I did not come to Orientation looking for a meet-cute; I came for receipts, loopholes, and the location of every exit sign in Rome. Then the doors slid open and Zohar walked in, and the room changed gravity like it heard better music.
The Accord’s training hall smells like ionized air, fresh microfiber, and ambition. Posters say ASCEND OR PERISH in fonts that think they’re doing you a favor. I’m wearing my regulation-adjacent jumpsuit and my best “prophecy allergy” face, which is to say: polite, alert, and absolutely unwilling to sign anything without a kill-switch. The AI cat purrs when I pass “emotional neutrality,” which is hilarious because I am not neutral about anything—especially not contracts. I’m here for my future and everyone else’s, armed with snacks, sarcasm, and a pen that writes in three colors plus “NO.”
Enter: Zohar.
Hazel eyes like sunlight caught trying to be subtle. Biracial, gold-toned skin with that quiet kind of glow that doesn’t ask for permission. Long, thin, blond dreads fall down his back like a comet tail someone braided on purpose. Fourteen, my age, but taller—tall enough that the room has to acknowledge him. Full brows, full mouth, all focus. He’s in the warrior jumpsuit that says “please don’t make me pose for the brochure, I have drills,” and his build reads athlete without the ego. The patch on his arm says LYRAN COHORT. The way he moves says “cat math, solved.”
I tell myself not to stare. My curiosity laughs in my face.
Coach claps us into pairs for the kinetic-logic course: balance beams, sensor gates, and an obstacle that looks like it was designed by an overcaffeinated architect with trust issues. Zohar ends up beside me at station two—breath test, reaction grid, micro-telepathy check (optional). He glances at the scanner, at me, then at the fine print no one ever reads. He’s reading it. Respect.
“Zohar,” he says, voice low, unhurried. “Ascendant recruit. Lyran line.”
“Spirit,” I say. “Unoptimized human with great boundaries.”
His mouth does a small smile that feels like a secret handshake.
“Boundaries are elite,” he says.
“Passcode-protected,” I say back.
We start the run. He’s all precision and hush, springing over the balance rail like gravity owes him rent. I’m not shabby—Dad raised me on field drills and “count exits like prayers”—but he’s next-level quiet. Not predatory quiet. Protective quiet. The kind you learn when you grow up between worlds and want to be the person who breaks the fall, not the one who causes it.
At the sensor gate, the machine tries to flirt: “CONSENT TO OPTIMIZATION: YES/NO.” I hit NO on principle. He hits “MORE INFO” like a scholar in boots.
“What’s your take?” he asks as we jog to the next station.
“My take is that a yes without a revoke button is a hostage situation with good lighting,” I say.
He huffs a laugh. “Same.”
Micro-telepathy check is optional, which means the rumor mill says it’s not. He places his hand on the contact pad, eyes on mine—not invasive, just present. I put mine down too. The pad warms, pings, then flashes: LINK AVAILABLE / DECLINE OR ACCEPT. We both decline. The proctor nods like we passed a test they forgot to print.
Between stations, the room does its usual celebrity cameo thing: Mehen sweeping through with that hurricane-in-a-suit energy; Sovereign orbiting as sentient etiquette with concealed edges; a producer whispering into a headset like truth is a set piece you can push onstage when ready. I note it. Zohar notes the exits.
“You’re Ra’s kid,” he says finally, not awed, just accurate.
“Guilty,” I say. “Also Erik’s. Pack training, wolf hush, soup mastery. Family is complicated and affectionate. Politics are… louder.”
He nods like he understands the weather report I didn’t give. “My mom’s Lyran. Dad’s Earth. Two cultures, one house, lots of stairs. I learned to read rooms so we didn’t trip.”
We hit the climbing frames. My hand slips at rung eight—not drama, just gravity being rude. He steadies the beam with his forearm, no flourish, no “you okay?” performance. Then he’s already moving again, like the best kind of teammate: the kind who helps without making it a headline.
“Thanks,” I say, catching up.
“Team sport,” he says.
At hydration, he pulls a folded page from his pocket—printout of the Orientation terms with annotations in pencil. I love a boy who brings footnotes to a sparring match.
“You’re the first recruit I’ve seen who marked clause 7.4,” I tell him.
“Kill-switch,” he says. “If there isn’t one, I invent one or I don’t play.”
“Marry me,” I almost say, then remember I am fourteen, dramatic, and not auditioning for a teen holodrama. Instead: “Study session after drills? I brought highlighters.”
He grins properly this time, and the room does that gravity thing again. “Yeah.”
Back on course, the instructor cranks the difficulty. Lights strobe, alarms bark, the AI cat decides we all need emotional support and does a hallway tour. Zohar stays centered like a lighthouse. I match his rhythm—inhale, step, decide. We finish with a time Coach calls “rude.” I take the compliment.
During cooldown, he leans against the wall and looks up at the banner: ASCEND OR PERISH. The A flickers like an eyelid trying not to blink.
“Feels uncreative,” he says.
“Feels like a T-shirt that forgot people are not inventory,” I say.
He glances sideways. “You ever get tired of being the kid who asks the hard question out loud?”
“Every day,” I admit. “But silence makes ugly things think they’re handsome.”
He nods. “Let’s make a pact, then. If we sign anything, we read it together, twice. If either of us feels our voice getting smaller, we pause. And if anyone tries to make us whisper our sovereignty…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
“We turn up the volume,” I say.
“Exactly.”
Coach calls end of session. People mill toward the vending wall like evolution requires electrolytes. Zohar and I head for a corner table with our stack: contracts, pens, two bottles of water, one AI cat who defected to sit on our feet. Around us, the hall hums with applause, gossip, and the metallic promise of a future trying to finalize itself.
Here’s what I know after ninety minutes: Zohar is not a distraction. He’s a compass that points to the version of me who keeps her weird laugh and her voice. Lyran reflexes, Earth heart, teenager who reads the fine print—my favorite constellation so far.
Tomorrow we’ll run the course again, ask better questions, color-code the answers, and keep choosing loudly. If the Accord wants us, it can earn us. We’re not inventory. We’re authors with highlighters. And this chapter? We write it together, in ink that glows when anyone lies.