It happened all at once. I grinned, imagining the future, but the sensation hit suddenly—like stepping on a sea urchin. The initial prick was barely noticeable, but when pain shoots through every bone in your body, you feel it. A tingling sensation escalated into a searing burn, followed by electric shockwaves that rippled through my muscles. They convulsed, knotting into spasms like the worst cramps imaginable. I couldn’t scream or cry. I would have done anything to make it stop.

I was inside the door, undergoing Apotheosis. They lied! Whoever said I could think my way through this lied. The physical pain was excruciating, but the emotional pain was worse—sharper, more vivid. It clawed at suppressed memories, dredging up traumas I thought I had buried. Regret, fear, abandonment—emotions I had trained myself to control—rose up like an overwhelming tide. Years of methodical repression couldn’t stand against the storm. It tore down every wall I had built, breaking apart the icebergs of sorrow I thought were safely frozen in the past.

Then came a fresh wave of agony, laced with migraine-like memories. They reminded me why I was doing this. I was dragged back to that day, the one I tried so hard to forget. I had promised myself I would rule my own sector, but back then, I was just a boy—a boy suspended from school for fighting.

I wasn’t violent, but I never let anyone push me or my friends around. Growing up alone and isolated, I learned to defend myself without excuses, especially against people who thought they were better than me.

I could smell the varnished wooden floor of that house, the scent stinging my eyes. I heard my foster mom’s voice, sharp and dismissive: “You will never amount to anything, boy!” She had said more, but that was the line that stuck. For the first time in my life, I believed someone who belittled my dreams. The weight of her words crushed me. That night, I felt as if my heart would stop. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my tears wouldn’t stop falling.

Instead of relief, the memory lingered, holding me in that raw, unbearable pain. It ripped at me, dredging up more buried emotions. At eleven years old, I had almost died of heartbreak. Now, the door amplified that pain, spreading it through every fiber of my being. I felt it in my fingernails, my teeth, behind my eyes. My blood felt like sand scraping through open wounds.

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I couldn’t handle it. The darkness consumed me, dragging me into depths I had never dared to visit. I used a mental command to pump the drug Mercy had given me. The liquid flowed cold through my veins, offering momentary relief. Then, everything froze—and the pain amplified.

I felt like I was six years old again, crying as I watched the shattered remains of my home. My heart stuttered in my chest, my blood flowing so slowly that I could feel myself dying. To my regret—and eventual gratitude—the Founder micro-machines kept me alive. I shook uncontrollably, my stomach twisting as if I had eaten bad raw fish. My mind couldn’t retreat to that place where trauma becomes forgettable for survival. I was painfully aware of everything.

I felt my bones coated in an alloy so cold it caused them to crack. The micro-machines stripped my muscles to work on the fibers. I wanted to die. Then, suddenly, I hated myself. I had trusted her—Mercy.

Everything clicked. Her mother had rigged the suit to kill me. Mercy had poisoned me.

She had been in the foster home with me all those years ago. Her parents had run it. When we met at Rodriguez’s, it had gone so well because I hadn’t recognized her. It had been ten years. She had grown into a beautiful, considerate woman—kind even to the kids who had nothing. She wasn’t like Batz and his friends.

It hurt to realize I had mostly blocked out my time there. I couldn’t understand why she would do this.

There are drugs meant to amplify the trial experience. Hundreds of them exist, but the one she gave me was insidious. It prevented me from organizing my thoughts. Years of training unraveled as the chemical locked me in a state of pure, helpless awareness. The pain was relentless. My nerves burned as a metallic graft fused with them, its heat lashing through my body.

A memory resurfaced: a stupid kid taunting me, calling me a foster. The way he gloated, mocking me for not having parents, pierced my young heart. Seeing myself through his eyes, I started to hate my life.

The door layered the pain. Burns, shocks, tearing sensations ripped through my skin. Being awake through it all tested every conviction I had. One by one, they crumbled—except for one. My final conviction held firm: I would not give up.

I couldn’t die, even though I begged for it. The Stellar System burned itself into my mind, its tendrils splitting through my brain and spreading into every corner of my thoughts. It reminded me of my third night on the streets after running away. I had fled from a military orphanage—a camp that would have killed me.

I was starving in the streets of Ennedi, crying, biting my lips and pretending the skin was food. Hunger gnawed at me. An old woman saw me and called the cops. I was tall for my age, so they came in shouting, tasers blazing. Terrified, I ran.

I had nowhere to go, no one to help me. I was alone on a planet of three trillion people.