“Forty years have passed since the Meta-Gene awakenings swept the world,” the man on stage began, his voice deep and deliberate. “During that time, I’ve watched great men fall… worse men rise… and everything in between.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment as his piercing gaze swept the auditorium. For a brief second, Leo felt his eyes land directly on him.
“My one and only goal as your principal,” the man continued, “is to ensure each and every one of you has the opportunity to grow. To thrive. But make no mistake.”
He paused again. This time, the silence was suffocating.
“There are limited resources and limited time. Not all of you will succeed. That is why we’ve implemented a merit-based system designed to reward the most exceptional among you with advanced training, enhanced development, and priority access to combat programs.”
Leo’s fingers curled into fists in his lap. So it was going to be like that. He should’ve known.
“To your left,” the man gestured without looking, “you will find a panel listing your assigned homeroom. Move there calmly and without issue. Once you’ve settled in, we will begin phase one: tournament-style combat to establish your ranking.”
He let that settle.
Then added, “Do not disappoint me.”
And just like that, the stage lights cut out behind him as he turned, his footsteps echoing away into darkness.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
The lights overhead flickered back to life with a dull hum. It felt brighter than before, too bright.
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Silence still hung in the air.
“...He sure has aura, doesn’t he?” Grant breathed, voice full of awe and starry-eyed admiration.
Jean whipped her head toward him. “Ew, oh my gosh, Grant. You did not seriously just say aura.”
Grant flushed and gave a nervous chuckle, adjusting his glasses. “Heh… sorry. My little brother’s been saying it nonstop lately. Must’ve stuck.”
Jean groaned, shaking her head. “You’re such a nerd.”
Leo tuned them out.
The room was in motion now—students standing, scanning the homeroom panel glowing on the side wall, forming lines, moving in clusters. Some whispered strategies. Others sized each other up like prey or rivals.
He stood without a word.
He didn’t need to talk.
He didn’t need to joke.
He’d spent years learning how to disappear, and now they were forcing him into the spotlight to be judged.
Fine. Let them look.
He would show them something to be afraid of.
Jean
She watched him walk away, his shoulders stiff, his steps hurried, like he thought if he moved fast enough, he could outrun the weight of the room pressing down on him.
Didn’t even tell us his name, she thought, a small pang of regret curling in her chest. Not that she could blame him. If she’d been through half the things his file hinted at, she probably wouldn't trust anyone either.
"This is gonna be a tough assignment, huh?" Grant’s voice came soft, the nervous energy he usually wore like a second skin now stripped away, leaving something colder.
Jean turned her head slowly to look at him, catching the grim set of his mouth, the flicker of unease in his eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them, before she sighed and leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting up toward the high, sterile ceiling.
"Kid’s obviously been through hell," she muttered. "Last thing he needs is two agents pretending to be his friends. I don't know what the hell the higher-ups are thinking."
Pretending.
The word tasted like ash in her mouth.
Grant stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He adjusted his glasses, a nervous tic, but when he spoke, his voice was iron.
"This has the Doctor’s scent all over it," he said, low and certain. "And I, for one, am not about to give that crazy bastard any reason to doubt me."
Jean closed her eyes for a second, squeezing the bridge of her nose before rising to her feet as well.
"I know," she said, the words slipping out automatically.
Then softer, almost a whisper, "I know..."
