The room was quiet—too quiet.
Echo Division's debrief chamber felt less like a room and more like a trap: a narrow, windowless steel box no larger than a coffin, with a single table anchored in the center. Two chairs sat on opposite sides, cold and unwelcoming. Four cameras hovered from the ceiling, their red LEDs like unblinking eyes, recording every twitch, every breath.
The air inside was thick, not just with stale recycled oxygen but with a palpable pressure that settled deep into Dante's chest. It was heavier than any gamma fallout, heavier than any threat he'd faced in the field. It was the weight of judgement.
Dante sat stiffly on one side of the table, knuckles still stained with dried blood and dirt, the aches in his ribs sharp reminders of the last fight. Every muscle screamed, but none of it compared to the ache curling in his gut—the gnawing, twisting weight of failing a direct order.
Across from him sat Commander Voss.
She was a statue, carved from ice and shadow—expressionless as ever, the same unreadable mask that had greeted him every time they met. No sympathy. No hint of approval.
"You disobeyed a direct command," she said, voice low, flat, like a verdict already passed.
Dante met her gaze without flinching, though the words cut deep. His ribs throbbed with every breath, muscles raw from pushing past limits. But it wasn't the physical pain that hurt most—it was the weight of her disappointment.
"I made a call," Dante said, voice rough but steady. "I saved him."
Voss's eyes narrowed, unyielding. "Samson Creed was a high-level threat. You were told to stand down and wait for containment teams."
"If I'd waited…" Dante's jaw clenched. "We'd be picking up body parts. You know it. Creed was going nuclear. I couldn't just stand there."
A long, loaded silence.
Then Voss slid a tablet across the table with a quiet tap. The screen flickered to life, displaying frozen images pulled from the mission's aftermath: twisted metal beams melted into molten ruins, collapsed concrete slabs, and civilians huddled beneath the shimmering Pulse shield Dante had conjured moments before the site went critical. Then—there he was—his form, glowing with unstable arcs of electricity, crackling with energy far beyond the normal Pulse signature, mid-combat against Creed.
"You exposed your powers," Voss said, voice colder now. "Too much."
Dante glanced down, exhaling sharply. "Adapted Form".
Voss's eyes didn't leave the screen. "You displayed something... unrecorded. Unclassified."
"And you think you understand what that means?"
Dante leaned back in his chair, the chair scraping quietly against the floor. He bit down on a rising tide of frustration and anger, keeping his voice calm but firm. "It means I'm not just a mimic. I evolve. I don't just copy powers—I adapt them."
Voss tapped the screen again, her gaze sharpening. "Or it means your control is slipping. And if that's true, it's a risk we can't afford."
Before Dante could respond, the door hissed open behind him. Agent Hartman stepped inside, arms folded across his chest, his presence carrying a quiet authority. A moment later, Pulse entered as well—bruised, bloodied, but upright. His usual cocky grin was replaced by a serious expression.
"Permission to speak freely?" Pulse asked, eyes locking with Voss.
"No," she said without hesitation.
Pulse shrugged but pressed on. "He stopped Creed. Hell, he stabilized him. I've seen powers run wild before—this wasn't that. Dante channelled it. Controlled it."
"Exactly," Hartman added, voice steady. "You don't put a ceiling on someone when they're breaking barriers we haven't even mapped yet."
Voss remained unmoved, her face a fortress of stoicism. "Then let's see how high he can climb without crashing."
She stood abruptly, folding her arms with finality.
"Room C7. Sealed training module. Forty-eight hours. Alone. No aids. No tech. No Pulse."
Dante frowned, brow furrowing. "You're isolating me?"
"I'm testing you," Voss said, voice sharp as a blade. "If your abilities are truly evolutionary, then let's see what you adapt to when there's nothing left but pressure."
The door slid shut behind him with a mechanical hiss.
Room C7 was silence made solid.
The chamber was buried deep underground. Its walls were layered with vibranium mesh, engineered to cancel sound waves, scatter kinetic energy, and scramble any residual powers—an empty cage designed for containment or punishment, depending on who was inside.
There was no light save for a dim glow from a low ceiling panel, the illumination too faint to chase away the shadows hugging the corners. No food. No comfort. Only hydration lines were embedded in the wall, and the faint, rhythmic beep of the bio-monitor implant ticking beneath Dante's skin in his neck—a reminder that he was alive and watched.
The first hour, he paced.
By the second hour, he realized something was wrong. The walls weren't just swallowing sound—they were dampening energy itself. The static charge buzzing under his skin refused to ignite. The pulse of kinetic flow he summoned so easily outside was smothered here.
He reached out, sparking a flicker of electricity between his fingers.
Nothing.
No crackle. No spark. Just silence.
By hour six, the sluggishness had seeped deep into his muscles, turning strength into weight, movement into effort. His hands trembled. His breath caught.
[ENERGY SOURCE: INERT]
[FORM STATUS: NULL]
They'd done something to the room—dampening fields? Quantum inversion? Dante didn't know, but whatever it was, it kept his powers frozen, caged inside his flesh.
He slammed a fist against the wall, the impact muted like a ghost's whisper.
No echo answered.
Not even his rage could stir this place.
Hour sixteen.
The silence shifted.
Dante sensed it before he saw it—a subtle disturbance, a breath heavier than air, as if the chamber itself was breathing. The room was still, the walls unmoving, but the air thickened with a presence.
He spun around.
Nothing but shadows.
Then the temperature dropped.
Cold crept along the ceiling like frost forming before a storm.
A voice—calm, cold, precise—whispered directly inside his mind.
"Heard you're the new trick dog. Let's see how many barks you've got left."
Dante froze. His eyes scanned the darkness.
"Who said that?"
No answer.
From the shadows, a shape emerged—something not quite man, not quite machine. It was darkness made solid, a shifting mass of black that swallowed light.
It stepped forward.
The armour was unmistakable—Echo Division issue—but twisted and altered. Darker, heavier plating. The helmet visor is replaced by a featureless matte shell, void of any eyes or sensors.
When it moved, no sound followed. No footfall. No hum. No breathing.
Dante's Copy ability reached out instinctively.
Nothing.
No rhythm. No pattern. No signature.
His powers, his instincts—they didn't react.
"Who are you?" Dante demanded, stepping back, every muscle coiled and ready.
No answer.
In a blink, the shadow was on him—strike delivered with brutal precision.
The breath was knocked out of him. The world tilted, pain bursting across his chest. He hadn't even seen the movement.
He scrambled, desperate to mimic, to adapt.
Nothing.
He tried to read its timing, to learn its rhythm.
Still nothing.
For the first time since his powers ignited, Dante felt helpless. Vulnerable.
The shadow leaned in, voice a hiss like wind through dead leaves.
"Copy all you want," it said. "You can't adapt to what you can't perceive."
Then it vanished, dissolving back into the dark corners.
The door hissed open again.
Voss stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
Dante's legs trembled, knees weak beneath him.
"What the hell was that?" he asked, voice raw.
Voss's cold eyes met his.
"Your next lesson", she said. "If you want to evolve, you need to find a way to copy the unreadable."
The silence of Room C7 wasn't just a void. It was a crucible. And Dante was about to be tested like never before.