The officer watched him cautiously. Draemir could feel the man’s eyes on him, studying his every move with a wary intensity, as if searching for any sign of weakness or instability. It was the kind of gaze that drilled down to the bones, making Draemir’s skin prickle with discomfort.
Moving to an empty chair, Draemir sat down, forcing himself to appear calm, patient—even as his mind whirled with everything that was about to happen. He let his gaze wander around the room, hoping that observing his surroundings would distract him from the gnawing dread coiling in his stomach.
He saw a few things that irked him.
The ceiling seemed lower around the edges of the room than it did in the center—a subtle but strange detail that caught his eye. Frowning, Draemir leaned forward for a closer look, his heart skipping a beat as he realized what he was seeing. The ceiling was false, a drop ceiling with small, discrete cutouts barely visible unless you looked closely. And in each of those cutouts, hidden behind steel grates, lay machine guns, their barrels aimed squarely down into the room below.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Every weapon pointed inward, covering the entire space. They weren’t meant to keep people out. They were meant to contain whatever—or whoever—might need to be neutralized inside. He glanced at the officer, but the man’s face gave away nothing, as if the fortified room was nothing unusual.
His gaze moved to the far wall, noticing another odd detail. Unlike the rest of the room, which was lined with cracked brick and faded paint, the wall at the end of the entryway was reinforced with smooth, non-reflective metal plating. A single, heavy metal door stood in its center, guarded by a digital keypad—a stark contrast to the weathered, crumbling brick that formed the rest of the building’s exterior.
Draemir’s mind raced with questions. Why is this place so reinforced? What are they preparing for? His eyes drifted back to the machine gun nests hidden above. Do they really need this much firepower? Are those who fail the first trial really that dangerous?
He’d heard whispers about the first trial all his life. People called it the “ascension trial,” but that was just a sanitized name for what it truly was: a brutal test, designed to push every initiate to the brink. Tens of thousands had died attempting it over the years. Draemir had heard fragments of stories from those who’d survived, but those accounts were vague, distorted by rumor and fear. Even so, he knew that the trial wasn’t what scared him most. It wasn’t death that haunted his thoughts.
It was the fear of becoming a monster.
The stories about failure were what stuck with him. When someone failed the first trial, they didn’t just die. Their bodies changed, twisted by some dark force into creatures that barely resembled humans. Mutations that left them hideously deformed, driven mad by an insatiable urge to kill. He’d never seen a monster in real life—only glimpses on the screens, accompanied by shaky footage and muffled screams. But he’d heard enough to understand that the change was irreversible. Once you became a monster, there was no coming back.
Draemir took a slow breath, steadying himself. I won’t become one of them. I can’t.
Just then, the front door to the police station burst open with a loud clang, breaking his train of thought. An older officer strode in, his face marked by deep lines of suspicion as his eyes zeroed in on Draemir. The man’s expression was hard, almost accusatory, as though he were looking at a criminal rather than a kid about to face one of the deadliest trials in existence.
“You’re infected?” the officer asked, his voice gruff.
Draemir nodded. “Yes…”
The officer’s gaze softened by a fraction, but there was still a hardened edge in his eyes. He gave a curt nod, signaling Draemir to follow. Without a word, he turned and led him toward the metal-plated wall at the end of the room. The officer entered a code into the keypad, his fingers moving with practiced ease. The door hissed as it unlocked, gears and bolts shifting with a low, metallic groan. It took several seconds for the heavy contraption to open fully, revealing a dark staircase descending into shadows below.
Draemir swallowed, feeling the weight of each step as he followed the officer down. His footsteps echoed in the confined space, mingling with the officer’s steady, unhurried stride. The silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, until the officer finally broke it.
“What’s your name? And what do you know about your condition?” he asked, his voice low and steady, almost clinical.
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Draemir hesitated. He knew the basics—or at least he thought he did. What did it matter anyway? He had little chance of surviving the trial, so why waste time on the details? Still, he felt compelled to answer.
“My name is Draemir… I know that I’m about to enter the first ascension trial… that I probably won’t survive it,” he muttered.
The officer inhaled deeply, as though preparing himself to impart something difficult. “Yes, you are about to enter the first ascension trial. But there’s more to it than you might realize. What do you really know about what happens inside? Not the stories from TV or the rumors from your friends. I’m talking about the real, fine details.”
Draemir thought for a moment, sorting through everything he’d ever heard. He knew that the trial was brutal, that it demanded strength and resilience beyond what most people possessed. But the stories he’d heard were contradictory, exaggerated, sometimes outright impossible to believe. There was so much about the trial shrouded in secrecy, and he realized, with a sinking feeling, how little he actually knew.
“The test… it requires a person to be strong… to survive,” he finally said, his voice uncertain.
“That’s partly true,” the officer replied, his tone unreadable. “But it’s not the whole truth. The first trial is… varied. Every initiate’s experience is different, tailored in ways you might not expect. There’s no single piece of advice I can give you that will ensure your survival. But understand this: the trials aren’t meant to be executions. They’re designed to test you, yes. To push you. But there’s always a way through. Even someone like you—someone without the training that kids in the inner districts get—still has a chance. Remember that.”
The officer’s words hung in the air, carrying a weight that settled heavily on Draemir’s shoulders. They resumed their descent, reaching another secured metal door. This one was thicker, with reinforced bolts lining its edges. As it swung open, Draemir felt his breath catch in his throat.
The room beyond was small and sterile, every surface lined with cold metal that reflected the harsh white lights overhead. Scratches and dents marred the walls, evidence of countless struggles, a silent testament to those who had come before him. The air was thick with a faint chemical smell, like bleach mixed with something metallic and bitter.
In the center of the room stood a single metal table, outfitted with thick leather straps along its edges. Draemir’s pulse quickened as he took in the sight, the implications sinking in. This was a place where people were restrained, controlled, and prepped for whatever came next. The straps seemed almost to glisten in the light, worn but strong, waiting for him.
A wave of anxiety surged through him, but he forced himself to stay still. This was it. There was no going back.
Draemir moved onto the table, and the officer began strapping him down to the table with methodical and practiced efficiency.
The officer tightened the last strap around Draemir’s forearm, pulling it snug with a practiced motion. Draemir lay on the cold metal table, his arms and legs immobilized, the thick leather biting into his skin. The room felt colder now, as if the concrete walls and steel fixtures absorbed warmth, leaving nothing but a chill that sank into his bones.
The officer stepped back, studying him for a moment, his face unreadable. “You understand what happens if you fail, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and unyielding.
Draemir nodded, his throat dry. “I… I think so,” he replied, but even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he fully understood. Not really. He’d heard rumors about what happened to the bodies of those who didn’t make it. But hearing the officer’s tone, seeing the cold certainty in his eyes, made it all feel terrifyingly real.
The officer’s gaze didn’t soften. “If you die in that trial, Draemir,” he said, his words cutting through the silence like a blade, “your body won’t be left to rest. It won’t stay human. It’ll… change.”
Draemir felt a chill crawl up his spine, colder than the metal pressing against his back. He’d known this, but not in any way he could truly grasp. Now, hearing the words laid out so plainly, the truth sank in like a weight pressing down on his chest.
“When people die in these trials, we don’t know why, but their bodies… turn,” the officer continued, his voice unwavering. “They transform. What used to be flesh and bone twists into something unrecognizable, something filled with a beastial instinct and hunger. It’s as if whatever humanity was left in them is erased. All that’s left is a creature—a beast born from the corpse.”
Draemir’s hands clenched involuntarily against the straps, his pulse quickening. He’d heard of these creatures, of the mindless monsters that were found in the aftermath of failed trials, but he’d never considered that it could happen to him. The thought of his body—his own body—turning into one of those beasts filled him with a horror so profound it left him breathless.
The officer continued, his tone hard, unyielding. “What rises from your corpse isn’t you, Draemir. It has no trace of who you were. It’s an empty shell driven by instinct, by some primal urge to kill the people it comes across. That’s why this room is reinforced.” He gestured to the walls, to the thick, impenetrable concrete that surrounded them. “If you die in that trial, this door will seal you in. The beast will be left here, locked inside, until… well, until we make sure we can kill it safely.”
Draemir’s mouth went dry. He imagined his own lifeless form, abandoned in this cold, sterile room, lying still… and then, slowly, impossibly, changing. Becoming something monstrous, something with no memory of who he was. A creature with nothing but the instinct to hunt and destroy. The thought made his skin crawl.
Draemir closed his eyes, trying to block out the image. But it was impossible to ignore. He pictured his own corpse—pale, lifeless—and then shifting, bones cracking, skin warping into something he couldn’t even imagine. A monster, clawing to escape the binds in blind rage, mindlessly trying to escape. He didn’t know what such a creature looked like, but he’d heard enough to guess. Brutal, twisted, grotesque.