Rain fell hard over the smoking ruins, washing the blood and dust into forgotten gutters. Buildings lay broken and hollow, like corpses with their rib cages torn open. The air smelled of ash and metal—shattered steel, scorched wires, and the bitter sting of explosives. Every breath felt like swallowing a blade.
From beneath the wreckage, something moved.
A pale, shaking hand clawed its way up from a crushed slab of concrete. Then a second. Fingers curled. Nails cracked. Blood smeared across the jagged steel as the figure dragged himself into view.
Seventeen-year-old Ace Donovan stumbled forward on trembling arms, barely able to lift his head. His uniform—black tactical armor laced with electronic patches—was shredded and scorched. Cuts lined his cheek. Dust clung to his skin like paint. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and with each beat came more pain.
Everything hurt.
The last thing he remembered was the comms buzzing in his ear, orders shouted over the static—"Extraction point compromised—get out! Get—!"
Then came the fire. Blinding. Deafening. A pulse of heat that swallowed everything.
And now, nothing but silence.
His shoulder had dislocated—he could feel it from the way his arm dangled uselessly. Ribs—possibly broken. He coughed, and blood bubbled at the edge of his mouth. No teammates. No voices. No familiar signals in his comm unit.
Phantom Wolf Unit… gone.
Ace blinked against the rain, forcing himself upright. Lightning split the sky above, flashing over the ruins like a camera shutter capturing a funeral. Smoke still hissed from collapsed drone wrecks, and the twisted remains of a downed VTOL groaned in the wind.
And yet… he was alive.
Barely.
A low mechanical hum echoed overhead.
He turned his head—slowly, with effort—and spotted it. A matte-black aircraft descending silently, VTOL-style, with no markings. No lights. No sound save for the strange, wasp-like buzz of its propulsion.
He staggered to his knees, reaching for the sidearm on his belt. Gone. His holster was empty. Fingers shaking, he scanned the ground for anything—a shard of metal, a broken rifle. Nothing.
A hiss sounded from the debris.
Ace spun too late.
Gas.
He tried to hold his breath, but it slipped past his guard. The cold chemical cloud invaded his lungs, numbing his limbs in seconds. He staggered backward, stumbled, collapsed.
And the world blinked out again.
Three days later
Ace woke to the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of fluorescent lights. His eyes cracked open to see a sterile ceiling. No wires hooked into his arm. No IV. No heart monitor. Just silence.
The walls were plain. White. The air, too clean.
And there was someone watching.
The man at the foot of the bed was tall, dressed in a black suit pressed so sharply it might've been folded by a ruler. His hair was silver at the temples. His eyes—steel-gray—carried the kind of calm that came from giving orders that got people killed.
"You were declared KIA, Donovan."
Ace groaned and pushed himself up, ribs screaming in protest. "I got better."
"You're lucky someone thought you were worth recovering," the man replied. "Most dead soldiers stay dead."
"Who the hell are you?"
The man didn't blink. "Director Wolfe. I oversee Project Blackridge."
A folder slid across the table near the bed.
"You've been reassigned."
Ace stared at him. "I'm seventeen. There's nothing left to assign me to."
"Oh, there's something. But it's not what you think." Wolfe's mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a warning. "No more frontlines. No kill zones. No confirmed body counts. Just… books."
Ace blinked. "You want me to read?"
"I want you to survive. You'll be attending Blackridge Academy."
Ace scoffed. "A school? You brought me back from the dead to send me to class?"
"Think of it as your final deployment. Except your enemies don't wear uniforms. They smile. They talk. They lie."
"And if I say no?"
"You won't."
He dressed in gray sweats and combat boots, his joints still stiff. In the next room, a duffel bag waited for him on a metal table, next to a sealed envelope.
He opened it.
Inside:
– A forged student ID with his name, age, and new address
– A folded campus map
– A one-way train ticket
– And one last handwritten note, in Wolfe's blocky print:
Survive the semester. Win your freedom. Fail, and next time, we won't patch you up.
Ace stared at the words for a long time before folding the note in half and slipping it back inside.
No turning back.
Blackridge Academy didn't look like a war zone. Not at first.
It looked polished. Prestigious. Elegant stonework, trimmed hedges, glass buildings stretching three stories tall. Students moved between classes in dark-gray uniforms with matching jackets and silver pins.
But the moment Ace stepped past the gate, his instincts screamed.
The way the students walked—measured, alert.
The black-orbed drones silently scanning from above, rotating toward every new face.
The subtle clicks of weapons being holstered beneath blazers.
At a fountain near the courtyard, a girl with violet streaks in her hair flipped a butterfly knife between her fingers, catching it without ever looking down.
This wasn't a school.
It was a proving ground.
A voice called out, smooth and sharp. "New meat."
Ace turned.
A tall student leaned against the gate wall, bleached-blond hair tied back, a faint scar trailing down his jawline. A lollipop stuck out of his mouth. He looked more bored than threatening, but Ace had seen that kind of mask before. It was the kind killers wore before the first shot.
"Name?" the guy asked.
Ace said nothing.
"You're not a talker. Cute. Let me guess—Class C?"
Still silence.
"Man," the guy sighed. "They just keep feeding C with dead men walking. I give you… three weeks."
Ace took one step forward. "I'm not here to impress you."
"Neither is anyone. That's what makes it fun."
Ace walked past without breaking stride.
"Try not to die before your first sparring match," the boy called after him. "They've already had to replace three beds."
Later that night
His dorm room was smaller than he expected. Metal-framed bunk beds. One desk. A single reinforced window. Walls of painted gray concrete. A camera tucked in the corner blinked red until Ace unplugged its feed with a casual flick of his fingers.
He dropped his duffel on the bed and opened the lockbox bolted to the floor.
Inside: a digital journal, a small medkit, and a scanner watch preloaded with class schedules and biometric tracking.
Ace's eyes narrowed. They wanted to track his heart rate, sleep cycle, even blood pressure.
He strapped it on anyway.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Then came the careful, deliberate twist of a doorknob.
He moved.
In a blink, he was behind the door, pressed flat to the wall.
The door opened.
A girl entered.
She moved with the grace of someone trained—no wasted steps, no loud movements. She had an athletic build, a long black braid, and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
Ace grabbed her arm, twisted, and pinned her to the wall.
"Who sent you?"
She didn't flinch. "Nobody. I'm your roommate."
He held the position a second longer, then let go.
She turned calmly, rubbing her arm. "Nice welcome. You from Class C?"
He nodded once.
She tossed her duffel onto the bottom bunk and flopped down. "Kiera. You?"
"Ace."
"Well, Ace, you've got a fun morning ahead. Placement evaluations at 0600."
"Placement?"
"Every newbie gets ranked. Combat, infiltration, tactics, survival. Rankings decide everything—class priority, room upgrades, access to training facilities."
"And if you don't rank?"
Her smile was tired. "Then you disappear."
Ace sat on the top bunk, eyes flicking to the window. Beyond the trees, he spotted the admin building—its uppermost floor lit with a faint blue glow.
Someone was watching.
And not just him.
All of them.
His spine prickled.
He didn't sleep. Not really. Just lay still with eyes half-closed, listening to every creak and breath and rustle. Kiera snored softly below.
Then—midnight.
The lights in the dorm flickered and went dark.
Ace sat up instantly.
A red light blinked on the lockbox.
Then came the hiss.
His hand shot out, grabbing Kiera's shoulder and yanking her up just as the gas canister rolled across the floor, releasing a thick, white cloud.
Her eyes snapped open. "What the—?!"
"Move!" Ace shouted.
He didn't wait for a second warning.
Because this wasn't a drill.
And whoever sent the gas…
Wasn't testing them.
They were hunting.