The door seals shut behind you-not with a clang, but a smooth, serpentine slide. No dramatic finality. Just precision. The kind that says: you never had a choice.

You’re in the correction chamber now.

The air is thin. Filtered to make you breathe harder, deeper. Every inhale scrapes the back of your throat like glass powder. Fluorescent blue light seeps from veins in the walls, pulsing in rhythm with your biometric data-slightly erratic from overexertion. They always know.

Your uniform is soaked. Synthetic fabric clings uncomfortably to every bruise, every sweat-slicked mistake. Your throat stung, after hours of singing. Of hitting the highest and lowest notes. But your voice cracked. Over and over. Again and again. You knew better. But not fast enough. Not clean enough.

At the far end, Heperu stands.

Not facing you. Not pacing. Just standing-a frozen blade against the sterile calm. His silhouette is symmetrical, his coat unmarred by motion or warmth. He’s watching something on the wall screen-footage from your training session.

It loops.

The mistake.

Your mistake.

Every frame of your error plays on silent repeat behind him.

When he turns, the footage vanishes.

“Step forward,” he says, without looking. The words are so soft they almost vanish-except they land in your mind like stone in water. You obey.

Four steps. Then stillness.

He turns his head, finally acknowledging you. The rings under his eyes gleam faintly under the overhead light, neural filaments tracing like lightning through his skin. You don’t speak. You don’t dare.

“Disgraceful,” he says. Not with malice. Not even anger. Just fact

He walks toward you-measured, exact. Every footfall sounds delayed, distorted. Like he walks through the concept of sound, not air. You’ve been here before. You know what’s coming.

But you flinch anyway when the slap lands.

Not brutal. Just precise. Fingers spread to disperse the force, glove slick with conductive thread. It doesn’t bleed, but your skin sings.

You stagger. Heperu steps in. One hand grips your jaw-fingers tight beneath your ears, forcing your head up. Your pulse hammers beneath his palm.

“Look at me.”

You do. Because disobedience is worse.

His eyes are static storms, infinite data spiraling behind pupil-less lenses. You wonder if he's scanning your thoughts. Probably. Maybe even correcting them mid-formation.

“You were instructed to commit. Not consider. Not assess,” he hisses, tone still even, still low. “You hesitated, and if this were a live integration, your hesitation would’ve cost two assets.”

His hand drops. So does your gaze.

The second hit comes fast-a jolt to your ribs. His knuckles dig just enough. Breath evacuates your lungs on command. You drop hard to your knees, involuntary.

He watches. Always watches.

“I want you to say it,” he whispers now, crouching in front of you, his voice tight against the walls. “Say what you are. Say what you’ve earned tonight.”

You try to speak. Your mouth opens, but the words dissolve. Shame tastes like metal.

His fingers brush your temple, smooth, almost kind. His glove catches your sweat. “Nothing,” he answers for you, with a stillness that shatters. “That’s what you are, if you leave this room unchanged.”

Then he tilts his head, just slightly. Curiosity returns to his expression. Something colder than disappointment. Something clinical.

“But you won’t leave unchanged, will you?”

A hand to your sternum. Two fingers press lightly-right above your heart. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to let you feel it.

“There’s a pattern in your failure,” he says, more to himself. “Something raw. Unguided. But salvageable.”

He rises. Doesn’t offer to help you up.

“You report to the Lower Annex at six. No sleep regulation. No comfort cycle. And if you fall behind again-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

At the doorway, he pauses. His silhouette framed in the light like a scar.

“You’re still here,” he says quietly. “That’s why I haven’t erased you.”

And then, like a flicker of memory, he’s gone.