The world outside the Atrium of Threads seemed to hold its breath.
Inside, Liam stood again at the edge of the circular training field, his body battered but his spirit burning brighter than ever.
Dreck paced in front of him, a faint smirk on his face.
"You survived the first dance," he said, tossing Liam a small cloth to wipe the sweat from his face. "Now we sharpen the instincts you woke up."
The stone floor shifted once more with a heavy groan.
This time, instead of the flexible poles rising — a series of shifting platforms emerged, each tile floating inches above the ground, spinning slowly, unpredictably.
Some spun violently, others jerked to sudden halts, while invisible threads still shimmered faintly between them, crisscrossing like an unseen web.
Liam blinked, already feeling the sheer wrongness in the air.
This wasn't about slipping between poles anymore — it was about surviving a battlefield that was alive.
Dreck's voice cut into his focus.
"Movement is life now. Stay still, and you'll be crushed."
Without waiting for an answer, Dreck slammed his palm into the sidewall.
With a harsh clang, a barrage of training darts launched from hidden compartments in the walls — small, fast, and merciless.
Liam barely had time to react.
He leapt onto the first floating platform, feeling it shudder beneath his weight.
The moment he landed, the platform jerked, trying to buck him off.
A dart whizzed past his ear.
Liam didn't think.
He moved.
Twisting through the air, dodging a thread that sliced by inches from his face, feeling the tension in every muscle, every breath.
The old way — the way of thinking, analyzing — would only get him killed here.
He had to trust the feel again.
The invisible currents.
The threads humming in the air.
A spin, a leap — barely landing on another platform that tilted sharply under him.
Another dart fired — this one scraping his side. Pain flared, but he didn't cry out. He embraced it, letting it fuel his next movement.
High above, Dreck watched with arms folded, a rare glint of approval in his sharp eyes.
"Good," he muttered. "Now survive."
---
Meanwhile…
Atop the battered ruins of the High Tower, Kaela stood barefoot on the slick, wind-beaten roof.
Her knuckles bled from the endless assault of metal spheres that zipped through the air like angry hornets.
Lucas didn't offer encouragement.
He simply stood back, observing, measuring.
"Again," he barked.
Kaela gritted her teeth and shifted into a low stance.
Three spheres darted toward her at once, from impossible angles.
Kaela inhaled sharply, feeling the vibration in the air — the way Liam had learned to sense threads, Kaela was starting to feel the ripples of intent from the spheres.
Her body moved before her mind caught up.
A sharp sidestep, a twisting punch — CRACK — one sphere shattered into a rain of metal shards.
Another sphere clipped her shoulder, sending her spinning — but she used the momentum, letting herself roll across the rooftop and spring back up.
Lucas said nothing, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She's getting it.
Kaela set her jaw and lunged forward, fists a blur of movement, her breath ragged but her spirit unbroken.
The remaining spheres danced around her in a deadly ballet — but this time, she wasn't following them.
She was leading the dance.
---
Elsewhere…
In a dim, cigarette-choked hospital room, Brody sat hunched forward in a plastic chair, his broken hand freshly bandaged, his eyes wild with rage.
His mind played and replayed the humiliation — how those brats made a fool out of him.
He slammed his good fist against the side of the bed, ignoring the sharp pain that radiated up his arm.
"Pathetic," he hissed. "You're all pathetic."
His gang — what's left of them — sat silently nearby, heads bowed, shame thick in the room like smoke.
At the hospital , John and the others stirred.
Stitched bruised but alive, they were packing their things, signing the discharge forms.
Monday was coming.
And with it — a chance for payback.
John pulled a hoodie over his head, wincing at the movement, and muttered under his breath:
"They think they won," he sneered. "They have no idea what's coming."
A cold, simmering hatred bound the group together now — wounded pride fueling something far more dangerous than petty bullying.
They would return to school not as foolish thugs.
But as something else entirely.
---
Back at the Atrium...
Liam collapsed onto a spinning platform, gasping for air, bloody scrapes down his arms and legs.
But he was still standing.
Still moving.
The darts clattered to a halt.
The floating platforms sank slowly back into the floor.
And Dreck stepped forward, eyes gleaming.
"You're starting to dance with death," he said, voice low and proud. "Not bad for a rookie."
Liam coughed, managing a grim smile.
"Not done yet," he rasped.
Dreck's laughter echoed through the Atrium — deep, rough, and approving.
"No," he said.
"Not by a long shot."
---
Across town, Kaela stood alone on the roof, sweat-soaked, bruised, victorious.
All the spheres floated around her, shattered or sparking — defeated.
Lucas finally stepped forward, nodding once.
"Good," he said. "But next time, they won't be spheres."
Kaela wiped blood from her lip and smiled grimly.
"Bring it on."