Chapter 28
PRECISION ERROR
I would trade anything for a jacket right now.
The posture studio is so much colder than the rest of the training wing, both in sparsity and temperature.
It’s equipped with slick white floors that show every speck of dust. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, each one warped just enough to make you feel a little too small.
A posture tracking harness clings across my shoulders, spine, and hips.
Turn and flow drill: Movement sequence four.
The system announces.
Begin.
I start, holding my breath longer than I should. Three steps forward. Pivot. One arm raised to shoulder height. Step back. Curtsy. Reset.
Every motion is timed to the metronome pulsing through the harness. No music today, just rhythm and silence. I’ve done this drill a hundred times. Only today, I can’t feel my feet. I shift into the half-turn, my left foot dragging a beat behind. My whole body tenses for a split second.
That’s all it takes.
The harness tightens. The sensor by the mirrored wall flashes red.
ERROR: Sequence Variance Flagged.
My breath catches. Great. My second day of private instruction and I’m already proving I’m not worth the effort. Behind the observation glass, Mister V closes his folder.
He stands, and I have no idea what to expect.
Footsteps echo across the vinyl floor as he enters the studio.
His expression is unreadable, hands tucked carefully behind his back.
He stops just short of the red sensor, still proclaiming my failure with its vicious glow.
Without missing a beat, he lifts the tablet from its dock.
Scrolls once. The logs bloom to life on the screen: timing, posture dip, the deviation count flagging my failure.
“You missed the half-turn,” he says, tone mild, almost bored.
“I know.”
“Late by half a second. Delay in the left foot. Shoulder tension.”
“I know.” My voice comes out tight. He watches me for a long moment, the blue of his irises sharpening like fresh ice. He taps the tablet once. The red light vanishes as the error log disappears completely.
Just like that, it’s gone.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, too quickly to stop myself. He doesn’t answer right away, still studying me like I’m a problem to be solved.
“Because the official report says you were perfect.”
“But I wasn’t,” I correct, biting my lip.
V gives me a sharp look. “No, you weren’t.” Another pause. The quiet buzz of the walls fills the space between us.
“That’s not something a mentor would do,” I whisper. His eyes flick down to the cleared screen, then back to me.
“Isn’t it?”
I shake my head, slow. “You’re not a mentor.”
He cocks his head as if he’s waiting for me to continue. The pieces click together painfully slow.
“You’re the hound.”
“Is that what they’re calling me now?”
No denial, just a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He sets the tablet back on its dock, not waiting for me to respond.
“Fitting.” He steps forward, taking his time to carefully reset the harness on my shoulders. “Take a deep breath and start again.” He moves toward the observation door, hands behind his back once more.
At the threshold, he offers me one last glance, eyes set in a flash of icy determination. “Don’t make me fix it twice.”
In the sixteen days following, he fixes it far more than twice. V covers every slip, trip, and stumble without a word. My mistake-avoidance count is off the charts these days.
I keep thinking it’s because he has to prove something to Carr, but as an “analyst,” wouldn’t he want to point out my failures instead of covering them up?
I try to appreciate his intervention. To tell myself it’s fine to accept his help as it’s offered.
I don’t have another choice, anyway. In fact, intervention may be an understatement at this point.
Mister V never seems far. He swings by my lectures, reviews all my workbook reflections, and monitors my progress in group drills and review blocks.
Today is no different. It’s our pod’s turn for drills review with the designated instructor, a tall, brawny man with the coolest mustache I’ve ever seen. He barks the sequences one by one, quick to correct if we falter even a fraction.
Mister V stands along the back wall near the enforcers, arms folded, singling me out without saying a single word.
The light in this room is so bright that I get a clear look at his hair for the first time.
It’s not black, at least not entirely. It’s the darkest shade of brown, deep and rich and sharp.
The realization almost throws me off balance.
I correct quickly enough that the posture harness doesn’t notice.
Next sequence, Ivy pivots the wrong way, just enough to confuse my feet. The room freezes around me as I trip forward, knocking into her and tripping both our harnesses red.
ERROR: Sequence Variance Flagged.
The system calls it twice, distorting and overlapping. The instructor steps forward to submit the log, but V’s faster. He clears his throat.
“216 was out of spacing. The error should be marked as such.”
He’s blaming my fall on Ivy?
That’s impossible. There’s no way the instructor is going to agree.
Mustache-man presses his lips together. “That’s three strikes, 216. I’ll be seeing you for review block this week, and Rook will want to review your behavioral profile.”
I was wrong.
Flagged. She’s getting flagged. For my mistake.
Ivy sighs deeply, like this is all some minor inconvenience. But her left eye twitches as she retakes her mark. June’s gaze is snapping all around the room, confusion and pity etched on her features as she tries to work out what just happened.
I clench my jaw, trying to force down the guilt climbing up my throat. A mistake on my record would burn, sure. But it wouldn’t have cost me. Not the way it will cost Ivy.