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It's not just the sterile white surfaces or the faint scent of antiseptic that permeates everything. It's something else, something about the way sound behaves in here, as though the walls themselves are listening, cataloging every heartbeat and breath.

Or maybe it's just that I'm about to let Unity technicians pump my body full of chemicals designed to make me a more efficient weapon.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

"Enhancement subject Thorne, Zara. Reporting as scheduled." I stand perfectly still as the biometric scanner maps my body, its blue light sliding over my skin like cold water.

"Identification confirmed," the technician says without looking up from his console.

Like most Unity personnel, he has the uniform features of someone who's never gone without an optimization treatment, with smooth skin, perfect symmetry, not a single distinguishing characteristic to remember him by.

That's by design, of course. Unity doesn't value individuality; it values function and homogeny, so we’re all one big bland soup working to keep the lives at the top of the chain flourishing.

And it values control above all else. The more we put our heads down and do as we’re told, the easier we are to shape.

"Bay three is prepped for your procedure." He gestures toward the row of recessed chambers along the far wall, their transparent doors standing open like hungry mouths.

I move toward my assigned bay, my steps measured and confident despite the knot of unease in my stomach. Six years of enhancement treatments, and I still haven't gotten used to them. The other Sentinels claim the unease eventually fades. I'm beginning to think they're lying.

As I change into the required medical gown, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of a monitoring panel.

Dark hair cropped precisely at regulation length, pale skin that hasn't seen real sunlight in years, eyes a shade of brown so dark they're almost black.

Standard-issue Zara Thorne, Unity Sentinel.

Except lately, I don't feel very standard at all.

"Sentinel Thorne." A new voice, deep and familiar, sends an unauthorized ripple down my spine.

I turn to see Trent striding through the main doors, his broad shoulders and towering frame making the room seem suddenly smaller.

His dark hair is slightly longer than regulation, a special exemption granted to him after proving the extra centimeter improved his combat efficiency by some fractional percentage.

Not sure how that works, exactly, but Trent knows how to get his way.

His jawline could cut glass, all sharp angles and perfect symmetry that even Unity's aesthetic engineers couldn't improve upon.

He moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly how much space he occupies in the world and how to use it to maximum effect. It's mesmerizing to watch, not that I'd ever admit that to anyone, least of all myself.

"Sentinel Vanguard," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. "I wasn't aware you were scheduled for enhancement today."

"I'm not." His gray eyes scan the medical bay with practiced efficiency. "I've been assigned to supervise your procedure."

"Supervise?" I raise an eyebrow. "Since when do enhancement protocols require supervision?"

A slight tension appears at the corner of his mouth, so subtle that only someone with enhanced perception would notice it. "Since Command noted irregularities in your last three biometric scans."

My stomach tightens, but I maintain a casual expression. "Nothing serious, I hope. I'd hate to miss the Unity Day celebrations. I hear they're serving actual fruit this year, not just the synthetic stuff."

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think I see something there. Concern, perhaps, or something deeper. Then it's gone, replaced by the professional distance that defines our partnership.

"Standard precaution," he says. "Command wants to ensure optimal Sentinel performance."

Of course they do. In Unity, that's all that matters—performance, efficiency, function. Not the fact that something feels increasingly wrong inside my body, like my very cells are rebelling against the chemicals designed to enhance them.

I follow the technician to the enhancement chamber, Trent trailing a precise two steps behind. As I settle onto the reclined medical platform, memories from my first enhancement procedure surface unbidden.

Six years ago, in this same medical bay. I was eighteen, freshly graduated from Sentinel basic training, terrified but determined not to show it.

And there was Trent, twenty-four and already a legend among Sentinels, assigned as my training supervisor. He'd stood exactly where he's standing now, monitoring my vitals with that same inscrutable expression.

"Remember to breathe normally," he'd instructed as the technicians prepared the enhancement cocktail. "The first treatment is the most intense. Your body will fight it initially. Don't resist."

"Will it hurt?" I'd asked, hating how young I sounded.

Something had flickered across his face then a moment of genuine emotion breaking through the perfect Sentinel facade. "Yes," he'd said simply. "But you're stronger than the pain."

He'd been right about both counts.

"Enhancement protocol initiating," the current technician announces, dragging me back to the present. "Standard neuro-optimization package with adaptive reflex modifiers and sensory enhancement series seven."

The clear liquid flowing through the tubes toward my arm looks harmless, like water, or the artificial tears Unity provides for those assigned to the drier sections of the arcology.

I know better. That innocuous fluid contains enough chemical enhancement to kill three average citizens.

For me, it's just another day as a Sentinel.

"Commencing intravenous delivery," the technician continues as the needle slides beneath my skin. "Estimated procedure time: seventeen minutes."

I fix my eyes on the ceiling, focusing on my breathing as the familiar cold sensation spreads up my arm. One heartbeat, two, three...and then the burn begins, racing through my veins like liquid fire.

"Heart rate elevating," I hear the technician note clinically. "Within expected parameters."

The pain intensifies, moving from discomfort to agony as the enhancement cocktail reaches my major organs. My muscles seize, back arching slightly off the platform despite my attempts to remain still .

"Respiratory function showing slight irregularity," the technician's voice says, now sounding farther away. "Adjusting oxygen levels."

Through the haze of pain, I'm vaguely aware of the monitoring systems beeping more rapidly.

This isn't unusual. The enhancement process is brutal by design, pushing the body to its limits before rebuilding it stronger.

What is unusual is the strange double rhythm I can feel in my chest, as though my heart is trying to beat to two different drums.

"Something's wrong." Trent's voice cuts through the fog of pain, sharp with authority. "Her neural patterns are showing anomalous spikes."

"Just standard adaptation response," the technician dismisses. "All Sentinels show similar?—"

"Not like this," Trent interrupts. "Look at the secondary endocrine readings."

I try to focus on their conversation, but the pain is shifting now, transforming into something new. Instead of the familiar burn, I feel a strange tingling sensation spreading outward from my core, almost pleasant, like my body is welcoming the changes rather than fighting them.

That's definitely not standard protocol.

"Interesting," the technician murmurs, suddenly more engaged. "She's metabolizing the compounds at 1.7 times the standard rate. I've never seen efficiency like this outside of?—"

"Outside of what?" Trent's voice has an edge I've rarely heard.

"Nothing. Just an anomaly. I'll adjust the flow rate to compensate."

The burning sensation returns as the technician increases the dosage, but it's different now, less like my body is being remade and more like it's fighting against something that doesn't belong there.

My vision blurs, colors shifting strangely.

For a moment, I swear I can see through the technician' s skin to the network of veins beneath, pulsing with each heartbeat.

"—blood pressure dropping," the technician's voice filters back into my awareness. "This doesn't make sense. Her system should be stabilizing, not?—"

"Terminate the procedure." Trent's command cuts through the haze.

"We're only fourteen minutes in. The protocol requires?—"

"I said terminate. Now."

Through my swimming vision, I see Trent move to the control panel, his tall frame blocking the technician's access. Even in my semi-conscious state, I appreciate the fluid efficiency of his movement, like watching a predator position itself between threat and prey.

Except in this scenario, I'm the prey being protected, which makes no sense at all.

Unity protocol is clear: the enhancement process is more important than individual Sentinel comfort or even survival.

The statistical loss of occasional Sentinels is considered an acceptable trade-off for the improvements in those who successfully adapt.

The burning in my veins begins to subside as the flow of chemicals slows, then stops. I suck in a ragged breath, my enhanced senses gradually returning to their baseline settings.

"What happened?" I manage to ask, my voice rough.

Trent is at my side now, his eyes scanning the vital sign monitors rather than looking at me. "Unexpected reaction to the standard formula."

"Is that...bad?" I push myself up to sitting position, ignoring the wave of dizziness the movement triggers. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

"It's irregular," the technician answers, giving Trent a wary look. "But not necessarily problematic. Some Sentinels simply metabolize the enhancements differently."