After the initial shock of connection faded, Xander passed the afternoon trying to process what had happened. He'd paced his quarters, checked the datapad for information about spontaneous bond activation, even attempted meditation techniques described in the orientation materials.

  A sharp knock at precisely 1800 hours startled him from his research.

  "Dining hall," Ren announced when the door slid open. "You'll want to eat while the good options last."

  The corridors seemed more populated now, off-duty personnel moving with purposeful strides. Xander caught snippets of conversation—technical jargon about "resonance efficiency" and "construct stability" mixed with more casual exchanges. All of it stopped when he passed.

  "This way," Ren said, guiding him through a wide archway.

  The dining hall opened before them, vast and gleaming. Arched ceilings stretched overhead, illuminated by soft amber lighting that highlighted ornate wooden beams. The smell hit Xander first—rich, complex, overwhelming—nothing like the nutrient paste and salvaged hydroponics of Sector 7.

  His stomach clenched in anticipation, but something else tightened in his chest as he registered the room's arrangement. Even here, the hierarchy was unmistakable.

  Gold-trimmed Elites occupied private alcoves along the perimeter, their tables slightly elevated. Silver-trimmed Adepts gathered at round tables in the central area, seated in precise formations. Blue-trimmed trainees huddled near the entrance, their posture alerting him to their desire for invisibility.

  "Where do I sit?" Xander asked, suddenly aware of eyes tracking his movement.

  Ren gestured vaguely to one of the few empty spots—awkwardly positioned between groups, belonging to neither. "Catalyst seating is flexible."

  Flexible. The word hung between them, unspoken meaning clear: You have no place.

  He followed Ren to the service area, where the day's offerings were displayed. Real meat—not protein substitute. Vegetables with actual color. Bread that hadn't been reconstituted from powder.

  "Watch the portions on the protein," Ren muttered as Xander reached for a piece of what looked like actual roasted chicken. "That's primarily for Gold-trimmed."

  Xander's hand hovered, then withdrew slightly. "Any other unwritten rules I should know about?"

  "Just follow what others at your... level are taking."

  His level. Xander glanced at the blue-trimmed trainees, noting their plates—heavy on grains, light on protein, modest portions of everything. He filled his plate accordingly, though his stomach protested.

  At the table, he hesitated before taking his first bite, half-expecting the food to taste artificial like everything in Sector 7. The first mouthful of bread made his eyes widen—soft, warm, complex flavors exploding across his tongue.

  "Good, right?" A blue-trimmed trainee across from him grinned briefly before remembering himself. "I was from Sector 5. Never had real wheat before coming here."

  "It's—" Xander began, then noticed the trainee's companion elbow him sharply.

  "Enjoy it while it lasts," the second trainee muttered, eyes darting around before falling silent.

  The warning created a sour note beneath the rich flavors. Xander continued eating, aware of the whispers spreading outward from his position like ripples in still water.

  Some watched with open curiosity—the 96% anomaly in the flesh. Others, particularly Silver-trimmed Meisters, observed with thinly veiled disdain. A pair of Gold-trimmed officers at the nearest alcove made notes on their datapads, studying him like a specimen.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He was halfway through his meal when the atmosphere shifted. The ripple of whispers died, replaced by a weighted silence. Ren, seated beside him, stiffened. His fork paused halfway to his mouth.

  "Don't turn around," Ren whispered. "Keep eating."

  Footsteps approached from behind, measured and deliberate. The hairs on Xander's neck rose as an unmistakable presence halted directly behind him. The air temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

  "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." The voice was cultured, each word precision-cut. "Xander Reed, was it?"

  With practiced calm, Xander set down his fork and turned. Silver-white hair and aristocratic features confronted him—the man from Yuki's memories, though Xander couldn't have explained how he knew.

  "Hiroshi Amamiya," the man continued, smile not reaching his eyes. "Welcome to your temporary assignment."

  Temporary. The word hung in the air like a poisoned dart.

  "Didn't realize I had an expiration date," Xander replied, keeping his tone light despite the sudden tension in his shoulders.

  Hiroshi's smile tightened fractionally. "The Institute has made some fascinating testing anomalies in recent years. It's always enlightening to observe... experimental variables."

  Around them, conversation had ceased entirely. Even the Gold-trimmed Elites in their alcoves had paused to watch the exchange.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" Xander asked, refusing to drop his gaze.

  Hiroshi leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only those nearest could hear. "Do you really think a Catalyst from the slums will be allowed to keep her?"

  Heat flashed through Xander's system—not the pleasurable surge of mana, but something sharper, dangerous. His fingers twitched toward the scar on his palm.

  "I wasn't aware she was property," he responded, voice level despite the sudden electricity in his veins.

  Hiroshi's eyes narrowed, the polite veneer slipping momentarily. "You understand nothing about this world or its arrangements. The Hayakawas and Amamiyas have maintained the mana balance for generations through careful stewardship."

  "Stewardship." Xander repeated the word, tasting its bitterness. "Is that what you call it?"

  Hiroshi straightened, adjusting his immaculate collar with precise movements. "The bond is an anomaly that will be addressed. Family protocols supersede Institute curiosities." His gaze swept the silent observers before returning to Xander. "Enjoy your meal. I hear the food quality diminishes considerably in Sector 7."

  He turned with military precision and departed, leaving a vacuum of tension in his wake.

  Ren exhaled shakily. "That went better than expected."

  "That was better?" Xander stared at his plate, appetite vanished. The previously delicious food now sat heavy and unappetizing.

  "He could have had you removed immediately," Ren murmured. "The Amamiyas have that authority."

  Conversations gradually resumed around them, but Xander felt the continued glances, the speculative whispers. For the first time since arriving, the reality of his situation crystallized with perfect clarity. He was not just an outsider—he was an intruder in a system that would not accommodate disruption.

  "I think I'm finished," he said, standing abruptly.

  The weight of countless eyes followed him as he left, the abandoned half-eaten meal a statement no one missed.

  Back in his quarters, Xander collapsed onto the bed. His shoulders knotted, jaw ached from clenching. When he flexed his fingers, they trembled slightly—aftermath of adrenaline he hadn't noticed until now.

  His gaze drifted to the ceiling—unmarked white instead of the metal panels he'd memorized at home. For a moment, he slipped into memory: Reclamation Night—the one celebration Sector 7 did right. After monthly resource allocation, neighbors would bring whatever extra they'd managed to salvage. Shipping containers became tables stretching down the central corridor, mismatched plates under jury-rigged lights. The refashioned factory equipment played three-quarter rhythms while children danced through tangled wires. The night he'd redirected his first major surge, Old Miriam had traced his name onto the Wall of Shields with paint she'd been saving for her granddaughter's crib. "Our protector," she'd whispered, her calloused hand squeezing his shoulder.

  The phantom pressure of her grip vanished as another memory intruded: Enforcers sweeping through last year's celebration, scanner-visors emotionless as they catalogued faces. "Unregistered Catalysts," they'd announced over amplifiers that distorted their voices into mechanical growls. Three neighbors gone by morning. Miriam herself scrubbing his name from the wall, tears tracking through dust on her weathered face.

  His palm tingled. He glanced down at the star-shaped scar, white lines stark against his skin. His fingertips traced the ridges automatically, a habit formed through countless surges. Back in the market, vendors nodded respectfully at the mark. Here, Hiroshi's gaze had flicked to it with the same distaste reserved for sewage leaks.

  A flutter against his consciousness—like a moth's wing brushing skin. His breath caught. The sensation carried no images or thoughts, just the impression of someone standing straight-backed despite exhaustion, chin lifting slightly.

  His datapad glowed on the desk: "0800 hours—Initial Compatibility Integration Training, Hall Beta." Xander's fingers curled into a fist, noting the absence of sensation at the centre of his palm.

  Xander gripped his datapad, staring at tomorrow's assignment. Initial Compatibility Integration Training. His first real chance to understand what had happened between them. His first opportunity to prove he belonged here, bond or no bond.

  Tomorrow would be worse. But he wouldn't face it alone.