Tarrin's voice cut through the low hum of the cafeteria. "What'd you just say?"
His tone was calm—too calm. But inside, the thought flickered like a spark to dry tinder. Time to show this clown his place.
Felix didn't miss a beat, swagger oozing from every syllable. "I said what I said, bitch."
God, this kid was a walking migraine.
Tarrin tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Felix, let me ask you something," he said, voice smooth, casual—almost friendly. "Why are you doing this?"
As he spoke, his gaze swept the room. Recruits had stopped eating, forks frozen mid-air. Eyes were turning. Attention was currency, and right now, Tarrin held the pot.
Felix scoffed. "What's it to you, Vex? No one asked you to talk."
Riko shifted beside him, jaw tight. Tarrin raised a hand—I got this.
He let out a sigh, face twisting into something like disappointment. "Man… look around."
He raised his voice just enough to ripple across the room like a sharp slap. "Every single one of us is waiting to be shipped off to die. And you think anyone gives a shit about your ego?"
The murmurs grew louder. Heads turned. The air tightened.
Tarrin stepped forward, his voice climbing, each word sharp enough to draw blood.
"You're projecting your insecurities onto the rest of us? What, your pride got dinged so now we all have to deal with your tantrums? Grow the fuck up."
Even the kitchen staff had stopped moving.
Felix's smirk twitched. The whispers were louder now—agreement threading through them like static. Tarrin didn't stop. He pressed.
"No one gives a damn about your inferiority complex, Felix. We care about surviving. That's it. That's the only thing that matters on the mainland."
He leaned in just enough, voice a blade.
"Keep acting like this, and you'll be the first to die."
Felix looked ready to lunge, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.
But then his eyes flicked around the room—dozens of cadets staring him down like he was a rabid dog about to get put down.
He froze.
The pressure crushed his chest, pride shriveling under the weight of judgment.
So he did the only thing a coward could.
He turned.
Shoulders stiff, steps clipped, Felix stormed off through the sea of glares. But just before the door, he glanced back.
Tarrin stood there, arms crossed, a smirk ghosting across his lips. Then—he mouthed the words.
That's right, pussy.
Whispered, but to Felix, it may as well have been screamed into his skull.
Something inside him snapped.
In one sharp motion, he grabbed a knife off the nearest tray. A metallic clang rang out—sharp, jarring. Gasps echoed around the room, but it was already too late.
He poured his Gift into the weapon, essence flaring wild and uncontrolled, sparking off the blade like static.
Then he threw it.
Fast. Precise. Fueled by nothing but hate and stupidity.
The knife hit.
Buried itself into Tarrin's shoulder, slicing deep enough to puncture something vital. Blood sprayed in a thin arc.
Tarrin dropped to a knee, hand clamping instinctively over the wound. His breaths turned ragged.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Felix blinked. First at Tarrin. Then at Riko. Then at Jayden. Then at everyone else—wide-eyed, mouths open, horror written across their faces.
No one moved.
Then, from the crouching figure bleeding on the floor, came a voice.
Low. Calm. Too calm.
"That's right. You're my bitch."
Felix's head whipped toward him—and that's when he felt it.
The dread.
A crushing, suffocating presence. Like the air had turned to iron. Like death itself had just stood up.
And smiled.
He trembled, muttering through clenched teeth, "T-this isn't over," before storming out of the cafeteria. His lackeys trailed behind, more confused than loyal, their footsteps unsure.
Tarrin exhaled through gritted teeth and looked down at the knife jutting from his shoulder.
Bloody hell, this shit hurts. Fuck! Okay. Just like they did in Code Blue, leave the knife in. Don't pull it out. Just breathe. Call for help.
He turned to Riko, who was still fuming, face red, fists clenched tight. "Hey, man," Tarrin said, his voice strained, "how about getting someone? A medic, a kit, hell, even a towel?"
Before Riko could move, Lena was already by his side, her hands hovering near the wound like she didn't know where to start.
Jayden dropped to a crouch beside her, face pale. Even Lucas had shown up, pushing through the gathering crowd.
"Do not pull it out," Lucas barked, voice tight with authority.
"I fucking know that," Tarrin muttered. "You think this is my first stabbing?" He gave a half-laugh, half-grimace, then winced as a spike of pain surged up his arm.
"We need to get you to the infirmary," Lena said, eyes wide, voice calm but urgent.
Tarrin glanced around the cafeteria. Most of the cadets were either frozen in place or slowly inching closer, drawn by the blood and spectacle. And then—he saw her.
Celith Sahrin.
Leaning against a pillar, a fruit juice in hand, straw in her mouth. Staring. No—analyzing. Eyes like frozen gold, sharp and cold as a winter gust from C-Three.
'Why the hell is she looking at me like that? And why does she have to look so...dangerous?'
Their eyes locked, Tarrin's heart skipped a beat,
and then,
She nodded.
'What the hell's that supposed to-'
Then Jayden grabbed him, dragging his attention back to reality.
"I'm sorry, man," Jayden said, voice cracking, eyes glossy. "If I wasn't so weak—if I'd done something—you wouldn't have a knife sticking out of you. Sorry, man, I'm so sorry."
Tarrin narrowed his eyes. "Man, quit it. Say 'sorry' one more time and I'm calling you a bitch for the rest of my life."
Jayden nodded quickly, lips trembling, still muttering apologies under his breath.
Then the kitchen staff finally snapped into motion. Someone dropped to Tarrin's side while another called in the emergency through their Telcom, speaking fast and low.
More footsteps. More whispers.
And Tarrin just sat there, bleeding and annoyed, thinking:
'All this drama, and I haven't even had dessert yet.'
Tarrin was wheeled to the infirmary alone. No fanfare. No friends. Just the low hum of the halls and the metallic rattle of wheels on tile. His little crew had been ordered back to class, despite the time left on their break. No exceptions, no questions.
Any footage of what happened? Gone. The other personnel confiscated their Telcoms and scrubbed every trace.
If this got out, someone up top would catch hell. And no one wanted that.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on a surgical table, staring up at blinding white lights, some viscous, glowing liquid pumping through his veins.
It burned cold. Or maybe it was just the nerves.
When they pulled the knife out, it felt like fire was threading through his shoulder. He clenched his jaw, fists tight, doing everything not to scream. One of the medics chuckled.
"Pain builds character," they said.
Tarrin wanted to shove that 'character' down their throat. Maybe sideways.
Afterward, a healer showed up, all robes and rings and a strange humming light. Magic. Real healing magic.
Tarrin watched, morbidly fascinated, as his skin knit together like it was just bruised cloth.
'Never had those in Merlen,' he thought, half a smirk tugging at his lips.
The healer worked fast, but not perfect.
The knife had done something nasty to his collarbone—fractured, maybe snapped in half—but that was the only reason he had to stay in overnight.
One day to mend a bone? Tarrin would take that trade every time.
Around seven that evening, the door to Tarrin's infirmary room slid open with a soft hiss. He glanced over, and there they were—the crew of misfits he hadn't meant to care about but somehow did.
Riko, Jayden, Lena, and, to Tarrin's mild surprise, Lucas.
'What the hell's the nerd doing here?' Tarrin thought, a grin twitching at the edge of his mouth. 'Guess he's a softie after all.'
"Yo," Riko said, stepping in first, his voice a mix of relief and guilt. 'Still blaming himself. Dumbass.'
Jayden followed close behind, clumsy and uncertain, clutching a bag of fruit like it was a peace offering. Lena and Lucas slid in after, quiet but present.
After a round of greetings and a few awkward shuffles, they all found seats around his bed, forming a little circle of support.
"H-how you holding up, man?" Jayden asked, voice too soft, eyes practically bracing for a scolding.
"Don't you dare say it," Tarrin cut in, glaring just enough to make Jayden freeze like a rat caught under a spotlight.
"I wasn't gonna say anything..." Jayden muttered.
"Sure, butt-boy," Tarrin said, snorting. That broke the tension. Even Lucas cracked a faint smile.
Riko leaned forward, grin returning like it had never left. "We bring good news, though. You know what's happening to Felix?"
Tarrin sighed, already expecting disappointment. "Expulsion? Or something lighter?"
At the mention of expulsion, Riko's smile faltered. "Nah, not that good."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming.
"But let's just say, our favorite jackass will be cleaning toilets for the rest of training. Picture it—Felix, scrubbing latrines with that stuck-up scowl. Priceless."
Tarrin gave a dry laugh, the kind that didn't jostle the wound. "Poetic justice."
And for a moment, the room didn't feel like a hospital—it felt like home.
The next hour passed in a blur of mockery and laughter. They spent it doing what they did best—bickering like old friends, roasting Jayden until he was red in the ears.
Even Lucas cracked a few one-liners, subtle but sharp, the kind you'd miss if you weren't paying attention.
For a while, Tarrin forgot where he was. Forgot the knife. Forgot the training. It felt like B-Four again.
Training sessions with Harry. Dumb jokes with Simon. A different life—one that slipped further away with each passing day.
But eventually, the good moments had to end.
They left, one by one, filing out with promises to visit again. And just like that, he was alone. The room was too quiet. The hum of the med-tech too loud. Time dragged like an anchor chained to his chest.
He tossed and turned, the pain in his shoulder refusing to let him rest. But finally, after what felt like hours, he found a position that didn't feel like being stabbed all over again.
Sleep pulled at him.
And that's when it hit.
Cough.
Cough.
Cough.
His mother's voice echoed through the hollow corridors of memory. The wet, gasping sound of her lungs failing.
Her voice—raspy, brittle—telling him it was okay. That she'd find a way. That it wasn't his fault.
He remembered the pharmacy clerk, bored eyes and dead tone, repeating the price of the medicine over and over while Tarrin begged. Pleaded.
'Why couldn't I make the money? Why didn't the insurance cover it? Why did she have to die like that?'
'Why?'
The pain in his chest eclipsed the one in his shoulder.
He couldn't take it.
He threw off the covers and sat up, the motion tearing white-hot pain across his body. But he didn't care. He stood anyway, legs shaky, breath tight.
And stepped out into the cool night air, searching for silence strong enough to smother the ghosts.
Tarrin wandered aimlessly through the base, half-expecting to be tackled by security at any moment.
He looked like a lost ghost, hospital garb still clinging to him, shoulder bandaged and aching with each step.
He passed silent bars, empty hangars, darkened admin blocks—each one a blur of cold metal and sterile lighting.
The streets were quiet, save for the hum of far-off generators and the occasional flicker of motion sensors tracking his steps.
Eventually, he found himself in an open training ground. The flicker of the spire's light hung overhead, casting long shadows over rows of worn dummies and weapon racks.
The place was meant to be deserted at this hour.
But she was there.
Celith.
Moving through a routine with ruthless precision—fluid strikes, sharp pivots, her blade singing against the air. Not a wasted motion, not a second of hesitation.
Of course it would be her.
'Oh, what a bloody cliché,' Tarrin thought, heart sinking.
The one person he didn't want to see. The one person who seemed to haunt every damn corner of this place.
And the moment her eyes met his—those star-bright, glacier-cold eyes—he knew she wasn't thrilled either.