The bell rang, sharp and loud. Cutting through the noise of the cafeteria.
Chairs scraped the floor. Trays clattered.
Students stood up in clusters, talking and laughing as they made their way toward the exits.
Kyle stayed seated for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the folded note still in his hand.
With a quiet breath, he slipped it into his pocket.
Dragging himself to his feet, he muttered, "Combat drills... great."
He took a few slow steps toward the exit.
Then he froze.
'Wait... Mira Farrow?'
—
Students were lined up in rows. Most already sweating under the weight of their practice gear.
The Combat Training Hall buzzed with noise. Grunts, groans, and the soft thud of boots against dirt. The air was hot and heavy with effort.
Kyle lay flat on his back in the grass, arms spread wide, chest rising and falling.
His combat suit clung to his skin with sweat. His hair was damp. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to stop moving forever.
