Riven woke to cold restraints biting into his wrists.
For a moment, he thought he was still in the trial. The dark. The teeth. The wet heat on his hands. His body tensed, ready to fight, ready to run—
Nothing moved.
Metal bands locked his arms to a slab beneath him. His legs were pinned. His Ash Frame hummed weakly, half-powered, its glow dull and uneven. Pain radiated from his side where the creature had torn into him, a deep, burning throb that pulsed with every heartbeat.
The ceiling above him was low and white, cracked by hairline fractures that leaked a faint gray light.
A processing room.
Riven swallowed. His throat felt raw, scraped hollow by dust and screaming.
A lens slid down from the ceiling and stopped inches from his face. It adjusted with a soft whine, focusing. He could see his reflection in it—gaunt, eyes too large, skin smeared with dried blood that wasn't all his.
"Subject consciousness confirmed," the voice said.
Not loud. Not threatening.
Indifferent.
Riven said nothing. His tongue felt heavy. Every instinct told him that words would only make things worse.
The restraints tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him he couldn't move.
"Trial outcome: survival," the voice continued. "Deviation noted."
The lens pulsed once.
"Name."
Riven hesitated.
Names mattered. In the slums, a name was something you gave yourself, something the system hadn't taken yet. Once the Spectrum recorded it, the name stopped being yours.
"Riven," he said quietly.
There was a pause. Long enough to feel deliberate.
"Name accepted," the voice said. "Initiating registration."
The slab beneath him vibrated. His Frame flared, gray light crawling across his chest and arms. Symbols flooded his vision—broken strings of data, incomplete, flickering in and out.
Pain spiked.
Riven gasped as something pressed into his mind. Not a thought. A measurement. Like being weighed from the inside.
"Baseline parameters unstable," the voice noted. "Ash Spectrum confirmation pending."
Riven clenched his teeth. He'd already been confirmed. He'd already been sorted. Why—
"Manual review required."
The restraints released his legs.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright. His body protested, muscles screaming as his weight settled wrong. Blood soaked through the torn fabric at his side, warm and sticky.
He was dragged through a door and into a long corridor lined with alcoves. Inside each one stood a person.
Ash Spectrums.
Some were still. Some shook uncontrollably. Some stared straight ahead, eyes glazed, mouths slightly open. Frames flickered around them, weak gray light pulsing erratically.
Riven was shoved into an empty alcove. The wall behind him was cold. The floor was damp.
Across from him, a boy about his age met his eyes. The boy's hands were trembling. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words Riven couldn't hear.
A drone drifted between them.
The boy jerked as the drone extended a thin needle and drove it into his neck. His body stiffened, then sagged. The gray light around him dimmed—and went out.
The drone moved on.
Riven's heart hammered. He forced his breathing to slow. Panic was loud. Panic got you noticed.
A line of text scrolled across his vision, projected directly onto his retina.
REGISTER STATUS: INCOMPLETE
The voice returned.
"Ash Spectrum units must be registered to be counted."
Counted.
The word hit harder than the pain.
In the slums, being uncounted meant you could disappear without notice. No record. No correction. No consequence. But being counted didn't mean safety.
It meant ownership.
A figure stepped into the corridor.
This one wasn't Azure.
The suit was darker, heavier, the lines etched into it glowing a deep, muted crimson. The air around it felt tighter, charged, like a storm about to break.
A Crimson.
It stopped in front of Riven's alcove. The helmet tilted slightly, studying him.
"Late awakening," the Crimson said. Its voice was human. Rough. Tired. "That's rare."
Riven said nothing.
The Crimson raised a hand. Riven's Frame responded instantly, locking his muscles. Pain flared as the system asserted control.
"Relax," the Crimson said. "Or don't. Doesn't matter."
The helmet retracted, revealing a scarred face with hard eyes and a jaw clenched too tight. The man looked older than most Crimson units Riven had seen in the square. More worn.
"Slum-born?" the man asked.
Riven nodded once.
"Figures." The Crimson exhaled slowly. "You survive the trial?"
Riven hesitated, then nodded again.
The man studied him for a long moment.
"Most Ash don't," he said. "Most aren't supposed to."
A flicker crossed his expression. Something like curiosity. Or annoyance.
"Name," he said.
"Riven."
The man snorted. "Of course it is."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the drone hovering nearby. "Register him."
The drone whirred, projecting a lattice of light that wrapped around Riven's body. The pressure returned, heavier this time. Deeper.
Riven cried out as something tore loose inside his chest. Not flesh. Something else. Something he hadn't known was there until it was gone.
The light receded.
REGISTER COMPLETE
CLASSIFICATION: ASH SPECTRUM
STATUS: ACTIVE
Riven sagged against the wall, gasping. His hands shook violently. His thoughts felt… thinner. Like a layer had been peeled away.
"What did you take?" he asked before he could stop himself.
The Crimson looked at him, then away.
"Nothing you were using," he said.
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Riven said hoarsely.
The man paused.
"Why am I still here?"
The Crimson glanced back, eyes hard.
"Because the system hasn't decided what to do with you yet."
He walked away.
The corridor moved again. Ash Spectrums were herded forward, pushed through another door and out into the open air.
The slum greeted them like a wound reopening.
Smoke hung low over the rooftops. Towers loomed in the distance, their Spectrum bands glowing faintly even through the haze. The familiar stench of waste and desperation settled into Riven's lungs.
They were released without ceremony.
No food. No treatment. No explanation.
Just a mark burned into their existence.
Riven staggered back toward his sector, his side burning, his head light. People watched him pass. Some with pity. Some with fear.
Some with hunger.
By the time he reached his building, night had fallen. The Spectrum towers brightened, their colors sharpening against the dark.
Riven collapsed inside his room, back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest.
He felt… less.
Not weaker. Not slower.
Smaller.
As if part of him had been shaved down to make him fit.
A chime echoed inside his skull.
Text appeared.
NOTICE
ASH SPECTRUM UNITS ARE REQUIRED TO REPORT FOR PERIODIC REVIEW
FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN CORRECTION
Below it, smaller text:
DEVIATION FLAG: ACTIVE
Riven stared at the words until they blurred.
Counted.
Flagged.
Alive.
He pressed his hand to his chest, searching for whatever had been taken. Whatever the system had decided he didn't need.
Outside, drones traced their endless paths. Somewhere nearby, someone screamed—and then went quiet.
Riven closed his eyes.
The Spectrum had counted him.
And now, it would not let him go.