B-Dorm – South Wing, Iron Spire
The walk was silent.
Zero and Grant strode through the steel-gray halls of the academy's underbelly, their boots echoing on polished concrete. It wasn't quiet because they were calm. It was the kind of silence that comes after the thunder of gunfire—the stillness where trauma hangs in the air like smoke.
A rusted sign hung crookedly overhead:
"Class B Dormitory – Authorized Personnel Only"
The thick, industrial doors hissed open with a mechanical breath.
Waiting beyond them were two familiar faces.
Rose—composed and fierce-eyed, her academy uniform surprisingly pristine despite everything.
Charly, her younger brother, held a folded combat jacket tight to his chest. His gaze was blank—not lost, just… emptied. The kind of look you only see on people who died once and didn't come back whole.
Zero raised a hand, casual in the face of their stares.
[Zero]: How'd you two do?
[Rose]: What'd you expect, snake-face? We died. He got his spine ripped out, and I had my heart torn straight through my chest. But—we passed the third trial.
[Charly]: I tore off the face of a guy who looked just like you.
[Zero]: ...Sounds like a rough day. Anyway, where's One?
Rose's expression tightened.
[Rose]: She got assigned to Dorm S. The Golden Spire. Apparently, the instructors decided she was too good for Silver—or this metal cage.
Grant let out a low whistle.
[Grant]: Golden Spire? That's high-born territory.
[Zero]: She earned it. I saw what she did in the second trial.
A pause.
Rose narrowed her eyes.
[Rose]: Yeah, well… she better not forget who pulled her out of that acid pool.
Charly looked up.
[Charly]: She won't. But the higher you fly in this place... the less they let you look down.
Both Zero and Rose blinked—caught off guard.
Zero turned to him slowly, brows raised.
[Zero]: …Charly? Did the poison make you smarter? Or was it the repeated stabbing?
Charly didn't even flinch.
[Charly]: We weren't always street rats.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Even Rose didn't snap back.
Zero looked at him a little longer, then just gave a faint nod.
[Zero]: …Guess none of us were.
They didn't talk much after that.
The group moved into their shared dorm—Unit B-17. The room was small, spartan. One window. Two bunk beds. Four lockers. No mirrors.
On one of the walls, someone had etched a message in old blood and nail scratches:
["Day 1: Survive. Day 2: Obey. Day 3: Choose."]
Rose ran a finger over the words.
[Rose]: Who do you think wrote this?
[Grant]: Doesn't matter. We'll be writing our own message of victory when we leave.
[Zero]: Let's save the poetry for after a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow's cafeteria visit might be more dangerous than the last trial. I heard spoon stabbing is so common that there's a doctor stationed full-time.
[Charly]: I heard the janitor quit last week. Too many pencil wounds. Apparently, here in the Iron Spire, stabbing equals extra credit if you hit the right organs.
[Grant]: That's why I'm using a fork. More holes, better grades.
[Rose]: This place is insane.
[Zero]: No, Rose. It's school.
They shared a rare laugh, not loud, just enough to crack the surface of what felt like endless tension. For a moment, the dorm felt a little less like a cage.
They slept with their boots on.
The next morning, a dull chime echoed through the concrete walls, marking the start of their routine. A voice, synthetic and genderless, echoed from an unseen speaker:
["Attention. Class B. Mandatory Cafeteria Period. No skipping. No weapons larger than six inches. No deaths beyond three. Attendance is survival."]
Zero stretched, picked up a spoon, and muttered:
[Zero]: Time for breakfast and bloodshed.
Zero ducked left as a sharpened fork narrowly missed his cheek. Without hesitation, he stabbed back—twice, leaving a groaning student slumped against the wall.
[Zero]: Hey, Grant. Morning. Sorry, I didn't wake you.
[Grant]: No problem, Zero. I've stabbed twenty already, so I'm feeling limber. How about you?
[Zero]: Thirty-six. All kidneys.
[Grant]: Precision. Nice.
They reached the cafeteria just as a half-smashed chair flew across the hall and shattered against the reinforced wall. The automatic doors opened with a hiss—and a smell that was part metal, part blood, and part... expired protein.
Painted across the back wall in thick, dripping blood:
["EAT, TRAIN, BLEED, REPEAT."]
["PROTEIN BUILDS POWER. POWER BUILDS SURVIVORS."]
[Zero]: I'll take the all-protein dinner. The brown cube.
The cafeteria attendant, a hollow-eyed fourth-year with six visible stab scars and a mechanical arm, wordlessly handed him a plate containing a dense, slightly twitching cube of compressed nutrients and regret.
[Grant]: Like a real warrior. Just remember—this meal isn't for the weak.
He rolled his shoulders, flexing. His muscles pushed through the seams of his uniform, taut and earned. Zero smirked and mirrored the motion, revealing lean, iron-wired muscle lines beneath the fabric.
A pair of students, sizing them up, made a move—but before they could even strike, a third stabbed both from behind, laughing wildly. That was the cue.
Chaos broke loose.
Spoons, trays, forks—anything became a weapon. Dozens clashed in a massive, chaotic brawl around half-eaten food, overturned benches, and cold rations. The medics stood at the edges of the room, lazily chewing on protein sticks while occasionally dragging bodies off the floor to resuscitate them.
Zero calmly picked up his protein cube, stabbed it with a fork, and took a bite.
[Zero]: Tastes like victory and cardboard.
[Grant]: Better than defeat and soup.
They sat down in the eye of the storm—unbothered, unbent—as students tore into each other all around them.
[Chapter end]