The after effect is immediate.
Screens across campus flash back to life, but they no longer show Voss's face.
There's Sera's instead.
Some sort of live broadcast, blurry and jagged, of her in the observatory, voice commanding, glyphs burning bright. It's on every terminal. Every channel. Every drone feed.
The broadcast echoes down halls and stairwells.
No one claps.
Because there's still no guarantee.
Only anticipation.
Tension as tight as a wire.
I find Lio in the sector tunnels, face buried in a relay panel.
He didn't accompany me to the observatory.
He picked up flank reports instead.
"Rooftop command's locked down," he says without looking up. "Strata's been reinforced. They're poaching Aces—top-caliber students—to their cause."
I grit my teeth in anger. Ace's stats are eight and above peak level. We lose students and momentum if they defect.
"How many?"
He looks up at me then. Bruised eyes.
"Twenty-two. Waiting orders."
"Then they count more than us?"
"Not yet," he replies. "But they're being convinced."
We emerge into the lower courtyard at noon.
No classes in sequence.
No sweeps of drone.
Instead, groups of students gather up their belongings, murmuring. Some courage. Some fearful. Others too numb to think.
I thread between them, threading through patchwork camps of blankets and lamps, waiting throngs watching and depending.
My name is on someone's scrawled banner.
"Seva Lives."
It pulses alive in the gloom.
A girl steps out.
Rank F.
She has nothing—no gun, no badge.
She speaks but three words.
"Thank you, Seva."
Nothing more.
Later I catch up with Jin by the old maintenance pit under the practice field, where the Conduit cell has built a secure operations center.
She sits behind a desk with tablets and maps.
"Strategy?" I ask her.
She doesn't answer right away.
"I'm afraid," she says.
The word slices deeper than I expect.
"I know," I reply.
"So are we all," she states, tapping a tablet. "But the question is—what comes after surviving?"
I stare at her.
Then I push back.
"What do you want?"
Her eyes lock with mine.
"We stay."
The world outside is next to pay attention.
Reporters gather at the gates of Lunaris High, cameras whirring. They are a headache—they inflate fear and rumor.
Voss isn't on screen this time.
Instead, a Strata agent speaks over the closed gates: "This building is in emergency assessment. Unauthorized personnel must leave. Students found outside boundary limits will be detained."
The gates are shut.
But no one flees.
In the command center, Nessa reads reports.
"Ration stock low."
"Meditation field malfunctioned."
"Used maintenance drones as temporary blockades."
We talk logistics, mapping safe zones, and figuring out what to push out versus keep.
It's absurd.
Survival mode is one strange parent.
It demands constant attention, endless small decisions.
And no promise of tomorrow.
At twilight, the Aces arrive.
Twenty-two students in full white-red Alpha uniforms march in formation to the Hall of Ranks. They stop outside.
Voss's voice blares on an overhead speaker: "We will not allow chaos under the guise of innocence. Choose your side now. Walk in and declare. Or remain outside and be treated as an enemy."
One by one, the Aces come.
Their badges flash.
And they all place a hand on a railing.
When the door opens, they file in.
Inside, the monoliths come back to life, but with a difference: each of their names lights up; the rest are dark.
It's control.
Performance.
The performance is perfect.
It frightens the hell out of me.
Because it's exactly what Voss wanted.
I step inside into the courtyard where students stand still and watch.
I speak louder.
"See them."
Heads turn.
"They arrived because they were commanded—or afraid. But this," I gesture with my arm to the battered tents and hushed names, "This is built on faith. We're the ones who hold out for a world without rank."
At least a hundred faces look up in agreement.
Not all.
But enough.
A whine from a drone passing overhead.
The food generator coughs.
Nessa stands beside me, eyes narrowed.
"Seva, they're getting ready to purge."
I glance up.
The drone beams begin to dip.
We ought to leave.
Before it gets ugly.
But I don't.
I gaze at the courtyard.
I gaze at the Aces standing in the hall.
I gaze at the journalists by the gates.
I stand up straight.
And wait.
The drone keeps falling.
It's built to police. To subdue. To intimidate.
When it's above, I raise my hand.
The glyphs burn white-hot.
The drone stops.
It crashes out of the sky.
No blast.
No bystanders hurt.
Just quiet.
Then cheers.
Tent-shaking, breath-stopping cheers.
That night, in the command bunker, we tally numbers.
Two hundred students actually stay behind on campus. Seventy-five in the outer rings. Three hundred additional who won't leave.
Nessa calculates.
"It's growing faster than we expected."
"Good," I respond.
She glances at me.
"It's riskier now."
I sleep fitfully, seeing the city lights beyond the High's dome.
They're quieter now.
But I recognize the quiet isn't safety.
It's a lull.
A break before the next act.
And I know I have to finish the scene.
I return to the Hall of Ranks by myself early in the morning.
I place my hand once more on the monolith.
My glyph throbs.
The screens flicker to one message:
"THIS IS OUR DECLARATION."