Forty-five minutes later, Zack returned, his expression telling me everything I needed to know.
"That bad?" I asked as he slumped into the seat beside me.
"They said I barely register. I can move a paperclip, man. A fucking paperclip." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "The technician actually asked if I wanted a referral to a power therapist. Like I'm defective or something."
"Rankings don't define you," I said, surprising myself with the sincerity in my voice. "The system's designed to sort people into boxes. Doesn't mean you have to stay there."
Zack looked at me gratefully. "Thanks, man. At least one of us will make it. They're calling your group next."
Sure enough, a technician appeared at the door. "Group C, follow me."
I stood, giving Zack a confident nod. "See you soon."
The testing chamber was a circular room with white walls and a glowing orb mounted on a pedestal in the center. Various sensors and cameras surrounded it, and a glass observation booth overlooked the space.
The technician—the same attractive woman from registration—explained the process to our group of five.
"The orb measures your elemental affinity, power output, and control. Place both hands on the surface and channel your ability naturally. Don't force it, don't hold back. The system will do the rest." She looked directly at me as she added, "The results are completely objective."
When my turn came, I approached the orb with calculated hesitation. The smooth surface hummed under my palms as I made contact.
(Remember,) the assistant cautioned, (you're playing the long game. Impressive enough to notice, not enough to fear.)
I nodded slightly, then focused on the most basic aspects of my sonic abilities. I let power flow through me, carefully throttling it to C-rank levels. The orb glowed blue, then pulsed with rhythmic patterns as it analyzed my output.
It was harder than I expected to hold back. My true power strained against my control, wanting to emerge in all its chaotic glory. I gritted my teeth, maintaining the facade.
(Steady,) the assistant murmured. (They're watching closely.)
I glanced up at the observation booth, where several officials monitored the readings. One pointed at a display, saying something to his colleague.
After what felt like an eternity, the orb's glow faded, and the technician indicated I should step back.
"Interesting," she said, studying her tablet. "C-rank with unusual harmonic patterns. The system notes potential for advancement with proper training."
I feigned pleased surprise. "Really? That's great!"
She smiled, a professional mask with personal interest underneath. "Next week is the test battle. You all should prepare." Her eyes met mine briefly. "Some of you have more potential than the numbers show."
I returned to the waiting area, where Zack pounced on me immediately.
"Well? What'd you get?"
"C-rank," I said, downplaying my result. "With 'potential for advancement,' whatever that means."
"Dude, that's awesome! C-rank is where real Arena careers start." He punched my arm lightly. "I told you you'd do great."
As we headed for the exit, Brad and his cronies intercepted us.
"C-rank? Not bad for Zero's friend," Brad said, his earlier unease apparently forgotten. "But testing is one thing. Next week's battle is where we separate the real fighters from the wannabes."
I smiled pleasantly. "Looking forward to it."
"Man, were you this weak when I kicked your ass in middle school?" Brad turned to Zack, his tone vicious. "F-rank confirmed, right? They should just ban you from the Arena completely. Save everyone the embarrassment."
I saw Zack flinch, genuine hurt in his eyes. Something unexpected flared in my chest—anger on his behalf.
"You know, Brad," I said, my voice still casual but with an edge, "I've been studying vital points. Did you know there are exactly seven spots on the human body where a precisely targeted sonic vibration could cause organ failure?"
Brad's smirk faltered. "What?"
I stepped closer, still smiling. "Your liver, for instance. Right here." I tapped his side lightly. "One focused pulse at the right frequency, and you'd be pissing blood for a week."
I let a tiny thread of power flow through my finger—not enough to hurt him, just enough to create an unsettling vibration he could feel through his shirt.
Brad's eyes widened. He stepped back quickly. "Whatever, freak. Save it for the battle."
As they walked away, Zack stared at me. "Holy shit. How did you do that? He looked terrified."
I shrugged. "Just a little trick I picked up. Some people respond to the right... frequency."
"Remind me never to piss you off," Zack said, half-joking, half-serious.
"Come on," I said, changing the subject. "Let's celebrate your F-rank and my C-rank. I'm buying."
---
The Pit Stop was the unofficial hangout for Arena fighters—a sleek lounge with holographic displays showing famous matches, comfortable seating areas, and a long bar staffed by bartenders who knew every regular by name and rank.
At 19, we had no trouble ordering drinks. The legal age was the least of anyone's concerns in a world where teenagers regularly beat each other unconscious for sport and entertainment.
"To mediocrity," Zack said, raising his glass. "Your temporary C-rank and my permanent F-rank."
I clinked my glass against his. "To potential. Yours and mine."
He snorted. "My potential maxed out at birth. But you—you've got something, man. The way you handled Brad? That wasn't C-rank behavior."
I took a sip, scanning the room over the rim of my glass. "I just know how to use what I have effectively."
"Well, teach me your ways, sensei," Zack said, already on his second drink. "Because right now, all I can do is make a girl's hairclip wiggle, which is the least impressive pickup technique in history."
I laughed, genuinely amused by his self-deprecation. "Power isn't everything. Look around—who's actually getting attention?"
Zack followed my gaze around the room. The highest-ranked fighters were surrounded by admirers, while lower-ranked ones sat in smaller groups or alone.
"The A-ranks," he said glumly. "Always the A-ranks."
"No," I corrected. "The confident ones. Rank helps, but it's not everything."
As if to prove my point, I noticed Amber—Jake's girlfriend—sitting alone at the bar. No Jake in sight. She looked bored, scrolling through something on her phone, occasionally glancing around the room.
Our eyes met. I held her gaze for two seconds, then three. I raised my glass slightly in acknowledgment. She didn't smile, exactly, but something changed in her expression—interest, maybe. Challenge.
"Dude, no," Zack hissed, following my line of sight. "That's Amber. Jake will literally vibrate your organs until they explode."
"Some risks are worth taking," I said, still watching her. "Besides, I'm just being friendly."
"That's not how Jake will see it. There are a hundred hot girls who aren't dating A-rank psychopaths."
I finally looked away, turning back to Zack. "But none with quite that look in their eyes. She's bored, Zack. Bored women make interesting decisions."
"Your funeral," he muttered, ordering another drink.
Three rounds later, Zack was thoroughly drunk, while I'd paced myself carefully. I wanted a clear head for what was coming next.
"I should get you home," I said, helping him up as he swayed slightly.
"You're a good friend," he slurred, leaning heavily on me. "The best. Even if you're gonna get killed by Jake."
I laughed, guiding him toward the door. As we passed the bar, I noticed Amber was gone. Disappointing, but there would be other opportunities.
After dropping Zack at his apartment and making sure he wouldn't choke on his own vomit, I headed back to the Harrison house. It was late—nearly midnight—and I expected everyone to be asleep.
Instead, I found Sarah sitting in the living room, a book open on her lap, a glass of wine in her hand.
"You're back late," she said, looking up as I tried to slip in quietly.
"Sorry," I said, playing the contrite teenager. "We were celebrating our test results."
She set her book aside and stood, moving toward me with fluid grace. Her silk robe—did she own anything else?—clung to her curves as she approached.
"And how did it go?" she asked, her voice soft in the dim light.
"C-rank," I said. "With potential for advancement."
She smiled, reaching up to brush my hair back from my forehead. The gesture was maternal, but her touch lingered. "David will be pleased. He sees so much of himself in you."
Her scent enveloped me—wine and perfume and something uniquely female. I was acutely aware of how close she stood, how the robe gaped slightly at her chest.
"You should get some rest," she said, her hand dropping to my shoulder and squeezing gently. "You look... tired."
"I am," I admitted, the events of the day catching up with me. "Goodnight, Sarah."
Her eyes widened slightly at my use of her first name instead of "Mom," but she didn't correct me. "Goodnight, Kelvin."
I climbed the stairs to my room, feeling her eyes on me the whole way. Once inside, I collapsed onto the bed, the day's performance having taken more out of me than I'd expected.
My phone buzzed with a text notification. Unknown number.
You looked interesting today. Jake doesn't need to know we talked. -A
I smiled at the ceiling. "Too easy."
A soft knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. Before I could answer, the door cracked open, and Lila slipped inside, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh.
"Rough day of testing?" she whispered, closing the door behind her. "I thought you might need some... stress relief."
(Now things get interesting,) the assistant's voice commented in my head. (Which game will you play first?)
I sat up slowly, taking in the sight of her—long legs, curves barely concealed by thin fabric, and a predatory smile that mirrored my own.
"What kind of stress relief did you have in mind?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
The game was just beginning.