Seyfe slouched in his chair, eyes half-lidded as the government official continued their speech at the front of the auditorium, gesturing dramatically in front of a massive holographic projection of the Veiler Code: "Duty Above Self, Unity Over Fear, Sacrifice for the Future."
He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull.
The official droned on about "civic pride," "standing against the tide of echoforms," and "becoming the vanguard of a new age," while a looping montage of Veilers in shining armor fought creatures the students hadn't even heard of yet. It was all smoke and mirrors. Bright lights to distract from the cage they were all just shoved into.
By the first hour, students on either side of him were reacting in opposite extremes—one kid was nodding fervently like he'd found his purpose, eyes practically glowing with hope, while another near the back was visibly shaking, mouthing prayers or mantras under his breath.
Seyfe just exhaled through his nose."This ain't hope. This is a prison sentence with better uniforms."
When the second hour dragged on, it became clear the propaganda wasn't just to inspire—it was meant to grind down the spirit, soften resistance, and rewire their fear into loyalty. A few had already fallen for it, eyes glazed, jaws tight with what they thought was pride but was actually submission.
By the time they were dismissed, half the room stood like statues waiting for orders, while the other half stumbled out like survivors of a mental ambush.
Seyfe stood slowly, stretched, and muttered under his breath, "If this is the intro, can't wait for the rest of this circus."
He glanced around—Aki wasn't anywhere in sight, but he figured she was probably watching somewhere, unseen like always. She loved that ominous Veiler sneak-around nonsense.
He started toward the exit with the rest of the crowd, already counting how many ways this place was going to try and break him—and how many he'd survive just to spite them.
The dormitory loomed like a white monolith, sterile and imposing, with nothing but endless rows of reinforced glass windows and cold steel balconies. The cadets were herded into the central lobby, where government staff split the group, funneling them toward separate elevators and stairwells based on gender. No mixing. No "unsanctioned bonds." As one of the Veiler staff put it, "Distraction is weakness, and weakness gets you killed."
Seyfe muttered under his breath, "Weakness is making me live in a damn tower with no working elevator."
At the registry desk, Seyfe was handed a slim black device—sleek, matte finish, about the size of a regular smartphone but denser, with a faint glimmer of circuitry pulsing beneath the glass. The top corner bore the silver crest of the Veiler Corps, and the interface blinked awake the moment it touched his palm.
"This is your Cellik," the officer explained, not bothering to look up from her clipboard. "Veiler-issued. Don't lose it. Everything you do from now on gets routed through that device—missions, identification, comms, intel drops, biometric tracking, you name it."
Seyfe turned the device over in his hand. It looked and felt like a phone—familiar, almost comforting. Except for the part where it probably also doubled as a leash.
"Room 1706, North Wing," the officer told Seyfe without even looking up.
Seyfe blinked. "Seventeen... as in, the seventeenth floor?"
"You've got legs, don't you?" the officer replied dryly.
Seyfe turned slowly toward the stairwell, squinting like he was staring into the abyss. "Who the hell builds a dorm and doesn't give them a working elevator?"
Another cadet behind him whispered, "Some say it's part of the training. Builds discipline."
Seyfe shot him a look. "You know what else builds discipline? Not dying of a stroke halfway up the building."
Groaning, he began the slow climb, each floor echoing with the footsteps and exhausted curses of new cadets. The further he went, the more he began to feel like this place was less of an academy and more of a twisted psychological maze. By floor twelve, he was tempted to just sleep in the hallway. By floor fifteen, he was considering murder.
When he finally stumbled into his room on the seventeenth, drenched in sweat, legs jelly, he collapsed onto the bare mattress with a groan.
"…Next time I get sent to hell, I hope it has escalators."
The Cellik on his wrist blinked to life, as if mocking him. "Welcome, Cadet Seyfe. Your orientation progress has been logged. Prepare for your first simulation training tomorrow."
Seyfe pulled a pillow over his face. "Of course there's more."
The dorm room wasn't much to write home about. Bare concrete walls, a steel-framed bed, one tiny desk, and a window that looked out to another wall—it was as basic as basic got. But for Seyfe, who had spent most of his life in the skeleton remains of the Dead City without a roof over his head, it was practically luxury.
Still, that didn't stop him from cursing under his breath.
The mattress felt like it was stuffed with bricks. No give, no warmth—just a slab masquerading as something sleepable. He shifted, turned, flipped the pillow, even kicked the blanket halfway across the room, but nothing helped. His back screamed. His spine questioned his life decisions.
And then there was the electric fan.
A cheap, wall-mounted buzzsaw of a thing that whined like a dying animal in heat. It oscillated back and forth like it had a personal vendetta against peace and quiet.
"Gods, shut up," Seyfe growled, tossing a pillow in its direction. It hit the fan's cage with a dull thud and fell limp to the floor like a failed revolution.
His eyes scanned the room for a remote—anything to silence the cursed machine.
Nothing.
He sat up and rubbed his face. "Where the hell's the remote? Or do I gotta file a mission request to turn this thing off?"
The Cellik on the desk pinged softly, probably overhearing him and deciding to mock his suffering.
Seyfe flopped back down with a groan. "Great start, real promising. Veiler life—five stars already."
The fan continued to buzz like a broken drone with anger issues, and Seyfe, with eyes wide open and sleep nowhere near, started counting cracks in the ceiling.
Three thousand one hundred one... three thousand one hundred two...
Seyfe's voice was barely a whisper now, more a hum to keep himself from going insane. But as he stared up at the ceiling, the cracks began to blur together like veins on a corpse—same pattern, same stillness, same dead silence.
After a while, even the cracks got boring.
"Zero," he muttered, starting fresh like an idiot. "One… two… three…"
The fan kept its death-rattle going in the background, each tick of its loose blade like a small insult.
"Thirty-eight… thirty-nine…"
He shifted again, staring at the Cellik phone screen glowing faintly on the nightstand. No new messages. No updates. Just that sleek, government-issued slab of silence. He thought of checking it—maybe watching a tutorial on how not to lose your sanity on your first night in military sleep prison—but he didn't want to give them the satisfaction.
"Eighty-seven… eighty-eight… eighty—screw it."
He sat up abruptly, hair messy and eyes bloodshot. "What am I doing? Counting into oblivion?"
He stared at the fan again.
"I'm gonna rip that thing out of the wall by morning."
Lying back down, he let out a long, tired breath. "Or maybe I'll just count to ten thousand and lose all concept of time."
"…One."
Sleep still didn't come, but at least the numbers kept the silence company.
His wristwatch buzzed—sharp, sudden, merciless.
Seyfe jolted upright, eyes wide like he'd just been dragged out of a nightmare. Except, he didn't sleep. Not even for a second.
The buzzing continued as a string of system prompts flickered across the screen. 0600 HOURS: ORIENTATION CONTINUES. REPORT TO TRAINING BLOCK A-2. DRESS CODE: STANDARD CADET UNIFORM.
"Of course," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Because nothing says 'welcome to the system' like sleep deprivation and an alarm that sounds like a heart attack."
He swung his legs over the edge of the stiff mattress, every joint in his body protesting. The ceiling cracks mocked him in silence.
"You know what," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, "maybe sleeping in the dead city was more peaceful. At least there, the fan didn't hum like it was possessed, and the walls didn't smell like sterilized oppression."
He stood up, dragged himself toward the locker where his uniform hung, crisp and folded like a threat. The Cellik blinked awake with a fresh stream of scheduled tasks and instructions, but he ignored it for now.
"Let's just get this day over with," Seyfe mumbled, forcing his arms into the uniform sleeves. "Before I start counting cracks in the walls of the training block too."
Following the prompt from his Cellik, Seyfe trudged through the hallway, still half-dead from a sleepless night. The navigation on the screen pulsed softly with every turn until he finally reached a set of towering double doors.
As they slid open with a hiss, he was hit by a wave of warmth, noise, and the unmistakable aroma of actual, real food.
The cafeteria was massive—way larger than it had any right to be. It looked more like a high-end buffet hall than a military facility. Rows upon rows of polished counters stretched across the room, each lined with trays of steaming delicacies: buttery loaves of bread, sizzling meats, vibrant vegetables that still had color, and even desserts that glistened under the sterile lights.
Cadets, some in uniform, some still in training gear, bustled about—loading their plates like they hadn't eaten in weeks. Laughter echoed from one side of the room, while another was filled with quiet murmurs and tense glares from recruits too nervous to eat.
Seyfe blinked at the scene.
"This… is a cafeteria?" he muttered, stepping inside, his stomach letting out a low, traitorous growl. "What is this? A trap?"
Still, the food was calling, and his body was very much done protesting.
He grabbed a tray and joined the line, eyes scanning the options with mild suspicion. He hadn't seen this much variety in food since—well, ever.
"Alright then," he mumbled. "Guess we're doing luxury prison now."