The air in the underground room was dense—not just with dust and recycled oxygen, but with the weight of revelation. The glow of screens threw sharp shadows across Callum’s face, deepening the lines etched there by time and war. Behind him, rows of abandoned terminals blinked back to life as if stirred by the quiet fury that hung between us.
I leaned in closer to the nearest screen, my eyes scanning the data as names and faces rolled past—students, instructors, even entire dorm wings. Some were marked with clearance levels, others with red tags: Incomplete. Incompatible. Re-education Required.
“What are these?” I asked, voice low. “Test results?”
“Behavioral profiling. Neuroadaptive bonding patterns. Hormonal syncing. They're cataloging everyone. Finding out who can be controlled—and wh
