The dormitory was nothing like the Cemetery.
It took Mateo nearly an hour to reach it after leaving Eliza's office—down the elevator, through dim corridors that hummed with embedded energy, past unmarked doors that might have led anywhere. The halls felt designed to disorient, to make you dependent on guidance. When he finally found the male dormitory, the silence hit him first.
He'd expected chaos. Voices echoing through stairwells, doors slamming, the energy of teenagers forced into close quarters. Instead, the first three levels sat empty. Dark windows, sealed doors, the kind of stillness that suggested recent abandonment rather than vacancy.
Only the fourth level showed signs of life—scattered light beneath doorframes, the distant murmur of conversation. Had the others already been shipped out? Were the upper-year students fighting somewhere while he stood here clutching a keycard?
His assigned room was 4-C. The sensor beeped softly as the door slid open, revealing a space that felt both cramped and hollow. Six beds arranged in triple bunks, a single desk, one closet that wouldn't fit half his possessions even if he'd brought any. A large window opened onto the night sky, clouds drifting past like smoke.
Everything was white. Clean. Sterile.
Mateo dropped his backpack onto the bed closest to the door—strategy, not preference. First to leave if needed. Alec's horn clattered to the floor as the bag's zipper gave way, the polished curve catching the overhead light. Two years of nervous handling had worn it smooth as river stone.
He picked it up, thumb tracing the familiar ridges, and Eliza's words surfaced unbidden: How could you waste all of your potential?
Easy for her to say. She'd climbed from the bottom, sure, but she'd had the Atlas name to open doors, connections to exploit, resources to leverage. She hadn't needed to turn her body into a weapon. She'd never had to choose between pride and survival.
But the thought soured as soon as it formed. If he considered her wealth and name advantages she'd inherited, wasn't his quirk just another unearned edge? One he'd spent two years rejecting out of spite and guilt?
The door opened without ceremony—a quick knock followed immediately by entry. Whoever it was hadn't expected to need permission.
A pale, wiry boy stepped inside, shoulders hunched under the weight of an overstuffed backpack. Mateo recognized him from the trials: the one with weapons grown into his bones, elbow gun and wrist blade emerging like mechanical tumors. His clothes were worn thin, jacket hanging loose on a frame that suggested irregular meals and constant movement.
Henrik. That's what Ben had called him.
His eyes widened as he spotted Mateo. "You lost. What are you doing here?"
Mateo lifted the red keycard, letting it catch the light. "Probation."
Henrik snorted, dropping his bag with deliberate force. "They're really scraping the bottom now." He claimed a middle bunk, movements sharp and efficient. Everything about him suggested someone accustomed to taking what he needed before others could object.
Mateo filed the observation away. Desperate people followed patterns.
"Don't say that, Henrik."
A new voice from the doorway, smooth and carefully modulated. The speaker stepped into view—tall, lean, golden hair catching the sterile light. His shirt was pristine white, tucked into black pants without a single wrinkle. He looked untouched by the trials, which made no sense. Everyone here had fought to earn their place.
So how had this one managed it without getting dirty?
"Even if Mateo got beat," the newcomer continued, "Atlas said they're assessing quirk potential, not just combat scores." His smile was perfectly calibrated—warm enough to seem friendly, cold enough to suggest calculation. "Also, your name's going around. Slime Boy. That's what they're calling you. Figured you should know."
The label landed without impact. Mateo had expected worse. At least it was descriptive rather than creative. He pocketed the information alongside everything else—another data point in the growing map of how others saw him, where he stood in whatever hierarchy was forming.
"Great," he said flatly. "Just what I needed."
Henrik's laugh was sharp as breaking glass. "You're either a living weapon or a human shield in this place. If you can't manage either, you might as well leave now." He turned to survey the remaining bunks. "Which one are you taking? I need sleep."
Mateo sat on his chosen bed. "This one."
A crackling buzz filled the room—the intercom activating with a sound like electricity jumping between wires. Both boys reacted instantly: Henrik's elbow weapon clicking into position, the blond guy's hand moving to something hidden beneath his shirt.
"All trainees report to Training Bay Alpha in ten minutes. Latecomers will be scrubbed from the program."
Henrik blinked, retracting his weapon. "The hell?"
"Expected," the blond guy said, straightening his shirt. "Word was the training program got cut from four years to one. Turns out it's one month now."
One month. The timeline hit Mateo like ice water in his veins. Four weeks to transform from probationary student to battlefield asset. Four weeks to master a power he'd spent two years rejecting. Four weeks before they shipped him off to face whatever had torn through the top thirty heroes like tissue paper.
Part of him didn't care. Let them send him to die fighting the monsters who'd killed his family. At least then he'd go down swinging instead of rotting in some concrete box.
The sky outside had darkened, half-moon floating above the clouds like a blind eye. Had to be past eight.
"Well then," Mateo said, standing and shouldering his pack. "What are we waiting for?"
They reached Training Bay Alpha with seconds to spare, breathless after three wrong turns through corridors that seemed to shift when they weren't looking. The space that greeted them was massive—cathedral-high ceiling, walls lined with weapon racks and holographic emitters that hummed with dormant energy.
Red squares marked the floor in formation. Ben stood on one labeled "B" with two other boys Mateo didn't recognize. In front of them, six girls occupied the same square, faces set in expressions of grim determination.
No sign of Brett. Maybe Eliza's mercy had limits after all.
Mateo joined the others, forming neat rows that reminded him of a military formation.
Commander Reeves stood on a floating platform overhead, voice amplified through hidden speakers. "Welcome to your first lesson. Survival."
Ben chuckled—a sound without fear or hesitation. Easy confidence when nothing could hurt you. "They really don't waste time, huh?"
The floor trembled. Metal panels groaned apart, walls reshaping themselves with mechanical precision. The sterile training bay transformed into something else entirely—jagged ruins, smoke-choked sky, air thick with the stench of cordite and burning metal.
"Your quirks are weapons," Reeves continued, her platform rising above the artificial carnage. "But weapons are useless without instinct. Today, you learn to stop thinking."
The air shimmered. Drones descended in waves—sleek predatory shapes with razor wings and glowing red sensors. Their mechanical whine filled the space like angry wasps.
Alex was already smiling, cracking her fingers. She looked hungry.
Henrik raised both arms, weapons emerging with wet mechanical sounds. The blond guy—still nameless—drew a blade from somewhere, movements fluid as water.
Before the first wave even reached them, Alex flexed her fingers, and five drones scattered like leaves in a hurricane.
But there were more. Always more.
"A villain capable of remote laser fire has been identified," Reeves announced, her voice cutting through the drone whine. "Your objective is not destruction—it's escape. Preferably unharmed. This is a race. Win."
The word hit different than it should have. Not survive. Win.
Mateo watched the others spring into action—Ben wading through laser fire like it was rain, Henrik's weapons tracking targets with mechanical precision, Alex dancing between attacks like she'd been born for this. They moved with purpose, with confidence, with the certainty that they belonged here.
There was no going back. Whatever he'd been before the explosion, whoever he'd tried to become in the Cemetery, that person was gone. Atlas Academy would forge him into something new whether he cooperated or not.
The only question was whether he'd shape himself or let them do it for him.
Around him, his classmates fought with the fluid grace of people who'd never doubted their place in the world. They were weapons by choice, by design, by desire.
Mateo would have to become something else entirely.
The simulation raged on, and he began to move.