SUBJECT 47: AWAKENING

The Perfect Day

Sunlight slants through the dorm window at the same angle it did yesterday.

And the day before that.

It hits my desk with surgical precision, catching the rim of the orange juice and casting soft shadows across my plate.

Eggs, toast cut into triangles. Perfect. Predictable.

My stomach twists.

“Morning, Ez!” Marcus’s voice snaps through the air like a rubber band.

He’s already dressed, shoes tied, hair combed, smile locked in place like it was painted on.

“Sleep well? You were tossing a lot last night.”

“Yeah,” I say, dragging my legs over the edge of the mattress. “Just dreams.”

He zips his bag closed in one smooth motion. “What kind?”

I pause. They’re already slipping away. The images dissolving like breath on glass.

“I don’t know. Familiar. Maybe.” I rub the back of my neck. My skin still feels hot, like I’ve just come in from a fire I don’t remember being in.

“Probably nerves.” He hoists his bag over one shoulder.

“Ready for another fantastic day at Meridian Academy? Strategic Applications first, then combat training!”

Something shivers under my skin. A flicker of wrongness. Like I’ve woken up in someone else’s life and they forgot to tell me.

I look at him. Really look. His grin hasn’t shifted a millimeter.

“Marcus… don’t you ever get tired of saying the exact same things?”

He blinks, head cocked. “What do you mean?”

“Every morning. Same words. Same tone. Like you’re reading off a script.”

He frowns. It’s the first unscripted emotion I’ve seen from him today.

“Well, yeah. I love it here. Don’t you?” He drops onto his bed. “Why?”

“Do you remember anything from before Meridian?”

His eyes lose focus.

“Before?” he echoes, like it’s a foreign word. “Of course I remember. I came from…” His lips move, but the sentence never arrives. “That’s weird. I can’t quite…”

“You can’t remember either.”

“I can. I do.” He stands, a little too fast. “We’re living the dream here, Ez. Elite training. Cutting-edge tech…”

“The best instructors in the sector,” I finish quietly.

He stares at me like I just reached into his head and stole the words.

“How did you…?”

“You say it every morning.”

For the first time since I met him, Marcus doesn’t smile. “See you in Strategic Applications,” he says, voice low, almost uncertain.

The door clicks shut behind him.

***

The corridor outside smells faintly of ozone and something sterile, like an unused hospital wing scrubbed too many times.

Students pass by in pristine uniforms, nodding with picture-perfect grins.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” says a girl in blonde pigtails.

“Another great day ahead!” chirps a boy with freckles.

Different faces. Same script. I slow down, watching them pass. There’s a wrongness in their smiles, like someone ironed them on.

The lecture hall looms ahead, all steel curves and cold glass. Strategic Applications. I slip into my usual seat.

The walls hum with embedded tech. The air tastes faintly of recycled coolant.

Kira slides in beside me, auburn hair pulled back, eyes alert.

“You look worse than usual,” she says, voice quiet.

“Something wrong?”

“Kira,” I say slowly, “do you remember anything before Meridian?”

She stiffens like I just slapped her.

“Before?”

“Your home. Your family. How you got here.”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes dart to the glowing panels circling the room. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I can’t remember. And neither can Marcus.”

“That’s… not normal, is it?”

No, it isn’t.

Professor Zane strides in, sharp and polished as ever, launching into a lecture on tactical resource allocation.

It’s like listening to déjà vu on repeat. I’ve never heard these words before, and yet I have.

My fingers move across the tablet automatically. They know what to do before I tell them.

Kira leans over. “Your understanding’s gotten scary good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Three weeks ago, you couldn’t tell a supply depot from a toothbrush. Now you’re breaking down field logistics like a command officer.”

“I’ve been studying.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t believe it, and maybe I don’t either.

Professor Zane calls my name. “Ezren. Scenario Seven. Walk us through it.”

I stand. My body moves like it knows the answer before I do.

I gesture to the display. “Primary supply depot here. Secondary reserves positioned along these vectors. Rotate personnel every forty-eight hours.”

I don’t know how I know. I just do. Like I’ve done this before. Like it’s a memory, not a guess.

The room falls silent.

“Excellent,” Zane says slowly. “See me after class.”

***

After the lecture, I approach his desk. Kira watches me go, her green eyes sharp, suspicious.

“Sir?”

“Ezren.” He sets down his stylus, fingers steepled.

“How are you feeling lately?”

“Fine. I think.”

“Any headaches? Strange dreams? Feeling… disconnected?”

My pulse stumbles. “Should I be?”

“You tell me.”

He studies me like I’m a code fragment that just broke pattern.

“Today’s performance was… impressive. Not just smart but trained. You executed high-level tactics instinctively. Have you been practicing?”

“I guess so.”

“Have you?” he asks again, voice lower now. “Or are you remembering?”

Something cold creeps up my spine.

“I’ve been here three months.”

“And before that?”

“I was selected from… from my home sector.”

“Which sector?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I can feel the answer just behind my eyes, but it won’t move forward. “Sector… I don’t know.”

He makes a note on his tablet. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. For now, combat training.”

***

The combat wing smells like sweat, disinfectant, and something metallic. The lights buzz overhead as I wrap my fingers around the hilt of a training blade. It fits like it was made for me.

“Looks like you’re with me, newbie,” says Garrett. He grins like this is going to be easy.

“Try not to cry.”

“Begin Sequence Seven,” Zane calls from the platform above.

Garrett activates his blade. It hums, casting blue light across his jaw. He lunges, and my body moves without asking.

I parry, twist, pivot, and land the blade at his throat before I fully register what I’ve done.

He stumbles back. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Again,” Zane says.

We go again.

And again.

And I keep winning.

Garrett’s face turns red. Other students gather to watch, their matches forgotten.

“This is bullshit!” Garrett shouts. “You’re a beginner!”

“I know,” I say. “I don’t get it either.”

The third match ends in seconds. I disarm him with a clean, precise sweep.

“Enough,” Zane says.

“Everyone else, dismissed. Ezren, stay.”

The room empties.

He circles me like I’m something fragile, or dangerous.

“Three months ago, you struggled with footwork. Today, you executed a Tier Four disarm with textbook accuracy.”

“I’ve been…”

“Practicing?” He tilts his head. “Or remembering?”

The word lands like a punch.

Zane taps something on his tablet, then lifts it to his ear. His voice lowers, but I catch every word.

“Subject 47’s response to trigger exposure is earlier than expected. Integration rate exceeding prior thresholds. Initiate Protocol Seven.”

My stomach drops.

“What did you just say? Subject 47? What the hell is Protocol Seven?”

He ends the call, then looks at me with a strange mix of curiosity and pity.

“Get some rest, Ezren. Tomorrow will be… significant.”

“Wait. You can’t just…what integration? What’s happening to me?”

But he’s already turning away.

I stare down at my hands.

They don’t tremble.

They just move, calm, ready, like they remember things I never lived.

“What the hell is happening to me?”