The next morning, Elijah woke up to the faint glow of sunlight streaming through his curtains. It was 7 a.m., and the air in the room felt refreshingly crisp. Stretching out the stiffness from last night's chaotic dinner, he headed to the bathroom to freshen up.
The bathroom was attached to his room, a surprising luxury given the militaristic environment they were in. The white tiles gleamed, and the warm water cascading down his back helped him feel alert and ready for the day ahead.
After his shower, Elijah opened the brown clothing drawer in his room, curious about what lay inside. The first thing he noticed was a dark blue uniform. It was the same type of uniform worn by the officer who had tested him yesterday, though Elijah's was slightly different in hue. He recalled what he had learned about the ranks of officers:
- Dark blue uniforms belonged to Level 1–5 officers, the trainees.
- Dark red uniforms were for Level 6–10 officers, who handled dangerous missions.
- White uniforms were reserved for Level 11 officers, a near-legendary rank.
- Black uniforms, the rarest, were worn only by the elite Level 12 officers.
His eyes drifted to another set of clothing: a pristine white uniform with intricate dark blue patterns. The design was sharp yet elegant, with a loose turtleneck collar, white pants, and black boots. The golden buttons glimmered faintly, adding a touch of sophistication. This, Elijah realized, was their camp uniform, distinct from the dark blue mission attire.
Changing into the white uniform, he took a moment to adjust the black boots before running his fingers through his damp hair. He was just about to leave his room when a loud noise startled him.
Elijah hurried to the living room, his boots thudding against the floor. When he arrived, he saw Kieran, his face slightly flushed, standing awkwardly in front of Visconti, who was seated on the couch, sipping tea.
"I'm sorry about last night!" Kieran blurted out. Though his tone was apologetic, it was so loud that it felt more like a declaration than an apology.
Visconti, ever composed, raised an eyebrow and took another sip of tea. "It's fine. But why were you acting like that yesterday?"
Kieran scratched the back of his neck nervously. "Uh, well…"
"You don't have to tell us if you don't want to," Elijah said, taking a seat beside Visconti, hoping to diffuse the tension.
Kieran hesitated but eventually sighed. "Nah, it's not a big deal. That officer—Allan—he's the reason I got sent to The Region."
The words hung heavily in the air. Visconti's hand froze mid-sip, and Elijah turned to him, wide-eyed.
"The Region?" Visconti repeated, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief.
The Region. It wasn't a place people spoke about casually. It was essentially a juvenile detention center for teen Espers who had committed crimes. Officially, little was known about what happened there, but rumors painted a grim picture.
"How long were you there?" Elijah asked, his tone careful.
Kieran's voice dropped as he replied, "One year."
Visconti choked on his tea, coughing violently. "One year?" he spluttered. "The longest sentence I've heard of is six months! What did you do to get a year?"
Kieran's expression was calm—too calm. "I killed a Level 7 officer."
Silence. Both Elijah and Visconti stared at him, speechless.
"Killed… a Level 7 officer?" Visconti finally managed to say, his usual arrogance replaced by sheer disbelief.
Kieran shrugged, as if it were nothing more than a casual anecdote. "Yeah."
Elijah leaned forward. "And what did they do to you in The Region?"
At that, Kieran's calm façade cracked. His jaw tightened, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "They drained my mana."
Elijah's blood ran cold, and Visconti's expression darkened. Mana drainage was considered one of the cruelest punishments for Espers. It stripped them of their abilities, leaving them weak and vulnerable. In severe cases, it could lead to death. Even if someone survived, the recovery period often lasted months, and many never regained full control of their powers.
Visconti, who typically carried an air of indifference, looked genuinely troubled. Setting down his tea, he said, "You should lay low for now. Don't attract the Corps' attention again, or you'll end up worse than before."
Kieran scoffed, "Like I need advice from you."
Visconti smirked, his calm arrogance returning. "Suit yourself."
Elijah, meanwhile, felt a pang of unease. He had always been wary of the Corps, but Kieran's story only deepened his suspicions about the organization's darker side. The notion of draining mana as punishment gnawed at him. If the Corps could do that to one of their own, what else were they capable of?
Breaking the tense atmosphere, Elijah glanced at Kieran and noticed something odd. While both he and Visconti were dressed in the white camp uniforms, Kieran was wearing the dark blue uniform meant for missions.
"You're wearing the wrong uniform," Elijah pointed out.
Kieran looked down at himself, his face flushing red. "Oh, damn." Embarrassed, he quickly turned away. "I…I'm color blind."
Visconti snorted, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, sure. That's convenient."
"How stupid." Visconti muttered.
"What did you say?" Kieran snapped, spinning around.
"I said you're stupid," Visconti replied nonchalantly, taking another sip of tea.
Kieran's hands clenched into fists, his temper flaring. "You—"
Unable to come up with a retort, Kieran stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Visconti chuckled softly, clearly amused.
"He's too easy to rile up."
Elijah sighed, rubbing his temples. "You could try not provoking him, you know."
"Where's the fun in that?" Visconti quipped, leaning back on the couch with an air of smug satisfaction.