The hiss of gas was unmistakable—sharp, metallic, urgent.
Ace slammed into Kiera with his shoulder just as the faint trace of something acrid hit his nostrils. Her reflexes kicked in immediately, and she hit the floor with a thud, rolling under the bed just as a red light on the lockbox blinked twice… then went dark.
"Ventilation!" Ace barked.
Kiera didn't need a second warning. She was already moving toward the window, fingers darting to the seam of the sill he'd pried open earlier. She twisted it hard, and the window cracked open an inch.
It wasn't enough.
Ace reached under his mattress, pulling out the emergency combat knife from his boot sheath. He jammed the blade into the window's side and forced it wider, shattering the latch with a grunt. Cool night air rushed in, pushing back the invisible gas that was spreading through their room.
By now, alarms should have been going off. In any normal school, the fire suppression systems would be triggered. But this wasn't a normal school. This was Blackridge.
The gas was the test.
He grabbed Kiera's arm and pulled her toward the open window. "Climb."
"Where—?"
"No time."
They were on the third floor, but Ace had already memorized the dorm layout during the initial sweep. He gripped the drainage pipe running beside the window, tested its strength, then swung out and began climbing.
Kiera didn't hesitate.
They descended fast, the metal biting into their palms. A few students inside other rooms watched with wide eyes from behind their curtains—but none opened their doors. No one moved to help. No one dared.
By the time their boots hit the grass, Ace's knuckles were scraped raw.
Kiera blew out a breath. "You think it was a warning?"
Ace shook his head. "No. A challenge."
Above them, the lights in their dorm flickered once—then stabilized.
Whatever had happened was over. For now.
Kiera glanced at him. "So… what now?"
"We hunt."
They crossed the courtyard in silence, sticking to the shadows between hedges and stone archways. The security cameras above didn't turn toward them, but Ace felt the weight of surveillance all the same.
He'd survived war zones with less paranoia.
At the edge of the administration building, they paused. From here, the dorm tower was visible again—and so was the faint glimmer of a reflection from the top floor.
"I saw someone watching us earlier," Ace said.
Kiera nodded slowly. "I felt it too. You think it's faculty?"
"Maybe. Or worse."
They crept up the side of the building, entering through a maintenance door Ace picked open with a bent nail from his boot tread. Inside, the air was warmer—sterile, quiet, humming with low electricity. They moved quickly, ducking into service stairwells and avoiding motion sensors, until they reached the top floor.
As they stepped into the hallway, the temperature shifted.
It wasn't just colder—it was heavier.
The corridor stretched in a perfect line, black doors on either side. No names. No numbers. Just silent watchers in the dark.
Ace pressed forward.
Halfway down, a light flicked on at the end of the hall.
A figure stood in the glow—tall, dressed in a high-collared coat with a gold Blackridge crest pinned to the left breast. He looked young—maybe mid-20s—but his presence said otherwise.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just stood there with hands behind his back, eyes unreadable behind thin glasses.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said finally.
Ace didn't blink. "Neither is nerve gas in the dorms."
"Your room was selected at random," the man replied smoothly. "As part of a controlled survival evaluation."
"You think nearly killing students is training?"
"You're here to survive. Complaining about the rules won't help you pass."
Ace took a step forward. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head slightly. "Call me Instructor Graves. That's all you need to know. You've passed tonight's test… barely. But be warned, Donovan. Blackridge doesn't care about your past. Only what you can endure moving forward."
He glanced at Kiera.
"Both of you. Return to your rooms. And if I catch either of you wandering unescorted in this wing again, you'll be escorted out in pieces."
The lights snapped off.
By the time their eyes adjusted, Graves was gone.
Kiera exhaled. "He's cheerful."
Ace stared at the space where the instructor had stood.
"This place isn't a school," he muttered. "It's a gauntlet."
And something told him that tonight's test was only the beginning.
—
The next morning, the academy's training field buzzed with activity.
Students from Classes A through D were assembled in clusters, wearing combat-grade gym uniforms. Everything from obstacle courses to weapons racks littered the grounds. A dozen instructors stood like sentinels around the perimeter.
Ace stood in formation beside Kiera and a dozen others, most of whom looked either way too confident—or on the verge of collapsing.
"Class C, attention!"
The bark came from a short, barrel-chested man with cybernetic implants replacing his left eye and forearm. He paced before them like a wolf sizing up prey.
"I'm Sergeant Halden. You'll address me as Sir. Fail my drills, and you'll wish you died in your sleep."
Kiera muttered, "Too late."
Ace smirked but didn't reply.
Halden gestured to the obstacle track. "Today's your welcome party. You'll run the Gauntlet. Twelve stages. Endurance, reflexes, strategy. Fail to complete any of them in time, and you're out. Permanently."
A girl raised her hand. "Out of the class?"
Halden grinned. "Out of Blackridge. Body bag optional."
With a sharp whistle, the course lit up—flashing red lights, shifting barriers, and rotating walls. Electrified panels crackled at either side.
The first student stepped up. He was tall, muscled, confident. The second the timer beeped, he sprinted forward.
He lasted ten seconds.
A tripwire sent him flying into a wall that retracted just as he hit it. Then came the shock plate. The boy screamed and twitched before medics dragged him off.
Halden didn't blink. "Next."
Kiera went silent.
Ace adjusted his gloves and stepped forward.
"I got this one."
She looked at him. "You sure?"
"Time to see what they're really measuring."
The countdown began.
3…
2…
He ran.
But not in a straight line.
Ace moved low and fast, zigzagging through the first set of poles with surgical precision. He ducked under the spinning blades, rolled through the laser grid, and dove sideways as the flame burst triggered.
His breath stayed even.
His steps were measured.
Every reflex honed from years of field work.
By the halfway mark, murmurs spread through the crowd.
"He's Class C?"
"Didn't they say he was new?"
"How's he dodging the neural snares—?"
Ace flipped over the pressure plate, angled off a nearby barrier, and launched into the final section—three collapsing walls, a hydraulic piston, and a ten-foot climb.
He leapt, using the momentum from the wall collapse to launch higher, grabbing the edge of the platform—
And froze.
A laser turret rotated toward him.
One he hadn't seen in any of the briefings.
He had half a second.
Ace let go—dropping just before the beam lit the air behind him.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, then scrambled back up and vaulted the side, landing clean.
The buzzer blared.
Cleared.
Halden stared at him, eyes narrowed.
"Name?"
"Ace Donovan."
The sergeant's cybernetic eye blinked.
"You've just been bumped to provisional Class B. Next."
Ace walked back toward Kiera.
She handed him a bottle of water. "Show off."
He shrugged. "Just surviving."
Before she could reply, a sharp boom rang out from the other side of the field.
A student had triggered a trap too early.
Smoke curled from the edge of the course. Medics ran.
The kid didn't move.
Halden didn't flinch. "Next!"
Ace's jaw tightened.
This wasn't about training.
This was about culling.
And he was starting to suspect that survival might not be the academy's true goal at all.
—