Steel in the Bloodstream

"D-rank physique. Augment class."

The fingers tilting Avery's chin were clinically precise—the kind of touch that could calibrate instruments or dislocate jaws with equal ease. His voice was distractingly pleasant for someone delivering bureaucratic bad news.

"Self-healing's a passive perk from awakening. Nothing unusual."

The female officer snapped to attention so sharply her equipment harness creaked. "Yes, sir! We'll report according to your classification." A hesitation. "It's just... her birth scan showed no Esper aptitude..."

Birth scan?

Soren tapped his tactical glove in a rhythm that somehow sounded judgmental. His gaze sharpened with that particular intensity of someone connecting inconvenient dots.

No aptitude? Now that was... familiar.

His assessing look lingered a beat too long—something almost approving beneath the professional detachment.

"No aptitude?" A quiet exhale that might have been amusement. "Well, she's got it now."

With fluid efficiency, he turned toward the exit. "Come. Combat site."

Only when the last echo of his boots faded did Avery unclench her death-grip on her own ribs. Her pulse hammered against her sternum like it was filing an escape request in triplicate.

"LUSTRA. Define 'physique' in this context."

[Augment-class: physical enhancement. Elemental: energy channeling. Trait: unique mutations. Psionic: mental fortitude. Rank progression: E to A.]

So Espers were containers, and physique determined their capacity. D-rank meant she was currently a shot glass in a hurricane—barely holding shape.

Avery pressed cool fingers to her throbbing temples.

The officer meanwhile had devolved into poorly suppressed fangirling. "That was Commander Wolfe! The man who bisected an A-rank Aberrant mid-leap at twenty-two!"

Judicators—the Bureau's elite enforcers. Calling Wolfe a soldier would be like calling a nuclear warhead 'fireworks.'

Avery nodded weakly. "His presence is... intense."

"Intense?" The woman looked scandalized. "That's the Federation's most decorated Judicator! He's got three separate fanclubs at HQ!"

Avery's lips twitched. She'd manufactured enough celebrities to recognize the packaging—though Soren Wolfe clearly came pre-wrapped in hazard tape.

"Dangerously photogenic, then," she conceded.

The officer leaned in conspiratorially. "Rumor says he's being promoted to Arbiter. The 'Cipher Judicator' tag? Just a placeholder until they figure out what to make of him."

Avery blinked. "Wait—the earlier battle wasn't him?"

"That was Callan Wolfe. The Iceflame Judicator." The whisper dripped with drama. "The Wolfe twins are called 'Twin Stars' for a reason."

Ah. Corporate politics in tactical gear. That whole spectacle had been... an audition.

Avery's exhausted chuckle died as her elbow brushed the wall—

CRACK.

She stared at the new fracture spiderwebbing from the point of contact. Her hands—previously littered with scars—now looked like they'd never held anything heavier than a champagne flute.

The officer groaned. "Even a D-rank physique isn't something to scoff at. Let's get moving before you break something else."