation patterns. Hostile intent confirmed.”

  The assistant nodded once and exited silently, locking the door behind him.

  Evin circled slowly.

  “Before we start with the official PRG regimen, I want to run you through a little test of my own. Call it... tradition.”

  He shrugged, then flexed slightly, rolling his neck.

  “Getting to level 3 wasn't a walk in the park. Took blood. Every level is earned, Thirty-three. And you?”

  He gestured zily toward Sym.

  “You’re just... fresh cy.”

  Sym tilted his head, calm.

  Evin’s grin widened, but his eyes fshed cold.

  Sym could feel it now, that line of invisible tension between them. The air was heavy. The projectors hummed faintly.

  And Sym?

  He began to breathe more slowly.

  Evin grinned as he unsheathed the twin axes at his waist, and then, with exaggerated ceremony, tossed them aside.

  They cttered against the far wall.

  “I won’t need these,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Just fists today, Faux-boy. Wouldn’t want to break you too soon.”

  Sym moved into a guarded stance, his breathing steady. He said nothing. Just narrowed his eyes.

  Inside his mind, Sage chimed in.

  “Shall I assume full motor control?”

  “No,” Sym replied. “Only intervene to protect vital points. We don't want him to be too suspicious of me.”

  “This approach increases the likelihood of bone trauma.”

  “I’m aware. Let’s not make me a star yet.”

  “Understood.”

  Evin charged with a fsh of speed, faster than Sym expected, but not unreadable. He led with a heavy punch.

  Sym raised his forearms, crack. The impact jarred his bones, sent pain ncing through his arm.

  Before he could reset, a spinning kick smmed into his stomach.

  His body folded with the force.

  He hit the floor hard, clutching his gut.

  Pain burst through him like heat lightning.

  He coughed, breath ragged, bile threatening to rise.

  “Shit…”

  He heard the footsteps before he saw them. Evin wasn’t waiting.

  Another kick, aimed straight for his face.

  “Initiating override.”

  Sage surged through his limbs, pulling his head just inches from the boot’s arc.

  The air howled past his cheek as the kick missed, smming into the floor with a crunch of metal and dust.

  Sym scrambled back, but not far.

  Evin was already on him.

  A brutal stomp to the side.

  Another hit to the gut.

  Sym curled, the world spinning, a line of tears streaking down his cheek from the sheer impact.

  And Evin?

  He ughed.

  “Oh, this is why I love newbies,” he said. “All that fake pride. Then reality comes knockin’.”

  He circled again.

  “This is how Number Two learned. This is how you’ll learn.”

  Sym’s hands shook.

  He felt anger, but buried it.

  And then.

  “Activate Boost.”

  The shift was instant.

  A faint blue glow wrapped around his frame, like fire moving underwater.

  His heartbeat steadied. His muscles surged, flexed. The pain dulled, still there, but distant.

  “Corruption attempting penetration,” Sage warned.

  “Handle it.”

  “Neutralized.”

  Evin saw the change and smiled wider.

  “There we go,” he sneered. “Finally grew a spine. Thought you’d cry for mama forever.”

  He lunged, cocky, overextended.

  Sym slipped left.

  Fast.

  Faster than Evin expected.

  He dodged, just missing a strike, his movements suddenly precise and refined.

  Evin stumbled as he felt surprised by Sym's movement and caught himself before falling face-first.

  As he rose to his feet, Sym didn’t flinch. He didn’t grin.

  He just stared.

  Evin noticed.

  He stepped back slightly, expression flickering, then recovering.

  “For a Faux,” he said, circling, “that’s not too bad. Not as disgusting as some I’ve seen.”

  Sym’s voice was quiet.

  “But still beneath you, right?”

  Evin chuckled. “Gd we’re on the same pag-”

  But the fight wasn’t over as Sym moved suddenly, intending to strike as Evin was mid-sentence.

  Sym’s punch nded with clean, focused force, straight to Evin’s chest, sending the self-procimed mentor skidding back two steps, eyes wide with actual surprise.

  He wasn’t expecting it.

  Not from Thirty-Three.

  Evin stood frozen for a heartbeat, as if shocked someone had actually touched him.

  Then slowly... his mouth twisted downward into a deep, predatory frown.

  “You just made a mistake,” he growled.

  Then the air shifted.

  Wind whipped around Evin’s legs, like twin whirlwinds, forming tight spirals around his calves. They shimmered with emerald light, warping the air itself.

  In the space of a breath, his boots changed.

  Brilliant green armor encased his feet, feathered wings etched along the sides, sleek and radiant. They pulsed with a strange rhythm.

  “Skill activation confirmed,” Sage said, voice cool and alert. “[Boots of Zephyr]. Caution advised.”

  Evin lifted one foot slightly, and the air rippled beneath it.

  “Feel blessed,” he said with venomous pride. “Few Faux ever live long enough to see the power of a true Awakened like myself.”

  Sym didn’t speak.

  But inside?

  “Log everything.”

  “Recording.”

  Sym’s eyes narrowed. His strategy was already set.

  Push, then turtle. Watch. Learn. Stay alive.

  Evin moved.

  One second, he was standing ten feet away; the next, he was beside Sym.

  Too fast. No step. No windup.

  Just gone, then there.

  The punch came from the right, low and brutal, connecting with Sym’s jaw just beneath the ear. It was like being hit by a truck of compressed air.

  His vision blurred. His body flew.

  He hit the ground with a crash, sliding several feet before coming to a gasping, twitching stop.

  Pain exploded through his skull, ringing in his ears. His limbs trembled.

  Sage’s voice buzzed in with urgency.

  “Cranial trauma. Visual distortion. Danger to motor coordination. Defensive override engaged?”

  Sym blinked once.

  Then: “Yes. Do it.”

  He rolled instinctively into a defensive curl, arms locked around his head, knees tucked. It wasn’t gmorous.

  It wasn’t heroic.

  But it was smart.

  Evin stalked toward him, boots glowing, energy radiating from every movement.

  But he didn’t nd another hit, not right away. He hovered just outside range, watching Sym with a mix of disgust and curiosity.

  And Sage?

  Sage was active and working overtime for Sym, shifting limbs, tightening muscle reflexes, and bracing bone impact zones.

  Sym felt the difference.

  His mind could rest for just a second, even as the predator circled.

  The world was muted inside Sym’s skull. Before Evin began his assault.

  Every strike nded like a dull thundercp, reverberating behind his eyes. His limbs were numb. His ribs screamed. His thoughts were still, but recording.

  Evin ughed overhead. Loud, breathy, drunk on power.

  “This is where you belong, Thirty Three,” he sneered. “Remember it.”

  Then came another blow. Another stomp. Boots of Zephyr glowing faintly, radiating greenish light like ceremonial fire.

  Sym's skill, [Boost], flickered out, like a candle crushed by the wind.

  Evin’s sweat flicked from his brow, spattering across Sym’s face, mixing with blood.

  And still, Sage stayed quiet. Sym had ordered no retaliation.

  Not yet.

  Evin paused, turning toward a door at the side that had seemed to move.

  “Next one here yet?”

  The door cracked open, and the assistant, all corporate smiles and pstic politeness, nodded with cheerful disinterest. “Yes, sir. Number Seventy Seven is ready.”

  Evin smirked.

  Then turned back to Sym.

  And kicked him once more, hard, low, aimed not to break bone but to shatter spirit.

  “Get the fuck out.”

  Sym didn’t respond. Despite the pain, he didn’t cry.

  He simply rolled onto his side and began to pull himself up, each movement a quiet decration: I’m not dead. And you’re not safe.

  Sage’s voice echoed softly in his skull as he limped toward the exit.

  “I’ve recorded everything. Combat patterns. Energy shifts. Internal system fluctuations. Strange distortions during skill activation. Data integrity is high.”

  Sym kept walking.

  “Pain suppression is already maxed. You’ll require rest. Possibly medical aid.”

  “Noted,” he whispered back. “But... I’ll live.”

  As he reached the hall, the assistant guided him with robotic cheer.

  “Great job today, Thirty-Three! You’re making progress.”

  Her permanent smile was wrong. Wrong in her eyes. Wrong in her tone.

  She didn’t care. Not about Sym. Not about any of them.

  She was a cog, smiling while the machine ground flesh into fuel.

  Outside the door, Sym stumbled into the corridor.

  And Trey was there, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. He froze when he saw Sym.

  His eyes widened. The blood. The bruises. The way Sym moved, like his bones had been glued back together with breath alone.

  Trey said nothing.

  But he watched with empathetic eyes, something that Sym hadn't seen very often since entering this world.

  Sym said nothing in return but a look of warning, hoping that Trey would catch the hint.

  He just walked past him, step by painful step, with a mind sharper than ever and a body ready to break. He made his way back home through the alleys and the constant stare of Jitters.

  Inside his room within Richie’s, he was already rewriting every blow into data, every humiliation into fuel.

  He had learned Evin’s rhythm. Seen his moves.

  Sym remembered.

  And vengeance with memory is far more terrifying than rage.