Commonalities

The transition from the briefing hall to the living quarters is a stark reminder of the union's clinical efficiency.

They assign me to a room on the third tier of the concrete barracks. Room 309. I expect a crumbling, damp cell—a shabby reflection of a world in survival mode—but the heavy metal door pushes open to reveal something surprisingly decent. Given the state of things, it feels almost premium. Four neat, narrow beds line the walls, each paired with a tall, stark steel cupboard. One for each of us.

It doesn't take long to realize that the East Union has deliberately shuffled its population, mixing old borders to forge its new identity.

My three roommates are already there, unpacking their standard-issue duffel bags. I brace myself for a hostile, guarded silence, but I am entirely wrong. They are actually nice. Despite the tension of the camp, they break the ice, offering brief smiles as we begin to introduce ourselves.

The immediate wall between us is language, but English quickly becomes the fragile thread connecting the four corners of our room.

The girl from old Nepal introduces herself as Pasang. She is twenty, with wide, observant eyes. Next is Sonam from old Bhutan, also twenty, who moves with a quiet, careful deliberate speed. Finally, there is Meiling from old China. She is twenty-one, a year older than the rest of us, carrying herself with an unmistakable, sharp confidence.

By the end of our very first day of training, the hidden hierarchy of Room 309 becomes crystal clear.

Our schedule is split sharply between the lower-level theory classrooms and the brutal, ash-covered dirt of the training fields. This is where our strengths and weaknesses are laid bare for everyone to see.

In the theory blocks, under the flickering glare of white LED panels, I am flawless. They teach us the structural properties of the frontline, atmospheric toxicity levels, and triage protocols for cosmic radiation burns. For a life science student who spent her nights devouring forbidden data, the curriculum is a joke.

I quickly notice that Sonam is highly intelligent too. She is incredibly good at the theories, tracking the medical data faster than anyone else in the lecture hall—but she isn't as best as me. When the instructor quizzes the room, I am always a second faster, my answers cold, steady, and precise. I absorb the blueprints with an ease that leaves even the smart recruits staring.

But the classroom is only half the battle.

When we are dragged out into the gravel arena for physical fitness and hand-to-hand combat drills, the tables turn completely.

Meiling doesn't just excel; she dominates. By the afternoon, it is obvious to the instructors that she is the absolute best fighter in our entire training batch. Her movements are fluid, powerful, and ruthless.

Then, there is me.

My body, conditioned by years of sitting at a desk over ancient books, cracks under the weight of the physical demands. The heavy tactical medic gear cuts deep into my shoulders, bruising my skin within minutes. The respirator mask feels like a vacuum, suffocating me as we sprint through artificial smoke.

I am not the absolute worst in the entire batch—there are plenty of civilian recruits weeping and collapsing in the gravel behind me. But within the walls of Room 309, I am undeniably the weakest.

During the fighting drills, Meiling sweeps my legs out from under me before I can even raise my guards. I hit the hard ground face-first, the taste of dirt and iron filling my mouth. My muscles scream in protest, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. I have zero combat skills, standing out as a fragile academic in an arena built for violence.

The instructor stands over me, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

"Get up, Anya! The mutated things beyond the border won't wait for you to catch your breath!"

I push myself up from the gravel, my hands trembling violently. The physical pain is blinding, a sharp reminder of how fragile my normal human shell really is compared to someone like Meiling.

But as I wipe the blood from my lip and head back to the barracks with my roommates, the inner researcher doesn't waver. Sonam has the books, Meiling has the fists, but neither of them possesses the dangerous, burning obsession hidden behind my quiet face. I will endure the bruising. I will survive the breaking point.

Because I am not leaving this camp until I am strong enough to face the Core.

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