The room is white.

  Not clean white—absolute white.

  White walls. White floor. White ceiling. White light pouring down from hidden panels, so bright it crawls behind Rhys’ eyes and presses against his skull. It makes it hard to breathe. Harder to think.

  He sits on a narrow stretcher, wrists resting stiffly at his sides, boots dangling just above the floor.

  Above him, a machine hangs like a spider.

  A metal frame fixed to the ceiling, from which a dozen articulated arms extend—thin, precise, each ending in needles, syringes, glass vials, humming scanners. They twitch occasionally, adjusting position, as if impatient.

  Rhys swallows.

  “Hey,” he snaps, voice echoing too loudly in the sterile chamber. “I said I’m fine. You saw what happened. I’m still me.”

  One of the arms lowers slightly. A needle glints.

  Rhys recoils instinctively. “Don’t—!”

  On the other side of the glass wall, a woman adjusts her glasses.

  She wears a long white coat, hair pulled back tightly, expression sharp and distant—the kind of face that looks at people as systems first, individuals second. A blood sample floats in a sealed vial between her fingers, dark red streaked faintly with something black, barely visible unless you know what to look for.

  Guren stands beside her, arms crossed, shoulders rigid.

  “The subject,” the woman says calmly, eyes never leaving the vial,

  “has been exposed. Severely.”

  Rhys’ fists clench.

  “Severely?” he shouts. “I’m not coughing black sludge, am I?!”

  The woman continues, unfazed.

  “His bloodstream contains a significant concentration of micromachines. Far beyond what we would consider safe exposure.”

  She turns slightly, angling the vial so Guren can see it better.

  “They’re active,” she adds. “Mobile. Responsive.”

  Guren’s jaw tightens.

  “But,” the woman continues, tone shifting—just slightly,

  “they are not integrating.”

  She brings the vial closer to a scanner, watching data flicker across a transparent screen.

  “They aren’t attaching to his cells. They aren’t rewriting neural pathways. They’re… drifting. As if they don’t recognize him as a viable host.”

  Rhys freezes.

  “What?” he demands. “What does that mean?”

  The woman exhales slowly, thoughtful.

  “It means,” she says, choosing her words carefully,

  “that either this is a statistical anomaly bordering on the impossible…”

  She glances at Guren.

  “…or the micromachines have determined that his body is incompatible.”

  “Incompatible how?” Guren asks.

  She hesitates.

  “Unknown. It could be a mutation. A genetic fluke. A miracle.”

  Her eyes flick back to the data.

  “Or,” she adds quietly,

  “he is already… something else.”

  Rhys slams his palm against the glass.

  “Hey! I can hear you, you know! I’m not a thing!”

  One of the mechanical arms descends further, a needle aligning with frightening precision.

  “Don’t touch me!” Rhys shouts, panic creeping into his voice. “Let me out! I’m not infected—look at me!”

  The woman doesn’t flinch.

  Guren doesn’t look at the glass.

  Inside his head, the answer is already there.

  Artificial cells.

  Orphelia.

  So that’s it.

  He keeps his expression neutral, unreadable.

  “Keep him under observation,” he says flatly. “No termination protocols.”

  The woman nods. “Of course. For now.”

  Rhys’ breathing grows uneven as the arms hover closer, scanners sweeping over his chest, neck, temples.

  “This is insane,” he mutters. “I did the right thing. I saved them. And now you lock me in a box like—like I’m already dead.”

  His voice cracks despite himself.

  “I didn’t even touch the stuff—!”

  Behind another glass panel—one-way, darkened from Rhys’ side—Amélia stands frozen.

  Her reflection overlays his image faintly in the glass: pale face, hands clenched at her chest, eyes wide with fear.

  She watches him shout. Watches his frustration turn to desperation.

  “Rhys…” she whispers, though he cannot hear her.

  She presses her palm gently against the glass, lining it up with where his shoulder would be.

  Please be okay.

  Inside the white room, Rhys’ voice finally gives out.

  He lowers his head, breathing hard, surrounded by light, steel, and silence—

  unaware that the thing inside his blood, the thing that should have claimed him…

  already knows his name.

  The glass slides shut with a soft, airtight hiss.

  Rhys barely has time to register it before the sound vanishes entirely—his voice swallowed mid-shout.

  “Hey—! HEY!”

  His mouth keeps moving, fists striking the transparent wall, but the room is suddenly silent. No echo. No response. Just white light and the quiet whirr of machines.

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  On the other side, the woman straightens, unfazed, already turning away from the console.

  “It’s safer this way,” she says flatly. “If he transforms, containment is guaranteed.”

  Guren exhales through his nose.

  “He won’t.”

  The woman finally looks at him. “You sound very certain for someone with no data to support it.”

  Guren meets her gaze, expression calm, almost lazy.

  “Then log it as intuition,” he says. “Or faith. Whatever makes your report cleaner.”

  She frowns. “Captain—”

  “He’s not turning,” Guren repeats, firmer now. “Keeping him locked in there is unnecessary.”

  Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t argue further—only nods once, sharp and displeased.

  “Your responsibility,” she says.

  Guren doesn’t answer. He’s already moving.

  The door to the observation room slides open, and moments later, the door to Rhys’ room follows.

  Rhys snaps his head up instantly.

  “Finally!” he barks. “Get me out of here! This place is—this place is insane!”

  Guren steps inside like he’s walking into a café, hands in his coat pockets, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling-mounted machine.

  “Relax,” he says. “If I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t bother with all this white décor.”

  Rhys glares. “This isn’t funny.”

  Guren tilts his head, considering him.

  “Hypothetical question,” he says casually. “If I did let you out right now… would you try to kill me?”

  Rhys blinks. “What? No!”

  Guren raises an eyebrow. “Even if you were a Vorl?ufer?”

  “I’m not!” Rhys snaps. “And I wouldn’t— I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

  “Good,” Guren replies. “Correct answer.”

  Rhys opens his mouth to argue further—

  —and on the other side of the glass, Amélia stiffens as hurried footsteps approach.

  “Amélia!”

  Elias skids to a stop beside her, breathless, eyes darting from the white room to Rhys inside.

  “What happened?” he demands. “They said Rhys was—”

  “He fought one,” Amélia says quickly, voice tight. “A Vorl?ufer. It got… black fluid on him.”

  Elias stares. “That’s it? That’s why they locked him up?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t understand it either.”

  A shadow moves behind them.

  Boots stop.

  Mara steps into view.

  Her red eyes fix immediately on Rhys through the glass, assessing, calculating. Arms crossed, posture rigid as iron.

  “Black fluid,” she repeats. “Then he should already be gone.”

  Elias turns sharply. “Gone how?”

  Mara doesn’t look at him.

  “Anyone who comes into direct contact with that substance becomes an organic Vorl?ufer,” she says. “Not like the artificial ones you see in dead cities. These were people.”

  Amélia’s stomach drops.

  “People… like that woman,” she whispers.

  Mara nods once.

  “They don’t survive the transition,” she continues. “Their memories fracture. Their bodies adapt. Their will is overwritten.”

  Her gaze narrows slightly.

  “But he didn’t.”

  All three of them stare at Rhys.

  Inside the room, Rhys is still arguing with Guren, completely unaware—hands moving, face flushed with anger and confusion, human in every sense of the word.

  Mara’s voice lowers, almost to herself.

  “That shouldn’t be possible.”

  Silence settles around the glass.

  Rhys’ voice changes.

  The anger drains from it—not replaced by calm, but by something heavier.

  “…What about the child?” he asks quietly.

  Guren pauses.

  “The boy?” he says. “He’s alive. UF custody. Orphanage on the east block.”

  Rhys exhales, shoulders sagging just a little. Relief—thin, fragile—but real.

  Guren watches it, then speaks again, tone sharpening.

  “And don’t mistake that relief for validation. What you did back there?” He shakes his head. “You keep putting your life on the line like that, and you’ll get yourself killed.”

  Rhys looks up slowly.

  “Shut up.”

  Guren blinks, surprised—not by the words, but by how steady they are.

  “What else should I have done?” Rhys snaps. “Tell me. Stand there and watch? Run away?”

  “Yes,” Guren answers without hesitation. “You should’ve retreated. To safety.”

  Rhys’ eyes burn.

  “No. I’m not a coward like the UF.”

  The words hit harder than any punch.

  Guren’s jaw tightens.

  “I’d gladly put my life on the line to save someone,” Rhys continues, voice shaking now. “I won’t obey some stupid order telling me to cry and run while people are dying right in front of me!”

  Silence stretches between them.

  Guren’s expression hardens—then dulls.

  “…Fine,” he says at last. “Then you’re not suited for the UF.”

  Rhys laughs bitterly.

  “Good. Screw the UF. I don’t need a white uniform or your orders to have a heart.”

  Guren turns away.

  He walks toward the back door, boots echoing softly against the sterile floor.

  Then he stops.

  Something grips him—not a sound, not a thought, but a memory.

  Fire.

  Screaming.

  A city burning red against the night.

  He is small again. Too small. Knees scraped raw, lungs burning as smoke claws its way down his throat.

  A Scherbe looms above the street—collapsed wreckage crushing everything beneath it.

  Including her.

  Dark blue hair, matted with ash. Blood pooling beneath twisted metal. Her eyes—still alive, still looking at him.

  “Guren…” she whispers. “Run.”

  “I won’t!” he screams back, clawing at the metal with useless hands. “I won’t leave you!”

  Footsteps thunder behind him.

  A UF soldier.

  White armor streaked with soot. Pistol already drawn.

  “Please!” Guren sobs, grabbing at the soldier’s leg. “That’s my sister—please, you can lift it, you can—”

  The soldier doesn’t look at her.

  He looks at the damage. The crushed spine. The blood.

  “It’s too late,” he says flatly.

  Then he raises the pistol.

  “No—!” Guren screams.

  “Rest in peace.”

  The shot echoes.

  The world goes silent.

  Guren blinks.

  The memory shatters, leaving him standing in the white room again, hand clenched so tightly his knuckles ache.

  Order, he thinks.

  That’s what he chased.

  Because order meant justification.

  Because order meant that day had meaning.

  Because if rules existed… then maybe his sister hadn’t died for nothing.

  He exhales slowly.

  Behind him, Rhys stands defiant, wounded, furious—alive.

  And for a moment, Guren sees it clearly.

  The way Rhys forced that creature to speak as a human.

  The way he refused to run.

  The way he chose someone else’s life over his own—without hesitation.

  That was me, Guren thinks.

  Before I learned to survive.

  He doesn’t turn back.

  But his voice is quieter when he speaks.

  “…This world doesn’t reward people like you,” he says.

  Then, almost to himself:

  “…But maybe it needs them.”

  Rhys stares at Guren’s back, the words echoing uselessly in his head.

  “What does that even mean?” he snaps.

  Guren pauses mid-step.

  Then—annoyingly—he chuckles.

  “Oh, don’t look so confused,” he says, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. His tone slips back into that infuriating, light, mocking cadence. “I’m saying maybe a fool who runs toward danger instead of away from it is exactly what the UF’s been missing.”

  Rhys’ blood boils.

  “You—” He clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

  Guren laughs again, softer this time, and keeps walking.

  Rhys explodes after him.

  “Hey! Don’t you walk away from me! You think this is funny? You think my mother dying is some kind of lesson?!”

  They burst out into the corridor where Amélia, Elias, and Mara are standing near the observation window. Amélia flinches when she sees Rhys’ face—bruised, red, furious. Elias straightens immediately.

  “Rhys—what happened?”

  Mara tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh,” she mutters. “You’re awfully energetic for someone who should be halfway to losing his mind.”

  Rhys snaps his head toward her. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s not wrong,” Guren says casually, stopping at last. He turns to face Rhys fully now, hands folding behind his back like he’s inspecting a cadet. “You’ve got micromachines swimming in your bloodstream and you’re still standing here yelling at officers. That’s… impressive.”

  Rhys scoffs. “Get to the point.”

  Guren’s smile thins.

  “Prove it,” he says.

  Rhys blinks. “Prove what?”

  “That your little philosophy—self-sacrifice, duty over survival, heroics—actually means something.” Guren’s eyes lock onto his. “Prove it’s worth the cost.”

  Rhys’ anger flares again. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. Get lost.”

  Guren hums thoughtfully. Then—

  “That’s too bad.”

  Rhys stiffens.

  “Because,” Guren continues lightly, “you’re Orphelia’s son.”

  The words hit like a punch to the chest.

  Rhys’ breath catches.

  Orphelia.

  Captain. Hero. General. One of the best the UF ever produced.

  His jaw tightens.

  “So what?” Rhys growls. “You think that means something to me?”

  “Oh, it should,” Guren replies. “You’re the son of a woman half the command still argues about in closed rooms.” He steps closer. “Joining the UF and proving she was right? That she didn’t ‘disobey’—that she acted?” He shrugs. “That’s one way to do it.”

  Rhys’ teeth grit together.

  “Fine,” he snaps. “Bring it on. I’ll show your precious UF just how cowardly it’s become.”

  Guren’s grin widens—genuine now. Almost proud.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Amélia and Elias exchange a look.

  “…Wait,” Elias says slowly. “You’re not serious.”

  Guren turns his head. “Oh, I am.” He gestures lazily toward them. “You two as well.”

  Amélia stiffens. “What?”

  Elias sputters. “Hold on—us?”

  Rhys turns toward them, startled. “You don’t have to—”

  Amélia cuts him off immediately. “Yes, we do.”

  Elias nods, swallowing hard. “We promised. Together, remember?”

  Rhys looks at them—really looks—and something in his chest tightens.

  “…Forever,” he murmurs.

  Guren laughs, loud and satisfied.

  “Would you look at that,” he says. “Matching insanity.”

  Mara steps closer to Guren, lowering her voice. “You sure about this?” she asks. “They’re civilians. Kids.”

  Guren doesn’t look away from the three of them.

  “Orphelia didn’t raise cowards,” he says quietly. Then, with a grin: “We might’ve just hit the jackpot.”

  The three friends exchange confused glances.

  “…Jackpot?” Elias repeats.

  Guren turns on his heel, already walking away.

  “Ironford UF Base,” he calls over his shoulder. “Tomorrow. 0600.”

  He pauses just long enough to add:

  “Don’t be late.”

  Then he’s gone.

  Silence hangs in the corridor.

  Amélia exhales shakily. “Did… did we just enlist?”

  Elias rubs his face. “I think we just challenged the military.”

  Rhys stares after Guren, fists clenched, heart pounding.

  “…Good,” he says quietly.

  Because if this world only understands strength—

  Then I’ll show what duty really is.