KAIMA
"Attention, all recruits. This is not a drill. Report to the Briefing Hall—immediately."
"Repeat: all recruits are to assemble in the Briefing Hall within the next hour. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action."
I stood before the shower room—which wasn't exactly a room, more like a giant hall with over twenty busted showerheads, grimy walls, zero privacy—and sucked in a shaky breath.
This was so fucking bad. How hadn't I thought this far ahead?
No doors, no stalls, not even a freaking curtain—okay, a few had curtains, and those were already occupied.
I heard they had warm water too, but only the strongest had access to those, which meant there wasn't exactly hope for me.
All around me, boys from different sectors trooped in and out of the hall, in various states of undress, while I stood frozen—face burning and heart thudding hard against my chest.
The stink of unwashed socks and testosterone thickened the air, pheromones hitting harder than the churning in my gut.
Water sprayed unevenly from rusted pipes. Boys hollered over each other, shouting awful jokes and insults in different accents. Someone threw a boot. Someone else screamed like they'd been stabbed. Maybe they had.
Towels dropped. Someone howled out a war cry and sprinted across the wet floor, buck naked, chasing another recruit with a bar of soap like it was a dagger.
"Don't drop the soap," someone snickered.
A third guy sat on the floor, scrubbing one leg and eating jerky with the other hand like this was his backyard.
And I—like a glitch in this lawless system—stood wide-eyed, actually contemplating my decision for the first time, gripping my towel so hard my knuckles hurt.
I needed this bath. I stunk of blood, sweat, and recovery. But even in my desperation, I knew it'd take just one look at my curves and wraps for the whole illusion to fall apart.
I had to get out of here.
I took a shaky breath, trying to blend in, trying to move, but—
"Move it, shrimp!"
Before I could blink, a body slammed into me, and before I could protest, two solid hands grabbed me, hurling me under a showerhead.
"Yo, everyone! Pipsqueak baptism!" someone shouted.
"No, no, I don't—!" The shower creaked—and down came the iciest water to ever grace Earth, drenching me.
Thunderous cheers followed.
"Baptized!" the guy who shoved me shouted, laughing like a maniac as he high-fived his friend.
I grimaced, hugging my towel to myself, inwardly grateful the worst was over.
And just as he turned away, and everyone else started to mind their business, someone called out, "Why's he clothed?"
A dozen curious eyes turned my way. "Yeah, really—why you clothed, pipsqueak?"
Shit.
"'Cause I just had my bath." I took a step back just before someone tried to grab me. "Hey, trust me, you don't want to—"
"Damn, I'm hard."
"God, Tanner, get a hold of yourself."
"What? He looks closer to a girl than a girl does."
"Someone stomp this horny fucker's mouth."
"By the way, pipsqueak ain't had a bath. Lying through his teeth."
My throat locked. My body screamed run—but my feet wouldn't move.
If one hand found the curve of my waist, I was done.
I struggled against the hands already grabbing me. "I'm not lying! I already had a bath, get your damn hands off—!"
"Guys, this ain't even funny anymore—I think I'm hard too."
"You horny motherfuckers making this weird as fuck."
"Knox, you're the one holding him down so we can check his pants."
"Because I wanna know if he's packing, like they say small guys don't—not 'cause I wanna fucking jerk off, shithead."
Murmurs of agreement.
I found myself squinting at the dozens of idiots eager to compare sizes with me. These are the people in the Trials of Dominion?
"What the fuck?! I said get your hands off me!" I growled.
"Lying about a bath, huh? You smell like a rogue's armpit," one sneered, yanking my arm harder. "Let's help you out, pipsqueak. Hold his hands—I heard the cricket likes sliced fingers."
And as a hand shot toward my waist...
A fist slammed flat into Knox's nose. The crunch was satisfying. The scream, even better.
Sett stepped into view, damp, a towel wrapped around his waist, the forest tattoo on his right arm visible. His shoulders slouched lazily, crew cut hair still dripping.
Someone behind me gulped.
"So," he drawled, "who else wants a free nose job?"
And I never toweled up so fast in my life.
---
Thirty minutes later, I stood in the shadows, staring up at the podium like hundreds of other boys.
But unlike them, I wasn't here because I had hopes of being chosen. I was just here to watch the show and catch the first train out with the ones who weren't.
The ones who'd already decided this wasn't for them had left.
I felt like shit, and it wasn't just because my wet chest wrap and bandages itched like hell.
The memory of Sett saving me refused to leave my head. He was the last person I wanted to see me helpless—further proof that I didn't belong here.
I hadn't even thanked him. Just walked past him with a grimace. And now I stood far away from the three of them, a few rows back.
I could see Pierre between Levi and Sett, scanning every inch of the briefing hall. I didn't need to be told he was looking for me—but I'd rather leave with my head held high than face the pity in his eyes one more time.
I thought he believed in me. Well, I'm sorry I couldn't sit back and watch him get hurt.
I scoffed, blinking back tears. It sucked. It really sucked.
A voice spilled from the speakers.
"There are four Regiments. Each Regiment will have a thousand Recruits—divided into ten Companies. During trials, you'll be split into squads."
At that, ten Generals marched onto the stage in full decorated glory, lining up as they faced the crowd, brimming with anticipation.
"Over the last two days, the Generals have taken their time to analyze each and every one of you," the speaker said with a sigh. "Especially when you thought no one was looking."
Grumbles followed.
"Most of you are here for a free meal or bragging rights. Except this isn't the military. This is the Trials of Dominion—and a lot of you won't make it out."
A voice called from the back, "The food sucks ass though."
That voice—why did it sound familiar? I turned. Yep. There he was, pressing an ice pack to his nose. The dude who tried to take my pants off.
"Bet your mum cooked better, Knoxiel Hart," snickered the speaker. "Or was it the orphanage?"
A chorus of sucked teeth, laughter, and a few howls—among them, Levi's loud burst echoed the room.
Knox's face reddened. And there went my luck, because our eyes locked.
He glared. I quickly turned back to the stage, where the generals had begun to mingle amongst each other, whispering in low tones.
My fists clenched. My tears threatened to spill over.
"May the best man win."