The Ascension

Chapter 13: Sunday Secrets

Ronnie didn't go to school on Sunday.

She never did.

Every Sunday for the past four years, she'd told her parents she had early morning study sessions. Told Peter she had a dentist appointment. Told Aaron—back when he didn't know about her powers—that she was helping her mom with errands.

She'd gotten good at lying.

She had to be.

Because every Sunday, Ronnie reported to Apex Initiative Headquarters for mandatory training with Director Cain Mercer.

And she couldn't tell anyone.

Not her parents.

Not Peter.

Not Aaron.

Especially not Aaron.

The deal was simple: Mercer kept her father's secret buried, and Ronnie showed up every Sunday at 7:00 AM sharp to let Mercer turn her into a weapon.

She hated it.

She hated him.

But she didn't have a choice.

The elevator descended to sublevel five with a mechanical hum that made Ronnie's stomach turn.

She stood alone in the steel box, her reflection staring back at her from the polished doors. Dark circles under her eyes. Pale skin. Black hoodie pulled tight around her frame.

She looked like she hadn't slept.

She hadn't.

Not since Friday night. Not since watching Katie kiss Aaron. Not since forcing that smile and pretending her heart wasn't shattering into a thousand pieces.

The elevator doors opened.

Mercer was waiting.

He stood in the hallway with his hands clasped behind his back, his tailored black suit immaculate, his expression unreadable.

"You're late," he said.

Ronnie glanced at her phone. 7:02 AM.

"Two minutes," she said flatly.

"Two minutes is still late."

Ronnie didn't respond. She just followed him down the corridor, past the numbered doors, past the surveillance cameras that tracked their every movement.

They stopped at a door marked TRAINING ROOM 3.

Mercer swiped his keycard.

The door hissed open.

Ronnie stepped inside—and immediately felt the temperature drop.

The room was white.

Not just white walls. White floors. White ceiling. White fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow.

It was sterile. Cold. Intimidating.

In the center of the room were two metal tables.

The one on the left held approximately fifty bags of blood—IV bags filled with dark red liquid, stacked neatly in rows.

The one on the right was empty.

Ronnie's jaw tightened.

She knew what this was.

She'd been doing this exercise for months.

"You know the drill," Mercer said, closing the door behind them. The lock clicked into place with a finality that made Ronnie's skin crawl. "Transfer all fifty bags from the left table to the right table. Without bursting a single one."

Ronnie stared at the bags.

Fifty.

Her record was thirteen.

Thirteen bags before one of them burst, spraying blood across the white floor like a crime scene.

"The point," Mercer continued, his voice calm and measured, "is control. Precision. You need to be able to manipulate blood with enough force to levitate a person—immobilize them, control them—without killing them. Do you understand?"

Ronnie's hands clenched into fists. "I understand."

"Then begin."

Ronnie took a deep breath.

She stepped forward, her eyes locking onto the first bag of blood.

She could feel it.

The liquid inside. The weight. The way it moved, sluggish and thick.

Her Hemokinesis reached out—invisible, intangible—and wrapped around the bag like a hand.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted it.

The bag rose off the table, hovering in the air.

Ronnie's breathing was steady. Controlled.

She moved the bag to the right table and set it down gently.

One.

She reached for the second bag.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Her forehead started to bead with sweat.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Her hands were trembling now, her jaw clenched tight.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The strain was building. She could feel it—like a muscle being stretched too far, too fast.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

The bag wobbled in the air.

Ronnie's breath hitched.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Fourteen—

POP.

The bag exploded.

Blood sprayed across the white floor in a violent arc, splattering Ronnie's shoes, her jeans, the edge of the table.

Ronnie flinched, her concentration shattering.

The other bags she'd been holding in the air dropped—some landing safely on the table, others hitting the floor with wet, heavy thuds.

She stood there, breathing hard, staring at the mess.

Red on white.

Like a wound.

"You need to focus," Mercer said from behind her.

Ronnie's jaw tightened. "I am trying."

"Trying isn't good enough."

She turned to glare at him. "Then what do you want from me?"

Mercer's expression didn't change. "Better."

"I've been doing this for months," Ronnie snapped. "And I'm still stuck at thirteen. Maybe this is as good as it gets."

"No," Mercer said. "It's not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen what you're capable of," Mercer said. "And this—" He gestured at the blood-stained floor. "—is nowhere near your limit."

Ronnie's hands shook. "I'm doing the best I can."

Mercer sighed—a sound of frustration, disappointment.

"Months of training," he said quietly. "And no real progress."

Ronnie's chest tightened.

"Maybe," Mercer continued, "you need better motivation."

Ronnie's blood went cold.

"What?"

Mercer didn't answer.

Instead, he whistled.

Sharp. Loud.

A door on the far side of the room opened.

A man in a white lab coat stepped out, holding something small and white in his hands.

Ronnie's breath caught.

It was a rabbit.

A small, white rabbit with pink eyes and soft fur.

The man walked forward and placed the rabbit on the table in front of Ronnie.

The rabbit sat there, trembling slightly, its nose twitching.

The man turned and walked away without a word.

The door closed behind him.

Ronnie stared at the rabbit.

Her heart was pounding.

"Levitate it," Mercer said.

Ronnie's head snapped toward him. "What?"

"You heard me," Mercer said. "Levitate the rabbit."

Ronnie's eyes widened. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," Ronnie said, her voice shaking. "I'm not doing that."

Mercer's expression didn't change. "Levitate. The rabbit."

Ronnie shook her head, stepping back. "f**k you."

She turned to leave.

"Do I need to remind you of our deal?"

Ronnie stopped.

Her hand was on the door handle.

She didn't turn around.

"Your father," Mercer said, his voice calm, measured, "the accident. Years ago. An accident that forced him to retire from active duty. An accident that, if it came to light, would result in criminal charges. Negligence. Manslaughter. He'd spend the rest of his life in prison."

Ronnie's hand tightened on the handle.

"But I kept that buried," Mercer continued. "I made it disappear. Because you agreed to be compliant. To train. To become what you were meant to be."

Ronnie's jaw clenched.

"You are the only person on this planet," Mercer said, "who could stop every super-powered individual. Every hero. Every villain. Even Atlas."

Aaron's father.

Quinn Marshall.

The most powerful being on Earth.

"You need better control over your Hemokinesis," Mercer said. "You need to be able to manipulate a living being without killing them. And unless you want your father rotting in a cell for the rest of his life—"

He paused.

"—you will levitate the f*****g rabbit."

Ronnie stood there, frozen.

Her hand was still on the door handle.

She could leave.

She could walk out.

She could tell Mercer to go to hell.

But then her father would go to prison.

And it would be her fault.

Ronnie's hand fell from the door.

She took a deep breath.

Turned on her heels.

And walked back to the table.

The rabbit was still sitting there, trembling.

Ronnie stared at it.

Her hands were shaking.

Her heart was racing.

I'm sorry, she thought. I'm so sorry.

She reached out with her Hemokinesis.

She could feel it—the rabbit's blood. Warm. Fast. Pumping through tiny veins, a rapid heartbeat fueled by fear.

The rabbit shook.

It whimpered—a soft, pitiful sound.

Ronnie's forehead beaded with sweat.

She focused.

Slowly, carefully, the rabbit began to lift off the table.

Its legs kicked weakly in the air.

It was shaking. Trembling.

Ronnie's breathing was ragged.

The rabbit rose higher—one inch, two inches, three—

It started to squeak.

A high-pitched, desperate sound.

Ronnie's hands clenched into fists.

Focus. Focus. Don't lose it. Don't—

POP.

The rabbit exploded.

Blood sprayed everywhere—across the table, across the floor, across Ronnie's face.

She stood there, frozen.

Her hands were shaking.

Her chest was heaving.

Her face was covered in blood.

The rabbit was gone.

Just... gone.

Replaced by a mess of red and white fur scattered across the table.

Ronnie couldn't breathe.

She couldn't move.

She just stood there, staring at what she'd done.

Behind her, Mercer sighed.

"Again," he said.

Ronnie's head snapped toward him.

"What?"

"Again," Mercer repeated.

The door on the far side of the room opened.

The man in the white lab coat stepped out.

He was holding another rabbit.

Small. White. Trembling.

He walked forward and placed it on the table in front of Ronnie.

Then he turned and walked away.

The door closed.

Ronnie stared at the new rabbit.

Her hands were still shaking.

Her face was still covered in blood.

And Mercer was waiting.

"Begin," he said.

Ronnie's throat burned.

Her vision blurred.

But she didn't cry.

She couldn't.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

So she took a deep breath.

And reached out with her power.

Again.