After a brief, pointed talking-to from Crucible about not being so reckless, he let out a sigh and stepped back.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said, giving her a look that said try not to get yourself killed.

  Jenna, meanwhile, grinned at Zoey. “Don’t be a stranger,” she teased.

  Then, before leaving, Jenna turned to the group of recruits and cupped her hands around her mouth.

  “OK, ROOKIES! Whenever you’re done playing pretend, come down to the Battle Arts so I can kick all your as—”

  Before she could finish, Crucible appeared behind her, clamping a hand over her mouth and lifting her off the ground with an exasperated sigh.

  Matt, waving a hand dismissively, shooed them both off like an old man sending kids to bed.

  Zoey watched as they stepped onto a floating platform, rising back up toward the entrance.

  She narrowed her eyes slightly.

  Is that really the only way out?

  Or was it just another spectacle?

  Either way, she was stuck here for now.

  And she could feel every set of eyes on her.

  Normally, she’d put on a small show—strike a pose, throw a wink, play it up for the attention. But now wasn’t the time. And, honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to amuse them.

  Well… except for one.

  One girl, in particular, wouldn’t stop staring…. No glaring at her.

  Zoey recognized that look immediately.

  Sizing me up, huh?

  The girl wasn’t just looking—she was inspecting her.

  And Zoey got it.

  She was confident, beautiful, and knew it. She was the kind of girl that could be any other girl’s nightmare.

  Zoey smirked.

  Before she could take it further, Matt’s voice pulled her back.

  “I hope you’re smiling because of all the progress you’ll make,” he mused, clapping his hands together.

  In an instant, everyone but Devonte disappeared.

  The platforms started to shift and drift apart, returning to their natural state—floating lazily in the starry void.

  Zoey exhaled, glancing at Devonte.

  She sized him up, taking in the details.

  Not bad.

  Probably somewhere between 19 and 23. Tall—maybe 5’10? Even though his eyes looked perpetually sleepy, there was a solid will behind them. A quiet intensity, like he saw things for exactly what they were and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

  Dangerous.

  She could tell by the way he carried himself, how he spoke to Matt without a hint of hesitation. If there hadn’t been a clear power difference, he probably would’ve swung on the guy.

  His aura was red.

  Blood red.

  Yeah, yeah—red aura, strong and dangerous, super cliché. But some things were cliché for a reason. That combination was undeniable.

  And he gets money, she thought absently, tilting her head, resting a hand against her chin.

  That specific kind of money.

  The “I’ll hit on the first date if you’re down, but I expect it by the third” kind.

  The “I’ll spoil you, but I’m not about to chase you” kind.

  Gangster vibes.

  She caught herself.

  For the first time since she got here, she was thinking like herself again—not like someone constantly calculating strategy, survival, or danger.

  Just a girl assessing a guy.

  That realization made her chuckle, her afterimages framing her amusement in waves of shimmering color.

  Devonte exhaled through his nose, watching the light ripple around her.

  “Shawty, you’re weird,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Zoey smirked.

  He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. Of course he got stuck dealing with someone with a weird-ass trait. He finished his work early so he could actually use nap time for what it was meant for. Now? Now, he was dealing with this.

  Also, the afterimages were really throwing him off.

  “Ard, well, what do you know so far?” Devonte asked, exhaling.

  Zoey shrugged.

  He blinked. Then frowned.

  “The fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

  She laughed. Damn, she was right on the money with her evaluation of him.

  She reached for her notepad, but before she could start writing, he held up a hand.

  “Nah, nah. You can’t talk either?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Aight, bet, shawty. This what we gon’ do.”

  Zoey’s eyes widened slightly, and she took a playful step back, throwing her hands up like my bad, big man.

  Devonte smirked. “I ain’t waiting for ya ass to write an essay. Like, what?, fuck outta here with that.” He shook his head. “I’ll just teach you what I was workin’ on, and you either got it, or you don’t.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Zoey grinned and, without warning, glided toward him in an effortless motion.

  Devonte took a step back on instinct, eyes widening for a split second.

  She stopped, tilting her head curiously.

  He huffed. “You are doing some weird-ass shit, I just had to reassess.”

  Zoey, smirking, grabbed her notepad and quickly scribbled something down.

  She flipped it around. Pointing to herself and shaking her head, then pointing to a drawing of a radio with the word ACTIVE written beside it.

  Devonte squinted, then let out a chuckle.

  “Folks stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But ard, let’s get this done.”

  He motioned toward the mats on the floor.

  Zoey floated over, fully embracing her flight at this point. Iyana already knew about it, so why not?

  Plus, she caught the way Devonte’s eyes flicked up at her movement—just for a second.

  Jealous?

  Cute.

  They sat down, facing each other, and Zoey noticed something interesting.

  His eyes weren’t half-lidded anymore.

  For the first time, he was looking at her normally.

  Zoey tilted her body slightly, resting her chin on her hand, smirking. Oh, I’m worth your full attention now? she thought.

  Devonte leaned back, arms crossed. “So why can’t you talk?” he asked bluntly. “Imma assume the light shit is from ya rift mishap. But is ya trait really bein’ mute? That’s crazy.”

  Zoey shook her head.

  Then, just to mess with him, she spoke.

  His whole expression dropped.

  He blinked, grimaced, then nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, never do that alien shit again.”

  Zoey laughed and casually flipped him off, her afterimages mimicking synchronized insults.

  Devonte sighed. “I’m serious, shawty. Shit hurt my head.” He rubbed his temple for emphasis. “But I get it. It’s why you gotta carry around the Blue’s Clues checklist.”

  Zoey narrowed her eyes.

  He was so lucky she couldn’t talk.

  “Yeah, ya aura weird too. You sure you ain’t radioactive?”

  Zoey immediately got up to lunge at him.

  Devonte didn’t flinch—just stared at her flatly.

  “I will punch the shit outta you.”

  Zoey sat back down, pouting dramatically, arms crossed like a scolded child.

  Devonte smirked. She’s cute.

  But those afterimages… the way she spoke, the way she moved—all of it meant one thing to him.

  She would be strong.

  How she’d use that strength didn’t concern him. That wasn’t his business. But while they were in this “program,” he couldn’t afford to lose his spot. Staying in the Top 5 came with benefits he wasn’t about to give up.

  And she?

  She was a threat.

  For a split second, he thought about sabotaging her.

  But then—

  A different idea formed in his mind.

  “What’s your Core Attribute?”

  Zoey shrugged.

  “Huh?”

  She reached for her notepad, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.

  “Nah, all good. You don’t need one for this.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You really odd as shit, though.”

  Zoey, grinning, flipped her hair dramatically, batted her eyes, and quickly scribbled on the notepad: I'm just special. Don't be a gooner.

  Devonte squinted.

  "You actually wrote that?"

  Zoey smirked, gesturing for him to proceed.

  Devonte exhaled and cracked his knuckles. “Aight, so I was working on honing my mani to work on my Selfish Encasement, trying to refine it. Follow?”

  Zoey nodded along, her afterimages subtly flickering as she processed the information.

  Devonte studied her for a second.

  This really her first day?

  She was getting all of this way too easily.

  He grinned.

  “Aight, fuck the explanation. Imma just do it, and you copy to the best of ya ability.”

  Zoey grinned back and nodded.

  Thank God he was sharp. Finally, someone who didn’t waste time with theatrics.

  Devonte sat up, exhaling slowly, rolling his shoulders before settling into position. His body eased into the movement like it was second nature—Zoey observed him closely.

  The way his mani flowed—it wasn’t just within him. It expanded around him, pulsing in waves, like ripples in a still lake. The energy didn’t just exist; it interacted, brushing against the world, bending the air, subtly pulling at the space around him.

  It wasn’t wild, either.

  There was a rhythm to it, a controlled push-and-pull, like breathing—inhale, expand, exhale, condense. The world around him responded, shifting just slightly, like it recognized his presence.

  Zoey’s eyes flicked upward for a brief moment.

  Matt was casually sitting on the outskirts of the area floating on a couch, legs crossed, sipping from a cup that probably contained nothing.

  But now she realized just how strong he had to be.

  To create and maintain a pocket space this vast, while allowing multiple people to hone their auras—all without losing stability? That was insane.

  She smirked slightly.

  No wonder he was cocky.

  Zoey turned her attention back to Devonte.

  He sat rooted, his energy flowing smoothly, sinking into the world and pulling it back in at a controlled pace. It was like watching someone play an instrument—precise, practiced, natural.

  She adjusted her posture instinctively, mirroring his stance.

  Straightened her back.

  Relaxed her shoulders.

  She focused—not just on herself, but on the way the world reacted to him. Then, slowly, she tried to copy him.

  Zoey inhaled slowly, closing her eyes, and let her energy settle.

  At first, it was subtle—just a faint hum within her, like an engine idling. But as she focused, as she mimicked Devonte’s flow, something shifted.

  Her mani began to coil outward.

  It didn’t just move—it pulsated. Expanding and contracting, ebbing and flowing, twisting around her like invisible currents, rippling through the space.

  Devonte, still seated in his meditative stance, cracked open an eye.

  The moment he did, his whole body tensed.

  Zoey’s energy was wrong.

  It didn’t just circulate—it transformed. The white platform beneath her shimmered, shifting from its dull, neutral tone into gold, as if dipped in liquid sunlight. The surrounding space reacted instantly, warping—the void flickered, hues bleeding from pure black to a stark, unnatural white.

  From his couch, Matt looked down, his cup lowering just slightly.

  “…Oh, hell.”

  The air thickened. Zoey’s energy swelled, pushing outward, growing, pulsing in rhythm with some unseen force.

  Devonte’s eyes widened. He leaned forward.

  “Yo, Zoey—”

  She didn’t hear him.

  She couldn’t.

  Because suddenly—

  Her essence was pulled.

  The world around her vanished.

  She stood before a door.

  A massive, pulsating gold and black door, looming before her like a monument. Same door but it was also different.

  The atmosphere was cold.

  No wind. No sound. But there was pressure, subtle yet suffocating, pushing against her the closer she got.

  Zoey’s gaze flicked across the surface.

  The gold ran like molten veins through the cracked black structure. It looked fragile—like something already broken, something meant to fall apart.

  But as she reached for the handle—

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Zoey furrowed her brows.

  She pulled.

  Nothing.

  She yanked harder, her grip tightening, frustration bubbling.

  What the hell?

  Then—

  A voice.

  She wasn’t sure if it was hers.

  It felt natural, yet foreign, like something that had always existed inside her but was only now speaking.

  “Not enough.”

  Zoey froze.

  Not enough? What does that even mean?! I've been through enough!

  She clenched her jaw and pulled again. Harder this time.

  “Not enough.”

  She gritted her teeth, yanked again—

  But before she could process it—

  She was pulled away.

  Reality slammed back into her like a crashing wave.

  The first thing she felt was a hand on her face.

  Her mani—the swelling, surging force—was instantly canceled.

  She barely had time to react before another hand caught her wrist, stopping her instinctive attempt to push away.

  “Relax, Zoey,” Matt’s voice cut through the thickened air.

  But it wasn’t casual anymore.

  His friendly, dramatic flair was gone.

  Zoey blinked, the haze of power and disorientation still gripping her.

  She looked around.

  Everyone. Everyone was staring at her.

  Zoey’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the aftermath.

  The once serene, starry expanse was now streaked with veins of gold, bleeding through the deep blacks and blues like cracks in shattered glass.

  The floating platforms, once suspended effortlessly, now drifted aimlessly, some tilted, others splintering, their edges crumbling into golden dust that never quite settled.

  She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, but her own remained fixed on the damage she had caused.

  And as her gaze flickered across the now twisted space, the weight of it sank into her chest.

  She had ruined the void.

  ——

  They felt it—that subtle ripple in reality, the kind of shift that no sensor could track.

  Golden eyes lifted toward the sky from behind a steam-wreathed cup of tea. A soft smile touched their lips.

  “Seems entropy is starting to extend its hand,” they whispered, voice barely above the hum of the city.

  They sat alone at a table in a quiet corner of Chinatown, New York. A small Chinese restaurant nestled between red lanterns and neon noodle signs.

  People passed by—some glanced their way and saw nothing.

  Others stared, caught in a trance, sensing something that made their skin crawl, their eyes water, or their hearts stir.

  It was an unnatural presence, yet it felt as natural as the breeze.

  They raised their hand.

  A young waiter—clean cut, polite—only noticed them once they spoke.

  “Refill, please.”

  The moment the words faded, so did their presence.

  The waiter blinked, confused.

  But his feet still moved.

  Compelled.

  Drawn.

  Because that’s what they were.

  They didn’t demand.

  They invited—with inevitability.