Chapter 4
Nova
Linda comes in without a clipboard.
That’s the first thing I notice—her hands are empty except for a small card she’s turning over between her fingers. She looks tired, which is almost funny. She gets to go home every night. I’ve had three days of fluorescent lights and food I wouldn’t touch. Well, four now.
“They’re transferring you now,” she says.
No preamble. No soft lead-in. I’m starting to appreciate that about her.
“Okay.”
“Do you have any questions?”
I have a hundred questions. None of them are ones she can answer.
“Where am I going?”
“The Academy. I told you yesterday.”
“I meant specifically.”
“Cluster housing. You’ll be assigned to the group I mentioned.”
The five men. The incomplete set. The missing piece I’m apparently supposed to be.
“And if I don’t want to go?”
Linda’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you’ll be escorted instead of walked. The destination stays the same.”
At least she’s honest.
She sets the card on the table between us. Plain white, a name and a number printed in simple black text. No title. No department.
“If you’re stuck,” she says. “If something goes wrong. Call.”
I look at the card. Look at her.
“Why?”
“Because someone should be paying attention.” She stands. “And because I’d rather know than wonder.”
She moves toward the door, and I realize she’s not coming with me. This is goodbye—or whatever passes for it when you’ve known someone for a day and one of you is a prisoner.
“Linda.”
She stops. Doesn’t turn around.
“Thanks. For explaining.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She opens the door. “You haven’t seen where you’re going.”
Then she’s gone.
The system reasserts itself within minutes.
Two staff members I’ve never seen before appear in the doorway. Clipboards. Neutral expressions. The same flat institutional tone I’ve been hearing since the alley.
“Collect your belongings. You’ve been reassigned.”
My belongings. The jacket I was wearing when they picked me up, still smelling faintly of the alley. The gray clothes they gave me. That’s it.
I put on the jacket over the gray shirt. Slip Linda’s card into the inside pocket where it won’t fall out.
“Ready.”
They don’t respond. Just turn and walk, expecting me to follow.
I follow.
The transport is enclosed. No windows in the back, just a metal bench and a door that locks from the outside. I sit and count turns out of habit—left, right, straight for a long stretch, another left—but I’m not planning an escape route. There’s nowhere to escape to.
If they wanted to hide me, they’d do it quietly. Back rooms. Unmarked vehicles. The kind of processing that happens where no one can see.
This is different. This is transport in daylight. Official transfer. Paperwork and procedure.
That means I’m being moved somewhere the system is willing to acknowledge.
I don’t know if that’s better or worse.
The transport slows, stops. The door opens from outside, and the light that floods in is different—brighter, cleaner. I step out, and the Academy is bigger than I expected.
I’ve heard about it my whole life—everyone has—but hearing about something and seeing it are different.
The buildings are old, stone and glass, sprawling across grounds that look like they’ve been here longer than the territory itself.
People move between them in clusters and pairs, talking, laughing, existing like this is normal.
Because for them it is.
And everywhere I look, I see marks.
Wrists bare and casual. Sleeves rolled up. House colors woven into clothing, displayed like they’re supposed to be there. Because they are. Because that’s what normal looks like.
I pull my sleeves down without thinking.
The escort moves me toward a security checkpoint near the main entrance. Scanners, badges, a desk staffed by someone who doesn’t look up when I approach.
“Name?”
“Nova.”
“Status?”
The escort answers for me. “Transfer. Provisional intake. Cluster assignment pending confirmation.”
The woman at the desk types something. A badge prints out—temporary, the word VISITOR stamped across it in red—and she clips it to my jacket without asking.
“Proceed to orientation wing. Someone will meet you.”
That’s it. No explanation. No welcome.
I’m inside, but I’m not part of this place.
The difference is obvious.
The woman waiting for me at the end of the corridor looks like she belongs here.
She looks pleasant enough. It’s the way she stands that gets me. She looks relaxed, like the ground beneath her feet has always been solid and always will be.
“Nova?” She steps forward with a small smile. “I’m Zoe. I’ll be showing you around.”
“Showing me around, or making sure I don’t run?”
The smile doesn’t waver. “Both, probably. But mostly the first one.”
I almost like her for that.
“Come on,” she says, turning toward the corridor. “It’s a bit of a walk.”
The Academy is a maze.
Hallways branch in every direction—training wings, administrative offices, residential buildings. Zoe points things out as we pass, her voice calm and informational.
“Dining hall’s through there. Opens at six, closes at nine. Food’s decent.”
“Good to know.”
“Training facilities are in the east wing. You probably won’t have access to most of them yet.”
“Yet?”
“Depends on your classification status.” She glances at me sideways. “Which I’m guessing is complicated.”
“You could say that.”
She doesn’t push. Just keeps walking.
We pass other students—groups of two and three, some alone, all of them moving with the easy confidence of people who know exactly where they’re going.
A few glance at us. At me. Their eyes catch on my temporary badge, my ill-fitting clothes, the way I’m scanning exits instead of looking straight ahead.
I’m not one of them.
They know it. I know it.
Zoe either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
We’re cutting through a courtyard when it happens.
Footsteps behind us, quick and light. Zoe half-turns, and then there are arms around her waist, a body pressing close, lips brushing her temple.
“Hey.”
The voice is male, warm, familiar in a way that has nothing to do with me. Zoe leans back into the embrace automatically, her whole posture softening.
“Hey yourself.”
I look away. Then look back, because I can’t help it.
He’s tall, dark-haired, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from never having to question where you fit. His mark is visible on his wrist—I can’t tell the House from here—and there’s something else there too. A secondary mark, smaller. I don’t recognize it.
“Who’s your friend?” He’s looking at me now, curious but not aggressive.
“She’s new,” Zoe says. “Being assigned to cluster housing.”
His eyebrows lift. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Yeah?” He looks at me differently now—not suspicious, but aware. Like he’s recalculating something. “Good luck.”
Then he kisses Zoe’s cheek, squeezes her once, and walks away.
Just like that.
They touched like it was nothing. Like it was easy. Like they’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
“That’s Eli,” Zoe says, already moving again. “We finalized a few years ago.”
She doesn’t explain further. Doesn’t offer context or reassurance or any of the things I’m not asking for anyway.
I follow her in silence.
Cluster housing is separate from the other students. Down a path lined with identical houses that look more like containment units than residences. Zoe stops in front of one of them—same as all the others, nothing to distinguish it.
“This is it,” she says.
I stare at the door.
“They know you’re coming,” she adds. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. If you need anything before then, there’s a directory in the main hall.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck, Nova.”
That’s twice someone’s said that to me today. It’s starting to feel less like a wish and more like a warning.
Zoe walks away without looking back.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Behind it are five people I’ve never met who are apparently supposed to be mine. Five strangers who’ve been waiting for me without knowing who I was.
Five men who probably have expectations I can’t meet.
The system didn’t ask me if I wanted this.
It never does.