Code Name: Ember

After the briefing, we're herded into the cafeteria. No one speaks. No one has to.

Something changed in that room. Calderon didn't say names—but we all know who he meant. And they all know who he looked at.

I sit at the edge of the room, back to the wall, hands around a gray nutrient bar that tastes like old chalk and citrus. I don't eat it. I just hold it. Pretending.

Across the room, Larsen watches me like he's planning something. One of his friends, Keating, bumps into another trainee on purpose, just to see if someone will start a fight.

They're testing boundaries.

They want to see how far they can push before the system responds.

Or maybe they already know the system won't.

I take a slow breath and unpeel the bar. A small piece flakes off in my hand. That's when I notice it—a slight tear in the wrapper's inner lining, barely visible. A thread of gauze peeking out from inside the packaging fold.

I glance around.

No one's looking.

I slide the gauze into my pocket and press the bar to my lips to make the motion look natural. Then I stand and leave without finishing it.

⸻

Back in my assigned locker cell, I unwrap the gauze.

Inside is a chip.

Small. Silver. Almost surgical. There's a single line etched into the back.

I slot it into the port in my wall panel. It takes a few seconds to register.

Then the message appears in faint blue text:

Eyes are inside your trial. Someone wants you gone.

No name. No code. No timestamp. Just those ten words.

I yank the chip out, pulse hammering under my skin.

It could be fake. A scare tactic. A plant to rattle me.

But I don't think it is.

Because the chip is tagged with a number only operatives use—Type-6 clearance, usually reserved for instructors or blacksite admins.

Whoever left this, they had access.

And they're warning me.

⸻

That night, lights never dim. I lie flat on my bunk, eyes open, arms at my sides, mind repeating the message like a prayer I don't believe in.

Eyes are inside your trial.
Someone wants you gone.

I hear voices in the vent above me—someone coughing, maybe laughing. I'm not sure anymore.

At some point, the sound of my pulse drowns it all out.

I think of Keene's chip. Of my brother.
Of what it means to be wanted dead before the trial even begins.

But I don't let my thoughts spiral. I can't afford that.

So I repeat another phrase to myself, quieter, buried deep:

"You are the ember they couldn't kill."

And I breathe.

Just once.