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The moment the door closes, Trent moves closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "During your visual disruption, your eyes changed color. Just for a second."

My blood runs cold. "Changed how?"

"Amber. Like Eden's."

The implication is staggering. Not just internal changes anymore, but physical manifestations visible to others. If Mercer had been here moments earlier...

"They know," I whisper. "That's why Voss wants a full evaluation."

"They suspect," Trent corrects. "If they knew for certain, you'd already be in processing."

"I can't go to Medical," I say, the realization settling like ice in my veins.

"No," Trent agrees. "We need to accelerate our timeline. The sympathizer transport leaves tonight with Eden. We need to be on it."

The suggestion stuns me despite its obvious logic. "You want to defect? Both of us?"

His gray eyes hold mine steadily. "I want us to survive. If Medical confirms genetic modifications, they'll take you for processing. And if they review our mission logs and discover we've been protecting a Splinter child instead of reporting her..."

He doesn't need to finish. We both know the consequences of treason against Unity.

"Training resuming in thirty seconds," announces the automated system.

Trent steps back, his expression shifting seamlessly to professional detachment. "Focus on maintaining visual stability during the next sequence," he says loudly for the monitors. "Compensate with enhanced audio processing if necessary."

I nod, mind racing with implications and possibilities. In less than twelve hours, we could be leaving Unity forever, abandoning everything we've known for a hostile wasteland and uncertain future.

The simulation begins again, holographic Splinters materializing around us. I force myself to focus, to move throughthe familiar combat patterns while part of my mind continues processing our situation.

We're halfway through the sequence when it happens again, but worse this time. My vision doesn't just blur; it transforms entirely. Suddenly I'm seeing heat signatures pulsing through the walls, electromagnetic currents running through the simulation equipment, the beating heart of Trent's circulatory system as he moves across the chamber.

Then pain—sharp and overwhelming—as my brain struggles to process the flood of new sensory information. I falter, dropping to one knee as a wave of dizziness hits me.

“Shit!” I cry.

"Simulation pause!" Trent calls out, rushing to my side.

But the training program doesn't pause. Instead, the holographic Splinters converge on me, a programmed response to detected weakness. I try to stand, to defend myself, but my muscles won't cooperate.

Through kaileidoscopic vision, I see something else—a memory that can't possibly be mine surging to the surface:

A laboratory. Gleaming equipment. A woman with dark hair like mine working frantically at a control panel.

"They've found us," she says to someone off-screen. "We need to move the children now."

Fire alarms blaring. The smell of smoke and chemicals.

"Zara will be safe," the woman continues. "The modifications are stable. She just needs to survive long enough for them to activate."

A man's voice, urgent but controlled: "And if Unity finds her first?"

"They won't know what she is. Not until it's too late."

The memory—if that's what it is—dissolves as suddenly as it appeared. I'm back in the training chamber, on my hands and knees, with Trent kneeling beside me.

"Simulation terminated," announces the system. "Medical emergency protocols engaged."

Red warning lights pulse overhead. We have minutes, maybe seconds, before medical staff arrive.