That night, the recruits returned to the dorm in near silence—dragging their sore, bruised bodies toward bunks that now looked like sacred altars. The lights overhead had been dimmed, casting the concrete room in a low, bluish hue that made everything feel quieter than it was.
Clancy dropped onto his bed with a soft grunt, every muscle in his body sending a dull protest. His limbs felt twice their normal weight, and even breathing too deep made his ribs twinge.
He wasn't alone in the pain. Across the room, Mariana was slowly peeling off her uniform top, moving like someone who'd just survived a car crash. Dorian, even with his massive frame, had taken to sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched forward with a towel draped over his neck, silent. Mira was already lying flat on her bunk, arms spread out like she had fully given herself over to gravity.
No one spoke for a while.
Then the door hissed open.
Three figures stepped inside—different uniforms, different energy. The recruits Clancy hadn't seen all day.
He pushed himself up slightly, eyes narrowing.
They wore the same OTA-issued tracksuits, same cut, same insignia—except the blue accents on Clancy's team were replaced by deep violet. A sharp, almost royal shade that shimmered under the light.
'Where the hell have they been all day?'
He recognized them only by name—Lena, Alek, and Evelyn. They hadn't trained with the rest of the group during combat drills. No warm-ups. No lectures. No sparring matches.
And yet… they looked wrecked.
Lena's usually perfect ponytail was coming loose, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. She moved straight to her bunk without a word, dropped her bag, and sat down, staring at the floor like she'd just walked out of something far worse than sparring.
Evelyn's face was flushed, jaw clenched, and she walked stiffly—like every step was calculated. She passed Mira without a glance, kicked off her shoes, and sat down, slowly rubbing at a wrist that looked slightly swollen.
But it was Alek that caught Clancy's attention most.
Usually the loudest voice in the room—bragging, smirking, tossing out backhanded insults with the grace of a politician on his fifth espresso—he was silent.
Completely.
His violet-accented jacket hung half-open, and his chest rose and fell with labored breath. His posture slouched. No swagger. No commentary. He looked straight ahead, eyes glassy, shoulders heavy. He didn't even make a sarcastic remark when Dorian moved to make room for him.
Clancy stared.
'What the hell did they do today?'
Alek sat down, leaned back against the wall, and shut his eyes. For a second, Clancy thought he might say something—some tired quip, a joke, anything. But instead, he let out a quiet exhale and said nothing at all.
And that said more than any insult ever could.
Clancy looked around the room—blue uniforms on one side, purple on the other. Six exhausted recruits who had fought each other for hours... and three who hadn't been seen all day, but looked just as ruined.
'Different training. Different rules. Different something.'
Clancy didn't know what made them different.
But he could feel it in the room.
And whatever it was… it wasn't easy.
Clancy was half-slumped against the wall beside his bunk, a bottle of water tucked against his cheek like a cold compress. The soreness was settling into something more permanent now, like his body had decided to file a complaint with every nerve ending.
He closed his eyes.
"You're fast," came a quiet voice from nearby.
Clancy opened one eye.
Baek Jihoon stood beside him, towel draped around his neck, water bottle in hand. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a storm—bruised, sweat-matted hair, and a small welt still visible near his jaw. But his tone was calm. Sincere.
Clancy blinked. "...Sorry, what?"
"You're fast," Jihoon repeated. "And unpredictable. Your transitions between styles were impressive."
Clancy gave a soft laugh and sat up straighter, wincing slightly. "Well... you're terrifying. So that evens us out, I think."
There was the faintest ghost of a smile on Jihoon's lips. He nodded once, then paused, looking down at the floor for a second before speaking again.
"I was raised for this," he said. "For the OTA."
Clancy's eyebrows lifted. "Wait—raised?"
Jihoon nodded. "My mother. Baek Seyeon. She was an agent. Long before I was born."
The name meant nothing to Clancy, but the weight Jihoon put behind it did.
"She trained me," Jihoon continued. "From when I was a child. Discipline. Form. Philosophy. She taught me not just how to fight, but why."
Clancy nodded slowly. That made sense—how precise Jihoon was, how calm. The guy moved like someone who had never known anything else.
"I wasn't supposed to come here this soon," Jihoon added. "But... after she passed, there was no reason to wait."
Clancy's expression softened. "Sorry to hear that."
Jihoon nodded once, eyes distant. "She died on a mission. I was 17."
There was a silence between them—not awkward, just full. Clancy let it sit for a moment before speaking.
"My dad was OTA too."
Jihoon looked back at him, surprised. "Really?"
Clancy nodded. "Yeah. He trained me. Martial arts, sparring, drills. Nothing official—just... 'father-son bonding,' I thought. He never told me what he really was. I didn't find out until after he disappeared."
Jihoon's brow furrowed slightly. "Disappeared?"
"Yeah," Clancy said, his voice a little quieter. "When I was eighteen. One day he just... left. No note, no message, no warning. I searched for years. Then I found something—a photo of him with OTA insignia, half-buried in some files he'd hidden."
Jihoon was silent, listening intently.
"So I joined," Clancy said, shrugging one shoulder. "Figured if he wouldn't tell me the truth, I'd dig it up myself. Been four years since he vanished. Still no trace. But hey—now I get to beat people up in the name of justice or whatever. So that's cool."
That got a real reaction. Jihoon exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh, but definitely something lighter.
Clancy grinned. "And now I'm here, almost getting my skull kicked in by a guy who moves like a haunted wind chime."
Jihoon tilted his head. "Haunted wind chime?"
"It's the only way I can describe the sound your limbs make when they almost kill me," Clancy said, rubbing his neck.
Jihoon gave a quiet chuckle—small, but genuine.
"I didn't expect you to adapt that fast," he admitted. "Most people I've sparred with don't push back like that."
"Yeah, well," Clancy said, laying back on the mattress with a groan. "I specialize in barely surviving. Works great when I'm not actively dying."
Jihoon let the silence sit for a moment, then said, "You fought well. Your father would be proud."
Clancy blinked. He hadn't expected that. He turned his head toward Jihoon.
"Thanks," he said, voice quieter now.
They sat there in the low light, two sons of OTA agents, carrying different versions of the same weight. Different reasons for being here, but with a thread that now quietly connected them.
Eventually, Jihoon nodded once and turned back toward his bunk.
Clancy closed his eyes again and muttered, "Hey."
Jihoon paused, half-turning.
"Next time," Clancy said. "I land two kicks to the head. Not just one."
Jihoon raised an eyebrow. "Next time, I'll catch both."
And with that, he walked away—calm, composed, and very possibly already planning it.
Clancy smiled to himself in the dark.
'This place might actually break me... but at least I'm not alone.'
Clancy let his eyes close for real this time, the soreness in his body just starting to dull into something tolerable. Jihoon had settled into his bunk a few feet away, and the dorm had finally begun to feel still—quiet, almost peaceful.
'Finally,' Clancy thought. 'Silence. Maybe five minutes of unconsciousness before something explodes.'
And then—
"Hey."
Clancy flinched.
A face appeared upside down from the top bunk above him.
Luca.
Hair wild. Eyes wide. Arms dangling over the edge like a human ceiling gremlin.
Clancy recoiled instinctively. "Jesus—Luca?! What the hell?!"
"Answer me this," Luca said, voice hushed but deadly serious. "If you could time-travel to punch anyone in history, who would it be?"
Clancy blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What kind of cursed bedtime question is that?!"
"I've been thinking about it for like an hour," Luca said, eyes intense. "Like... Genghis Khan? Probably would punch me back, so risky. But I think I'd go with Thomas Edison. I just feel like he had it coming."
Clancy stared up at him in disbelief. "I don't even know where to start unpacking that."
"Just answer the question."
Clancy sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Fine. Uh... maybe Napoleon? But only because I feel like I could reach him."
Luca nodded solemnly. "Good choice. Compact rage."
Clancy groaned and rolled over onto his side.
"Also," Luca added, "respect on the fight earlier. I thought Jihoon was gonna fold you like laundry. But you didn't die. So... proud of you, champ."
"Thanks, Dad," Clancy muttered into his pillow.
Luca's upside-down head retreated back into the top bunk like a cartoon villain vanishing into the shadows.
Clancy exhaled and let his face go slack.
'I swear to God, if he wakes me up again asking which dinosaur I'd arm wrestle—'
"Also," Luca's voice came again, muffled now from above, "what dinosaur would you arm wrestle?"
Clancy let out a long, exhausted groan.
"I hope Jihoon fights you next."
"Noted. Stegosaurus for me, by the way."
The days that followed blurred into a relentless routine—a punishing loop of repetition that left little room to breathe, let alone think.
Every morning began with the same ritual: four grueling hours of OTA instruction, packed with dense history, organizational structure, and theoretical breakdowns of rift phenomena, Kairon classification, and field protocol. The lectures felt less like education and more like a firehose of classified knowledge, delivered by stone-faced instructors who never repeated themselves.
Clancy often found himself scribbling notes with half-dead muscles, trying not to fall asleep while someone droned on about mission clearance tiers and the ethics of timeline preservation. The chairs were stiff. The air always a little too cold. And the fluorescent lights buzzed with the kind of quiet cruelty that made time stretch longer than it should.
Then came the afternoons—the part that really hurt.
Combat training. Conditioning. Strength drills. Over and over again. Some days were spent sparring against each other, other days were pure endurance punishment—pushups until someone collapsed, sprints across the concrete training fields, timed drills with weapons that left your hands blistered and your forearms numb.
Clancy was sore in places he didn't know had muscles. Every night, he collapsed into bed like a corpse, only to wake up the next morning and do it all again.
There were no breaks. No real conversations. Just bruises, sweat, and the quiet shuffle of equally exhausted recruits trying to hold it together.
But through it all, Clancy had one thought keeping him sane:
The weekend.
He clung to it like a rope.
After a full week inside the OTA compound, locked in the same uniform, same rooms, same routines—it was finally almost here. The instructors had said that the recruits would be allowed to leave the compound on the weekends, to go home, reset, and pretend—at least for a while—that they weren't part of something buried under classified levels and whispered threats from beyond time.
And Clancy?
He couldn't wait.
Because outside the compound…
home meant more than rest.
It meant a chance to pick up the trail again.
A trail that had gone cold four years ago.
And this time, he was bringing more than questions with him.
He was bringing answers.
Or at least... a better set of tools to start digging.
Clancy stepped out of the OTA compound for the first time in days, the air crisp and real in a way recycled vent currents never could be. He blinked up at the late-afternoon sun, then down at the sidewalk ahead like it might disappear if he looked away.
And waiting just down the block, leaning casually against a cracked lamppost, was Aram—paint-splattered jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder, and a grin that was trying a little too hard to look unimpressed.
"Well, look who finally crawled out of his top-secret dojo." Aram spread his arms. "I was starting to think you died in that bar fight."
Clancy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I almost did."
The memory hit fast—bodies, shouting, broken glass. One spilled drink, one massive guy in a gym tank top with zero chill, and suddenly Clancy had been surrounded by three meatheads with biceps the size of fire hydrants. All because Aram had accidentally bumped into one of them near the bar.
Clancy didn't regret stepping in. He did regret thinking he could take on a pack of amateur strongmen solo.
The only reason he hadn't left the bar in a stretcher was because Zephyr—of all people—had shown up. He'd appeared out of nowhere like some brooding, clipboard-wielding guardian angel and dismantled the situation without breaking a sweat... or saying more than five words.
Clancy still wasn't sure if that was part of the recruitment process or just absurd cosmic timing.
Aram fell into step beside him as they started walking. "So? You gonna tell me where you've been all week, or are you officially too cool to answer my texts now?"
Clancy gave a tired smile. "It's been... intense. I can't really talk about it."
Aram shot him a look. "Can't or won't?"
Clancy hesitated.
He wanted to tell him. Wanted to spill everything—the training, the lectures, the fights, the monsters. They were best friends. They'd buried time capsules together, bailed each other out of trouble, even slept in hospital waiting rooms for each other. If anyone deserved the truth, it was Aram.
But he couldn't.
Because right now, the Hermes device in his ear was listening—a small, unassuming patch just behind the lobe that tracked every word he spoke. Every conversation he had was scanned for classified content, and anything that crossed the line was automatically flagged and sent straight to OTA headquarters.
And that wasn't the only surveillance.
They'd also given him Hermes lenses, invisible to the naked eye, but embedded in his retinas like contact lenses from hell. They recorded everything he looked at, everything he read, everything he wrote down. If he so much as scribbled a Kairon sketch on a napkin, OTA would know.
He couldn't talk.
He couldn't even write.
The Hermes device would catch it all—every slip, every scribble, every stray word that dipped too close to the truth. It was like wearing a muzzle you couldn't feel but always knew was there.
So instead, Clancy took a breath, glanced at Aram, and gave him the lightest version of the truth he could manage.
"I uh… got a job."
Aram blinked, then actually stopped walking. "Wait—what?"
Clancy turned, trying to play it cool. "Yeah. Weird, right?"
Aram stared at him like he'd just announced he was running for public office. "Clancy Endicott got a job."
Clancy shrugged, smirking. "Somewhere out there, the unemployment gods are weeping."
Aram burst out laughing. "Holy crap, man! Finally! I'm actually proud of you. Wait—is it legal? It's legal, right?"
"Technically," Clancy said, hands in his pockets.
Aram slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Seriously though, that's awesome. I know you've been… I don't know, floating for a while. You've always had the skills, but now you've actually found something to stick to?"
Clancy nodded, a little slower this time. "Yeah. It's intense, but... feels like it matters, y'know?"
Aram grinned. "Man, that's all I ever wanted to hear. You doing something that means something."
Clancy smiled back, the weight in his chest tugging a little harder.
'If only you knew how much it means.'
But he didn't say that. He couldn't.
So instead, he just bumped Aram with his shoulder and said, "Still gonna make you pay for dinner though. Some things never change."
Aram snorted. "Fair enough. But I swear to God, if you disappear for another week without texting, I'm putting up missing person flyers with your worst yearbook photo."
Clancy groaned. "You wouldn't."
"I would. I printed extras."
Clancy laughed, shaking his head as they turned the corner together, two friends walking down a familiar street—one full of memories, the other full of secrets.