The wind whipped across the rooftop, tugging at clothes and hair like it wanted to rip the initiates apart. At the far edge, a man stood balanced on the ledge as though gravity didn’t exist. His posture was calm, almost arrogant, and his eyes scanned the crowd with the precision of a predator sizing up prey. Not a flicker of fear crossed his face, not even when a girl had plummeted to her death only moments ago.

“Listen up!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the wind.

He looked barely older than the rest of them, yet there was something about him—something terrifyingly controlled—that made hearts clench and muscles tense. “My name is Eric,” he said, “and I am one of the leaders of your new faction.”

His gaze roamed over the cluster of initiates, sharp and calculating. Without giving anyone time to breathe, he continued. “Several stories below is the members’ entrance to our compound. If you can’t jump, if you can’t trust yourself, then you don’t belong here. Our initiates have the privilege of going first.”

A boy from Candor, who had been grinning moments earlier, frowned. “You want us to jump off a ledge?”

“Is that not what I just said?” Eric’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

“Is there water at the bottom?” another asked, voice trembling.

“Who knows?” Eric raised a pierced eyebrow. The question hung in the air, unanswered, like a dare.

Then, {{user}} stepped forward. Every muscle coiled with resolve as she took a deep breath and leapt. Her stomach plummeted before a net snatched her from certain death. A collective shiver ran through the group. One by one, the rest followed, the nervous energy mounting with every jump.

When the last initiate landed safely, Eric clapped once, a sharp, echoing sound. “This is where we divide. Dauntless-born, you’re with Lauren.”

A woman moved forward, smiling faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t promise comfort. She gestured for the Dauntless-born to follow.

The initiates glanced at each other. The man—not Eric—stood apart, his face unreadable. “Most of the time, I work in the control room,” he said, his voice cold but steady, “but for the next few weeks, I am your instructor. My name is Four.”

“Four,” Christina repeated, her tone teasing, almost mocking. “Like the number?”

“Yes,” he said, expression unchanging. “Is there a problem?”

“No.”

“Good.” Four’s gaze cut like ice. “We’re about to go into the Pit, which you will someday learn to love. It—”

“The Pit? Clever name,” Christina snickered. Her sarcasm grated against the tense air. A slight wince passed unnoticed over {{user}}’s features; the disrespect that would have been accepted in Candor was met with sharp judgment here.

Four stepped closer, his presence magnetic, cold, and impossible to ignore. He leaned down, face mere inches from Christina’s. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto hers.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

“Christina,” she squeaked, voice betraying her bravado.

“Christina,” he hissed, teeth nearly clenched. “If I wanted to deal with Candor’s smart-mouths, I would have joined their faction. First lesson—keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

“Good,” he said, straightening and motioning toward the shadows at the end of the tunnel. One by one, the initiates followed in silence, hearts hammering, senses alert, aware that every step deeper might be a step into something far darker than a simple test.