On the seventh day, Kilos was ready to return to the room. He had no one looking out for him, but he believed his cellmates might prove different. He hoped they would welcome him back warmly.
That day, the students were gathered in a large hall. The military personnel remained in another room, which served as a junction to where everyone was housed, though they could easily access the training area where the boys were assembled. The students were organized into groups for the gathering.
The space buzzed with activity and murmurs as each group strategized, laughing and exchanging coded signals known only to them.
Delighted to see Garet, Kilos hastened toward him.
"Hey Garet," he called out with a broad smile.
"I'm better now," Kilos added plainly, hoping to rekindle some spark of camaraderie.
"Stay back and don't touch me," Garet snapped, brushing Kilos's hand away without so much as a glance.
Kilos stood momentarily stunned at the rude dismissal. He thought Garet hadn't heard his story, hadn't known how he had recovered.
"I'm sorry I've been away, but you saw what happened to me when I punched the bag. You—" Kilos began, his voice heavy with regret, a desperate attempt to explain, to reconnect.
But Garet was engaged elsewhere, deep in conversation with Lantern Monroo. The two were using sign language, their communication swift and intentional, leaving no room for intrusion.
The purpose of the current training was to determine which group would distinguish itself from the rest. Before the main competition commenced, strategizing was crucial for rising to the top.
Garet, Lantern, Skule, and Yaksa—the remnants of the former "Stubborn" group—had taken a warning from an officer to heart and were now on their best behavior.
When they emerged for this challenge, they found their group name had been changed to "The Specials." Their handcuffs were gone, and they now enjoyed a degree of freedom.
Lantern, in particular, was eager to please the authorities. His craving for recognition bordered on obsession; he would do whatever it took to secure his freedom and live as a regular student.
He still harbored a grudge against Kilos, and the warning he had issued against him remained vivid in the minds of the others.
"You no longer belong here. While you were around, we were 'Stubborn,'" Lantern Monroo said curtly, turning away slightly, sealing the conversation with his body language. "Now, we are 'Specials.'"
Whatever that title meant, Kilos needed clarity. How could a fellow student unilaterally declare him unfit for the group?
The others were too preoccupied to acknowledge him, but Kilos was resolute. He moved to stand directly before Yaksa, the number-five-ranked student.
But Lantern wasn't finished.
"I said you no longer belong here," he repeated, his voice tinged with anger.
Kilos remained unfazed.
"You have no right to declare my place vacant, Lantern," he responded, his words sharp and unwavering, each syllable slicing through the tension.
"Do you know I can crush you like scrap metal?" Lantern hissed, his tone laced with venom.
"You think so. I don't," Kilos replied evenly, his face alight with unexpected calm, his voice firm with quiet defiance.
Just then, a soldier approached. Lantern recognized him as the officer who had previously warned them.
"Any problem here?" the soldier asked, his eyes fixed on Kilos.
His gaze swept over the two like a silent judge rendering a verdict.
"I've been watching all of you. You're valuable to this academy, to the military, and to the state. You could work together—at least for today. Tomorrow, you might not even be in the same group. Your match begins tomorrow," the soldier stated.
Having made his point, he moved on to the next group, the clinking of his boots echoing on the metallic floor.
Lantern's eyes met Kilos's again—his expression unreadable, but certainly not friendly. Kilos's expression, by contrast, was one of indifference.
In just seven days, much had changed, leaving Kilos bewildered. He noticed the boys now had their own private signals, a shared language of gestures. Even their interpersonal relationships had grown beyond the timidity he remembered.
Kilos went to see Dr. Le-an to have his hand examined, still unclear about what had transpired.
He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice her approaching. She stood before him, and he hadn't even realized it.
"Oh, you're here," Kilos said at last, snapping back to awareness. He was embarrassed to find the doctor staring into his eyes, as if calculating something silently.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Le-an. Can you attend to me here?" he asked with a pleading expression.
"That's not possible, and you know it," Le-an replied gently.
Dr. Le-an, though young—barely in her twenties—was already a top-tier bone specialist. Her youthful appearance often made people underestimate her, but her skills as a fighter and healer were unmatched.
At this moment, however, she didn't appear formidable. She found solace in tending to the injured, in managing bone traumas—this was her comfort zone.
"I want to know if I qualify to be a student. Do I stand a chance?" Kilos's voice was low, heavy with doubt and inferiority rather than the boldness of someone ready to thrive.
"You know," she began carefully, choosing her words with precision so as not to damage his already fragile spirit, "Where were you taken?"
"Sergeant Lucas hunted me for a while before capturing me at an abandoned warehouse," Kilos replied tersely.
What could that mean, really? It had to happen somewhere—where wasn't supposed to matter.
But Le-an's expression shifted to one of deeper inquiry, as though he had said something significant.
"If Sergeant Lucas came after you, then he must have seen something in you," she said.
Kilos was taken aback.
Her words echoed a thought he had once entertained himself—until seven days ago, when everything he believed about himself had gone blank.
"I need your help," Kilos said, his voice faint.
Dr. Le-an rolled up his sleeve and began removing the bandage from his fingers. Kilos was surprised she was attending to him right there in her office—after initially saying she couldn't. But he didn't question it; he only waited, watching her closely.
"You're doing well. You're healing," Le-an said with a smile, lifting her eyes to meet his.
Forcing a smile in return, Kilos said, "Thank you."
"But you'll need to come with me for proper treatment. I can't do everything here. I'll attend to you myself," she added, her words calm and reassuring, though Kilos still felt a void within.
Her office was modest, not the grand, spacious chambers of a wealthy professional. A laptop rested neatly on a well-polished desk, and beside it lay a patient record file she had brought in earlier.
"Do you have any special ability?" she asked as they moved toward the door.
"I don't," Kilos replied flatly.
"Then why did you run toward the warehouse?" she asked, holding the door open for him.
The question gnawed at him. Kilos couldn't say for sure why he had gone there, but something about the warehouse had always felt like a haven. He had been drawn there by instinct. Listening to their conversation now, he felt an urge to return. But the academy would not permit that until he was fully stabilized as a student.
As for Dr. Le-an, she had avoided giving a direct answer to his question about his future. Instead, she pointed him toward something that felt, for now, out of reach.
Kilos made his way to the cafeteria, hoping that a warm meal might offer a brief reprieve from his tangled thoughts. The noise, the clattering of plates, and the rich aroma of stew—mundane details—were his only comfort, for now.