The day wrings everything out of me, down to the last drop.

  The training ground still hums inside my muscles, like the echo of someone else’s scream trapped beneath the skin. The exoskeleton is gone, but my body doesn’t know that yet. It lingers inside me as a phantom—metal memory along the spine, a heavy residue in the joints. Every step feels like walking through an old scar.

  My joints ache.

  Bones argue with nerves over who hurts more.

  I walk down the barracks corridor and count my steps. Not because I need to. Because when I count, my thoughts march in formation. When I don’t, they start running.

  Twenty-three.

  Twenty-four.

  Twenty-five.

  The door closes behind me with a dull click—the kind reserved for things that no longer care what’s inside.

  Silence.

  I drop onto the bed without undressing. The mattress is hard, military-issued, but right now it feels almost luxurious. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. White. Clean. Completely empty—a rare indulgence in this city.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  “Well then, hero,” I think tiredly. “Put in a full shift for freedom today?”

  My lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.

  My mind begins to loosen its grip on my body. Slowly. Carefully. As if afraid I might change my mind.

  And then—

  click.

  The noetic network deploys on its own.

  No command.

  No permission.

  Like a reflex no one bothered to disable.

  Eighteen cells.

  Mine.

  I don’t open my eyes, but I see them clearly—sharp as markers on a tactical map. Faint, steady pulses. Each one alive. Each one exactly where it should be.

  One is a medic. Cleans blood. Sometimes not his own. Sometimes not from the dead.

  Another is logistics. Inventory, crates, supply routes.

  A third is a technician. Tunnels, power feeds, emergency nodes.

  Some are maintenance.

  Some are transport.

  Some are just hands that do what’s required and don’t ask unnecessary questions.

  And only I—

  am the combat unit.

  The only one officially issued a weapon.

  The irony is so precise it’s almost funny.

  They’re scattered across the underground city. Dispersed. No direct contact. Between them—gaps, noise, чужие маршруты. And that’s good. Very good.

  The network is stretched.

  Hard to detect.

  Impossible to collapse with a single strike.

  Data flows on its own.

  I don’t analyze—I just know.

  Structural layers.

  Security nodes.

  Backup generators.

  Camera blind spots.

  Points where defenses look confident—and are therefore vulnerable.

  The city doesn’t hide.

  It believes.

  And at that exact moment—

  impact.

  Not an image.

  Not a voice.

  Not a warning.

  Pressure.

  The Dark Mind crashes into me like an owner who doesn’t bother knocking. It doesn’t ask. It doesn’t explain. It simply is—and everything else instantly loses weight.

  My will buckles like thin metal under a press.

  It rummages through my memory calmly, efficiently, almost lazily. Like checking its own pocket:

  memory—click,

  image—click,

  fear—click,

  calculation—click.

  I choke.

  Not physically.

  Worse.

  “You are required to eliminate the resistance command,” the directive arrives.

  Cold.

  Absolute.

  Not open to discussion.

  “Commence execution immediately.”

  I hold my balance. I don’t panic. I don’t resist openly. Resistance is death. And right now I don’t need pride—I need time.

  “How?” I transmit carefully, without edges. “I don’t know who’s in charge. I don’t know where they’re hiding.”

  A pause.

  And then—it gets worse.

  “A defective Noxaris cell has been identified.”

  Cold slides down my spine. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Too fast.

  “Termination in five—”

  I understand before it finishes.

  Four…

  A defective cell isn’t them.

  It’s me.

  Three…

  “Wait,” I throw the thought out. Quiet. Steady. “I’m still useful.”

  Two…

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  I compress my will into a point. Into a needle. Into the last thing I have.

  “I can give you more.”

  One…

  Silence.

  The countdown stops.

  “Awaiting proposals,” the Dark Mind reports.

  I exhale slowly.

  Very slowly.

  Now I can joke.

  “See?” I think. “Even a defect sometimes works better than the standard model.”

  I assemble myself quickly. Precisely. Without emotion.

  Pain—back in its place.

  Fear—under control.

  Humor—like a safety catch.

  “I can turn every resident of this city into Noxaris cells,” I transmit. “But I need proper weapons and network armor. Real ones. Not this local substitute.”

  Pause.

  It’s listening.

  “How do you intend to obtain them?”

  This is where the game begins.

  “Tomorrow you send a transport ship with supplies and weapons to the rebels.

  Along with them—crates of Noxaris equipment.

  I will seize that ship.

  With my current platoon.

  Accidentally.

  En route.

  Like a hero.”

  I almost smile.

  “I get everything needed to complete the mission. And you get the city. Entirely.”

  Silence stretches again.

  Long.

  Evaluating.

  “Proposal accepted,” the Dark Mind reports. “However, you, Axiom-126, remain a defective cell.

  At the slightest threat—termination.”

  “Of course,” I reply mentally. “I am completely loyal to the Dark Mind.”

  I swear.

  And I know—

  we’ll see

  who terminates

  whom.

  I open my eyes.

  The barracks.

  The ceiling.

  The creak of beds.

  Other people’s breathing.

  Tomorrow there will be a battle.

  And it will be

  very

  interesting.

  **

  My shoulder jerks from the shove.

  Not from sleep.

  Not from a nightmare.

  From something real.

  Rough.

  Human.

  “Hey. Axiom.”

  I open my eyes instantly—no transition, no fog. The body still aches, but the mind is already cold and clear. When they wake you like that, there’s no time to ease into consciousness.

  The barracks ceiling.

  Dim light.

  Shadows.

  The squad.

  All of them.

  They stand in a loose semicircle around the bed—not too close, not too far. Exactly that distance where you can start measuring someone, but you don’t have to hit yet.

  Ronan Crail—second-in-command, assault trooper. Huge, like a wardrobe that finally got tired of standing against a wall and decided it wanted to charge first.

  Mira Vossen—sniper. Her smile always looks like she’s already picked her point of impact. And it doesn’t matter whether you’re moving or not.

  Jake Thorn—heavy weapons. Calm. Dangerous. The kind of man who never raises his voice, because the caliber does it for him.

  Eli Fern—comms and drone control. His eyes keep darting, as if he’s here and in five other places at the same time.

  Silas Rowe—medic. The only one not judging, just watching closely. Like someone already estimating how much work it’ll take to put you back together.

  Bryn Havok—sapper. Hands that look like they’ve been on friendly terms with explosives for far too long.

  Tarek Noll—recon. A shadow. If he’s standing in front of you, you’ve already made a mistake somewhere.

  And a gap.

  Cal Irix is missing.

  The sergeant.

  The commander.

  That bothers me more than the entire lineup combined. If the commander didn’t come, this isn’t official business.

  “So what are you lying around for, Axiom Morrenn?” Mira grabs my shoulder again, clearly enjoying it. “Time for initiation.”

  I push myself up on one elbow. The body feels heavy, like it was reassembled overnight without instructions. Muscles hum. Joints file complaints, one by one.

  “Initiation?” I snort. “I was hoping for a form to fill out and a blood signature.”

  “There’ll be blood,” Bryn says calmly.

  Of course there will.

  Ronan steps forward. He’s smiling wide and friendly—the kind of smile worn by people who are confident they won’t be the ones on the floor in a minute.

  “We want to see,” he says, “how you fight. And how you handle pain.”

  I tilt my head, gauge the distance, his center of gravity, his hands.

  “Usually one at a time,” I say. “But if you’re in a hurry, we can combine.”

  He laughs.

  And in the next second, he grabs me by the chest.

  The floor disappears. The air leaves my lungs. His face is inches from mine—sweat, metal, old training rooms. Too close to pretend this is friendly.

  Alright, I think calmly. No ceremony, then.

  I strike his elbows. Precise. Fast. Not pretty—effective.

  He doesn’t even flinch.

  “Not bad,” Ronan notes, still holding me.

  So I slip out. Slick. Twist my torso, drive with my legs, and slam a spinning kick into his chest—hard, no margin.

  He flies back and crashes into the bunks.

  Someone whistles.

  “Oooh,” Mira drawls. “The rookie bites.”

  Ronan is already getting up.

  No anger.

  Just joy.

  He comes at me like a wall that decided to accelerate.

  I meet him with a series of body shots. One. Two. Three. Fast, clean, aimed at his breathing.

  Useless.

  His abs feel like concrete that’s already seen war and decided it doesn’t care.

  “My turn,” he says.

  The punch lands.

  Jaw.

  I don’t even register how. The world just folds inward.

  Crunch.

  Dry.

  Wrong.

  Not mine.

  Darkness.

  I snap back.

  Floor. Ceiling. Faces above me. Someone swearing. Someone laughing.

  Noemas are already reaching—warm, automatic, familiar.

  No.

  “Stop,” I order silently. “Cancel. Now.”

  The pain stays.

  Real.

  Rough.

  Human.

  I groan, rolling onto my side. The world pulses in time with my jaw.

  “Dropped like a sack,” Mira leans over me. “Didn’t even make it look good.”

  “You didn’t last long,” Ronan laughs and offers a hand. “But for a first time, you’ll do.”

  I look at his palm for a second.

  Longer would mean doubt.

  I take it.

  Stand.

  My jaw burns. Words snag against each other. But I smile—crooked, careful. Enough to say: I’m here, I get it, and I’m not going anywhere.

  “So…” I breathe out. “I’m alive?”

  “Very much so,” Ronan nods. “You’re in. Best fighters of the resistance.”

  Silas is already there. Scanner in hand. Calm, professional.

  “Let me see.”

  The device hums.

  “Jaw fracture,” he states. “Clean. Go to med.”

  Great, I think. First a gunshot wound. Now my jaw. I’m collecting.

  Doctor Liara Vess will see me again.

  They have a rough culture here.

  Very rough.

  But the thought of Liara brings something strange, almost inappropriate—something close to quiet joy.

  I take a step toward the exit.

  And I feel the squad watching me differently now.

  Not measuring.

  Accepted.

  But ahead—

  Another conversation.

  Another mission.

  And it will be far more dangerous

  than Ronan’s punch.