2025-06-03 01:32:58I wake before Marcus this time. The room is still, bathed in that strange, sterile hush that comes just before morning.
He’s snoring softly, arm flung over his face, oblivious to the war churning inside my skull. Professor Zane’s words won’t stop replaying. Subject 47. Integration rate. Protocol Seven. I swing my legs off the bed. My skin feels tight, like it doesn’t quite fit. Something is wrong with me. I feel it humming in my bones. I need to move. I need to do something. I slip on my uniform and step into the corridor. The lights overhead hum faintly, casting sterile pools of illumination on the floor. It looks the same, same beige walls, same minimalist doors, same recycled air, but something’s off. I turn down the east wing, toward the library. At least, I think I do. After ten steps, the hallway curves left. That shouldn’t happen. The east wing doesn’t have a left turn. I keep walking, counting doors, but my stomach knots. Each one looks identical to the last, like someone copy-pasted the architecture. I glance out a window. The courtyard view stares back, the same one I saw three turns ago. No. I spin around. Behind me, the corridor is the same. No turns. No breaks. Just… corridor. Am I lost? Or trapped? “You’re up early.” I jump. Kira steps from an alcove that I swear wasn’t there a second ago. She looks tired, eyes red-rimmed, hair slightly damp, like she just came from a shower. Or from crying. “Testing something,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “The east wing… it loops. I’ve been walking and ended up back where I started.” Her eyes flick left, then right, scanning the hallway like someone might be watching. She lowers her voice. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.” “Why not?” She hesitates. The answer’s already on her face. “Because some questions have answers you’re not ready for.” Her arms cross tightly, like she’s holding herself in. I step closer. “But you’ve seen it too, haven’t you? This place, it glitches. The hallways, the rules, the way people vanish.” A beat. Then, barely a nod. “What happened to Martinez?” The name tumbles out of me. I don’t know where it comes from, just that it feels important. Kira stiffens. “I don’t know who that is.” She says it too quickly. Her fingers twitch. Her jaw locks. But it’s the flicker in her eyes that gives her away—recognition, sharp and sudden, before she buries it. “You do know him.” “I have to go.” She backs away, her voice breaking. “Please, Ezren. Just… follow the routine. It’s safer that way.” She vanishes around the corner, and I don’t chase her. *** The combat facility thrums with artificial energy, buzzing lights, gleaming floors, machines humming like angry insects. Devon’s in the corner, fiddling with his gear, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, tools scattered across a bench. “Devon.” He glances up, blinking. “You look like you didn’t sleep.” “I didn’t. Can I ask you something weird?” He shrugs. “Weirder than usual?” “Yesterday, during training… I moved faster than I should’ve. Not technique. Not instinct. Just… faster.” He sets down a scanner. His playful smirk fades. “Faster how? Like you thought you were fast, or like the world slowed down around you?” “The second one.” Devon’s brows knit. He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been piggybacking a diagnostic on the sim training feeds. Nothing official—just… monitoring anomalies. Yesterday, your reaction time clocked in at forty milliseconds.” I frown. “That means nothing to me.” “Olympic athletes average around 200.” My stomach flips. “That’s—no. That can’t be right.” “I ran it three times,” he says. “You’re not just fast. You’re something else. Neural processing way beyond baseline. That’s not training. That’s…” He trails off, searching for a word he can’t say. “Have you seen this with anyone else?” He nods slowly. “Yeah. But no one’s changing like you are.” *** The training blade feels… different today. Balanced. Eager. Like it wants to move. Garrett steps onto the mat, grinning. “Ready to lose again, Ez?” We circle. He lunges, clean technique, sharp form, but I already see it. Before he moves, I know where the blade’s going. I see the fight five seconds ahead. My counter is effortless. My blade kisses his neck. He stumbles back, blinking. “What the hell?” “Again,” I hear myself say. This time, I let him take the lead. He throws a flurry of combinations, each more complex than the last. I don’t block. I move. I flow through him like water around a stone. Three moves later, he’s disarmed. Again. Devon watches, wide-eyed, from the edge of the mat. “Combat Precognition,” he whispers. “Level 3. Efficiency rating… perfect.” “What?” He doesn’t answer. Just stares like he’s seeing a ghost. Garrett’s jaw is clenched. “How are you doing that?” “I don’t know.” He kicks at the mat. “Two years I’ve been training for this. Two years.” I feel nothing. No pride. No victory. Just a cold certainty that I’ve crossed a line I can’t walk back. After training, Devon corners me near the lockers. His hands are shaking. “I can see numbers, Ezren. Floating above your head. Like an AR overlay, but I’m not wearing gear.” He swallows hard. “Combat Precognition Level 3. Enhanced Reflexes Level 5.” “Out of what?” “Out of a hundred. Most people don’t even register. But you…you’re spiking.” He rubs his face. “And you’re not the only one. Some students are changing. Accelerated skills. Glitches. Memory holes. But they don’t seem to notice it. They think they’ve always been this way.” “And I do?” “You’re asking questions. That makes you different.” “Or dangerous,” I murmur. He nods once. “Exactly.” The rest of the day is a haze, lectures that feel preloaded into my brain, like someone downloaded the knowledge while I wasn’t looking. By evening, my skull throbs with pressure. *** Back in the dorm, I stare into the bathroom mirror. It’s my face. But it’s… not. The angles are wrong. The skin looks too smooth, too even. Like someone 3D printed me from a scan. “Mom,” I whisper. Nothing. No face. No memory. Just a void where a family should be. “What’s my home phone number?” Static. Panic claws up my throat. My hands tremble as I splash water on my face, trying to shake it off. Then I see it. A thin, translucent band around my wrist. Seamless. Subtle. Almost invisible unless the light hits it just right. Tiny glowing text flickers across its surface: SUBJECT 47 – NEURAL INTEGRATION PROTOCOL My breath catches. I tug at it but nothing. No clasp. No seams. No give. Like it grew from my skin. I pull harder. The skin reddens, blisters, but the bracelet stays. “What the hell is this?” Flashes hit me, Zane’s voice. Kira’s warnings. That twisting hallway that led nowhere. “Ezren?” Marcus’s voice filters through the door. “You good?” “Yeah. Just tired.” I stare at my reflection. The bracelet glints in the light, fracturing my face into a dozen versions, each one staring back with the same creeping horror. The same question curdling in my gut. “Who am I?” The mirror says nothing.
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The Bridge Network
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