I wake before Marcus this time, my body alert despite barely sleeping. The conversation with Professor Zane loops through my mind like a broken recording. Subject 47. Integration rate. Protocol Seven. The words taste bitter, foreign and familiar at once.
This morning, I'm going to break the pattern.
Instead of waiting for Marcus's cheerful routine, I slip on my uniform and head for the door. The corridors stretch ahead in their usual configuration—or do they? I've walked these halls dozens of times, but today I pay attention to details I've glossed over before.
The east wing should lead to the library. I know it should. But as I follow the corridor, counting doorways and monitoring my steps, something feels wrong. The hall curves left when it should curve right. The windows show the same courtyard view I passed three turns ago.
I stop, heart hammering against my ribs. The corridor ahead looks identical to the one behind me.
"You're up early." Kira's voice makes me jump. She emerges from an alcove I swear wasn't there moments before, her auburn hair catching the artificial light that never seems to flicker or fade.
"Testing something," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Have you noticed the east wing corridor doesn't actually lead anywhere?"
Her green eyes dart left and right, checking for observers. When she speaks, her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "You shouldn't ask questions like that."
"Why not?"
"Because..." She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking fragile despite her usual confidence. "Because some questions have answers you're not ready for."
I step closer, studying her face. "But you've noticed it too, haven't you? The way things don't quite make sense sometimes?"
Her silence stretches too long. When she finally nods, the movement is so small I almost miss it.
"What happened to Martinez?" I ask suddenly. The name pops into my head unbidden—a student who should be in our Strategic Applications class but isn't. Has never been, according to everyone else.
Kira goes pale. "I don't know who that is."
But her hands shake as she says it, and I catch the flash of recognition in her eyes before she masks it. She knows exactly who I mean.
"I have to go," she says, backing away down the corridor that definitely wasn't configured this way yesterday. "Please, Ezren. Just... follow the routine. It's safer that way."
She disappears around a corner that shouldn't exist, leaving me alone in a hallway that refuses to make sense. I trace my path back to the dorms, but even that familiar route feels like walking through a maze designed by someone who only half-remembered what a building should look like.
***
The combat training facility buzzes with morning energy when I arrive, students warming up with practice forms that look identical from person to person. I spot Devon in the corner, adjusting his gear with the careful attention of someone who understands how things work.
"Devon," I call, approaching his equipment station. "Can I ask you something technical?"
He looks up, his dark eyes bright with curiosity behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Sure, what's on your mind?"
I hesitate, then decide to dive in. "Yesterday, during training, I moved faster than I should have been able to. Faster than I've ever moved before. Any idea what could cause that?"
Devon sets down the calibration tool he was holding, his expression shifting from casual interest to focused attention. "Faster how? Like, better technique, or actually faster?"
"Actually faster. Like my reflexes were operating on a different timescale."
He glances around the facility, checking for eavesdroppers, then leans closer. "I've been tracking performance metrics for... research purposes," he says quietly. "Your reaction time yesterday clocked at forty-seven milliseconds. Olympic athletes average around two hundred."
My stomach drops. "That's impossible."
"Yeah, that's what I thought too." Devon's voice carries a nervous edge that doesn't match his usual calm demeanor. "But I've run the tests three times. Your neural processing speed is literally superhuman. That's not normal improvement, Ezren. That's not normal anything."
The training blade feels different in my hand today—lighter, more responsive, like it's anticipating my movements. I raise it to guard position and something clicks in my mind, muscle memory flooding back with startling clarity.
Garrett steps onto the mat across from me, grinning with his typical enthusiasm. "Ready for another round, Ez?"
We begin to circle. Garrett moves with practiced competence, his blade work solid and predictable. But to me, watching him feels like observing someone underwater. Every strike telegraphs itself seconds before he commits. Every defensive movement broadcasts its weakness.
I don't even think before I act. My blade slides past his guard like it belongs there, stopping just short of his throat. Garrett stumbles backward, confusion replacing his confident smile.
"Again," I hear myself say.
This time I let Garrett attack first, wanting to test the limits of whatever's happening to me. He comes at me with a complex combination that should overwhelm my defenses. Instead, my body flows around his attacks like I've rehearsed this dance a thousand times.
I disarm him in three moves.
"How are you doing that?" Garrett breathes, staring at his weapon on the floor.
I wish I knew. The techniques feel familiar, yet I have no memory of learning them. It's like discovering I can speak a language I've never studied.
Devon watches from the sidelines, his expression a mixture of fascination and concern. When the session ends, he pulls me aside.
"I've been documenting anomalies," he says quietly, checking to make sure we're not overheard. "Little things that don't add up. System glitches. Performance spikes that shouldn't be possible. You're not the only one, but you're... accelerating faster than the others."
"Others?"
His jaw tightens. "I probably shouldn't have said that."
But he's already said too much, and we both know it. The pieces of a larger puzzle are starting to emerge, and I'm not sure I want to see the complete picture.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes where information downloads into my brain like files transferring to a computer. By evening, my head pounds with the effort of processing abilities that feel both natural and impossible.
Back in my dorm room, I stand before the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection. The face looking back should be familiar—I've seen it every day for seventeen years. But something feels off, like looking at a photograph of someone who resembles me but isn't quite right.
I can't remember my mother's face. The realization hits me like a physical blow. I know I have parents—I must have parents—but when I try to picture them, I find only vague impressions. Warm voices, the scent of cooking food, hands that helped me with homework. Generic memories that could belong to anyone.
What's my home phone number? The question should have an instant answer, but my mind offers only static. My address? The street name hovers at the edge of my memory, then dissolves when I try to focus on it.
"I can't remember my parents' phone number," I whisper to my reflection. "How do you forget something like that?"
The reflection doesn't answer, but something about it seems delayed, like there's a fraction of a second lag between my movement and the mirror's response.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiral into panic. "Ezren? You okay in there?" Kira's voice carries genuine concern, but even that feels scripted somehow.
"Fine," I call back, not trusting my voice to remain steady for longer sentences.
Her footsteps retreat down the hallway, but the interruption has broken my trance. I step closer to the mirror, examining my face in the harsh bathroom lighting. The angles seem wrong somehow, like I'm wearing a mask that almost fits but not quite.
I roll up my sleeves to splash cold water on my face, and that's when I see it.
Around my wrist, barely visible unless caught in direct light, is a translucent bracelet I've never noticed before. It looks almost medical, like the identification bands they give you in hospitals, but made of some material that seems to shift between transparent and invisible.
My hands shake as I lift my wrist closer to the light. Etched into the surface in tiny letters that seem to glow faintly:
SUBJECT 47 - NEURAL INTEGRATION PROTOCOL - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
The bathroom tilts around me. Subject 47. The number Professor Zane mentioned on his mysterious call. The bracelet feels warm against my skin, like it's been there forever, like it's part of me.
How long have I been wearing this without noticing? How is that even possible?
I tug at the bracelet, but there's no clasp, no way to remove it. It's seamless, as if it grew from my skin rather than being placed there.
Neural Integration Protocol. The words echo in my mind, connecting with fragments of overheard conversations and half-remembered dreams. Integration with what? And who has authorization to access me?
I stare at my reflection, at the stranger wearing my face, at the bracelet that marks me as property rather than person.
Everything I thought I knew about myself is dissolving, and I'm terrified of what's left when the lies wash away.