When the lights brightened that morning, they were sharper than before, sterile, almost surgical.

  Bash blinked against it, feeling the weight of the previous cycle still lingering behind his eyes. His

  body didn’t ache the same way his mind had yesterday, but it felt heavy, like gravity had quietly

  increased overnight.

  Across the dorm, Rixor stretched, rolling his shoulders until they cracked. “I’m guessing today’s gonna

  be worse,” he said.

  Nyra zipped the collar of her training suit, expression unreadable. “Jouk doesn’t seem like someone

  who repeats himself.”

  Taren stood by the door, already ready. “Then whatever’s next,” she said, “we adapt.”

  Rest level acceptable, S-C noted in Bash’s mind. Body calibration incomplete. Neural stability holding.

  That sounds optimistic, he thought back.

  Optimism is a poor metric, she replied evenly.

  He smirked faintly. Still sounds like you’re trying.

  Her silence felt like agreement.

  They left together, following the growing stream of Spartors down the corridor. The air hummed

  faintly, that omnipresent ship resonance, but now there was a low undercurrent, a deeper pulse, as

  though the vessel itself was bracing for effort.

  When they entered the Coordination Facility, the change was immediate.

  Gone were the precise training rings and holo-grids. In their place stretched a massive arena, bright and

  sprawling. The smooth floors had been replaced by textured surfaces, rubberized tracks looping around

  the perimeter, rows of heavy equipment gleaming beneath stark white lights.

  A track curved in concentric rings around the room, leading toward a cluster of weight platforms,

  hydraulic resistance machines, and cardio rigs. The air even smelled different rubber mixed with heated

  alloy.

  Rixor whistled softly. “So… gym class. The murder edition.”

  “Seems so,” Bash muttered.

  Jouk stood near the center, hands clasped behind him. His expression, as always, gave nothing away.

  “Coordination Phase 2,” he said. His voice carried clearly through the space. “Physical calibration.

  Yesterday, your minds were measured. Today, your bodies.”

  No one responded.

  “You will complete ten sequential trials. Cardiovascular endurance. Strength output. Reflex stability.

  Balance control. The sequence will repeat until thresholds are achieved.”

  He paused, scanning the room. “Minimum standard: completion of three full circuits without decline,

  fulfilling a minimal threshold.”

  Rixor leaned toward Bash. “Define minimal.”

  “Guess we’ll find out,” Bash said.

  “Begin,” Jouk ordered.

  A sharp tone rang through the arena. The floor lighting shifted, forming a pulsing red line that traced

  the length of the track, the standard pace. It glowed faintly ahead of them, moving at a precise,

  unchanging speed.

  “Maintain alignment with the line,” Jouk’s voice carried over the speakers. “Falling behind registers as

  inefficiency.”

  The command was followed by another sharp tone. The line surged forward.

  Spartors broke into motion, falling into synchronized rhythm, one hundred figures sprinting as the air

  filled with the sound of pounding steps.

  Bash ran.

  At first, the pace felt manageable. The line glowed like a heartbeat, pulsing just behind of him, daring

  him to fall behind. His body found rhythm easily, each stride measured against that glowing mark. The

  track curved beneath him, synthetic grip biting into his soles.

  Increase stride length. Regulate breath at intervals of five. Maintain forward posture, S-C instructed

  quietly.

  You sound calm for someone being chased by a line, he thought back.

  The line is constant, she replied. You are the variable.

  He pushed harder, matching its speed. The red glow reflected faintly off his skin as the hum of

  synchronized footfalls echoed through the hall. Behind him, someone faltered; the line passed over

  them, and their ID tag blinked yellow.

  No one spoke. The sound of the line’s rhythmic pulse became everything, a heartbeat for the facility

  itself, indifferent and absolute.

  The first circuit ended with barely any strain. The next began immediately.

  “Transition!” Jouk called.

  The track lighting dimmed; new markers flared over the resistance platforms. Spartors shifted

  positions, stepping into assigned zones. Hydraulic weights rose silently from the floor.

  “Load set to forty percent output,” Jouk said. “Lift until limit.”

  Bash grasped the metal grips. The resistance felt strange, smooth, almost alive, increasing

  exponentially with motion. His muscles strained, arms trembling against invisible force. Beside him,

  Rixor grunted, face tight with effort.

  Nyra’s movements were mechanical, perfect form despite the tension in her frame. Taren’s breathing

  stayed measured, but sweat already gathered at her brow.

  When the platform flashed blue, they transitioned again.

  Next: vertical climbs. Then lateral balance beams. Then weighted runs. Then rotational throws with

  dense alloy spheres.

  Ten total exercises. No rest.

  By the end of the first circuit, the room pulsed with heat and sound, the rhythmic clang of weights, the

  pounding of feet, the sharp hiss of breath.

  Jouk gave no direction beyond the occasional “Continue.”

  They started again.

  The second circuit felt heavier. Each movement took longer to execute. Bash’s heartbeat pounded in his

  ears. Rixor’s face flushed deep red as he stumbled off the track, caught himself, and forced back into

  motion.

  Heart rate unstable, S-C said quietly. Decrease output by six percent.

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  Can’t. He’s still watching.

  So is everyone else.

  She hesitated. Your efficiency is dropping.

  So’s everyone’s.

  By the end of the second circuit, several Spartors had collapsed outright, kneeling on the floor, gasping.

  Jouk didn’t react. He simply walked among them, eyes cold, silent.

  “Continue,” he said again.

  The third began.

  The track felt endless now. Bash’s legs ached, every stride sending dull shock up through his spine. The

  weights felt heavier than before, though they weren’t, just the loss of power compounding with every

  repetition.

  Rixor was no longer joking. His breaths came in broken bursts. “I think my heart’s trying to quit.”

  “Tell it to wait in line,” Bash muttered, hoisting another weighted bar.

  Nyra’s hands shook. Her once-perfect precision fractured under fatigue. Taren’s steady pace slowed to

  survival rhythm, controlled but clearly on the edge.

  By mid-circuit, their movements had degraded into sluggish automation.

  “Fourth repetition,” Jouk announced.

  Bash blinked. “Fourth?” He’d lost track entirely. Time felt circular. He couldn’t remember when he’d

  last drawn a full breath.

  S-C’s voice flickered faintly. Neural-muscular sync deviation at thirty-two percent.

  English, please.

  You’re falling apart.

  He gritted his teeth. Noted.

  Around him, Spartors began dropping out entirely, not collapsing, but simply stopping. Their bodies

  refused to continue. Some leaned on equipment; others sat motionless, eyes distant.

  Jouk didn’t intervene.

  “Fifth sequence,” he said. “Reduce speed. Increase control. Focus on stability under exhaustion.”

  Even S-C seemed surprised. He’s not testing strength anymore, she murmured. He’s testing surrender

  thresholds.

  Then I’ll fail that test too.

  He pushed forward. Another set of climbs. Another sprint. Another throw. His motions blurred into

  instinct, rhythm replacing thought. The fatigue reached a depth beyond pain, a flat, empty burn.

  By the seventh circuit, only a handful of Spartors were still upright. Rixor was among them, though

  barely; Nyra’s arms shook uncontrollably with every lift. Bash’s coordination faltered, his grip failing

  halfway through a pull. The bar slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor with a hollow clang.

  Stop, S-C urged. Your thresholds are exceeded.

  He ignored her.

  “Continue,” Jouk said.

  Eighth. Ninth. Tenth.

  No one truly finished. The few still standing were shadows of form, staggering through the final track.

  When it ended, Jouk simply raised his hand. The lights dimmed to neutral. The air vents roared to life,

  pulling the heat from the room.

  “Cycle Three complete,” he said. “Metrics recorded. Tomorrow, ” he paused, letting the silence stretch,

  “you will begin adaptive correction.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  No one moved for several seconds.

  Rixor leaned forward on his knees, gasping. “I think he’s trying to kill us.”

  Taren didn’t respond. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Nyra sat cross-legged beside a

  resistance bar, head bowed, breathing slow and steady, as though she were forcing herself to stay calm.

  Bash sank onto the floor, elbows resting on his knees. His body trembled from residual tension.

  You should not push beyond your limit again, S-C said.

  You’re starting to sound like you care.

  Efficiency loss concerns me.

  He chuckled dryly. Sure it does.

  There was a flicker of hesitation. I cannot feel your physical responses. Monitoring only mental fatigue

  is inefficient. You are too opaque.

  Opaque?

  Unreadable. My analysis is limited to what I can infer. I cannot calculate pain, endurance, or strain

  precisely. I am… ineffective.

  You’re doing fine, he said softly.

  I am not.

  He didn’t have the energy to argue. Then we’ll just both fake it.

  Silence. Then a faint hum of reluctant agreement.

  The cafeteria that evening was quieter than before.

  Even trays seemed heavier to lift. Most Spartors ate without tasting. The faint clatter of utensils was the

  only sound that dared fill the air.

  Rixor sat across from Bash, eyes half-closed, chewing slowly. “If he says ‘Coordination Phase 3,’ I’m

  walking into the nearest airlock.”

  Nyra didn’t look up. “You wouldn’t make it that far.”

  Taren’s voice was barely a whisper. “This is… deliberate. He’s breaking us down before building us

  back.”

  “Feels like the ‘breaking’ part’s going a little long,” Rixor said.

  Bash said nothing. He wasn’t sure his throat could form words. The taste of the nutrient paste turned to

  dust in his mouth, but he kept eating anyway, habit more than hunger.

  S-C was silent again until they rose to leave. You are deteriorating faster than projected, she said

  finally.

  You said that yesterday.

  Yesterday was theoretical. Today is measurable.

  He smirked faintly. Then tomorrow’s gonna be fun.

  That is not the definition of fun.

  He didn’t reply.

  The dorm was dim when they returned. Rixor dropped onto his bunk without even removing his boots.

  Nyra sat quietly on the edge of hers, posture rigid despite exhaustion. Taren lay back, one arm draped

  over her eyes.

  Bash stood for a moment, staring at his trembling hands. They felt detached, like they belonged to

  someone else.

  You should rest, S-C murmured.

  You keep saying that.

  Because you keep ignoring it.

  He smiled faintly, too tired for words.

  As he lay back, the low hum of the ship filled the silence again, steady, endless, impersonal. His eyes

  drifted closed before he could even think of what tomorrow might bring.