We wake up at roughly the same time the next morning.

  There’s space between us now. Not much, but enough that I notice it immediately. Our bodies have shifted sometime during the night, easing apart like they’ve decided we don’t need to be huddled together anymore, not like before. The worst of it must be over, at least for now.

  I tell myself that’s a good thing.

  Still, I hate how empty the space feels.

  I don’t move right away. I lie there and take stock, letting the quiet settle, listening to the steady sounds of the infirmary waking up around us. My body aches in a deep, worked-over way, but it’s bearable. Manageable. What stands out more is the absence.

  I miss the contact.

  It’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but the truth is right there, undeniable. Being close was comforting in a way I don’t have better words for. It felt right. Natural. Like something clicking into place without needing to be examined too closely.

  And sure, Kai is a disaster to sleep next to. He has sharp knees and elbows, and they always end up somewhere they absolutely should not. I’ve woken up with bruises before and blamed it on training just to avoid explaining that my best friend flails in his sleep.

  I still miss it.

  The feeling is familiar, like waking up on a cold morning and realizing the blanket slipped off sometime during the night. You’re not freezing. You’re fine, technically. But there’s that instinctive urge to tug it back into place, to reclaim the warmth you didn’t realize you were relying on so much.

  I don’t reach for him.

  I just lie there a little longer, noticing the space, pretending it doesn’t matter as much as it does.

  As I’m lying there thinking about the cold and the missing warmth, they start arriving.

  Not our parents.

  They come in clusters, quietly at first, then in numbers that make the room feel smaller. Administrators from the Academy, their robes immaculate and their faces set in careful neutrality. Doctors from other cities, some I recognize only by reputation, others complete strangers carrying polished cases and unfamiliar instruments. They don’t look at us the way our instructors do. They look at us the way people look at damaged machinery.

  It’s humiliating.

  More humiliating than waking up wrapped around Kai in front of everyone. Worse than what slipped out of his mouth in the cafeteria weeks ago. That embarrassment had been human. This isn’t. This feels like being stripped of context, reduced to a problem that needs solving.

  They don’t ask how we’re feeling.

  They tell us to stand.

  My legs protest immediately, the ache deep and sour, like my bones remember being pulled in directions they were never meant to go. Kai gets up beside me, stiff and controlled, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles jump. We’re told to walk. To turn. To react. Hands snap in front of our faces. Fingers jab toward our ribs, our shoulders, our knees. Reflexes tested. Balance disrupted on purpose.

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  Every movement hurts.

  Not sharply. Not cleanly. It’s the kind of pain that feels old already, like my body hasn’t caught up to what it went through. Sweat beads on Kai’s brow as he pushes through it. He doesn’t complain. Neither do I. Complaining would feel like giving them satisfaction.

  Eventually, that group leaves.

  I let myself believe that’s the worst of it.

  The next group is different.

  They don’t pretend at courtesy. They don’t introduce themselves. One of them steps forward, looks us over once, and tells us to remove our clothes.

  Just like that.

  Kai stiffens instantly. His shoulders lock, and his voice is steady when he speaks, but there’s heat under it.

  “No.”

  The word hangs there for half a second.

  They don’t argue.

  Two large men move in before either of us can react properly. Hands grip my shoulders, my arms, firm and practiced. I’m forced back down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Kai fights harder, snarls something I don’t catch, but it doesn’t matter. They’re stronger. They’re trained for this.

  Clothes are removed whether we cooperate or not.

  The air feels vicious against bare skin, every draft cutting deeper than it should. I stare at the ceiling and force myself not to thrash, not to give them the satisfaction of reaction. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

  They begin examining us.

  There is no explanation of what they’re doing or why. Instruments press cold against my skin. Fingers probe and test, uncomfortably thorough, invasive in ways that make my stomach twist. They take samples. They shine lights where they shouldn’t need to. They measure, annotate, confer in low voices like we aren’t right there.

  Like we aren’t people.

  Kai is rigid beside me, every muscle wound tight. I can feel his anger like static in the air, sharp and dangerous. I’m angry too, but beneath it there’s something worse. A helpless, sinking realization that no one here is going to stop this. Not because they can’t. Because they won’t.

  By the time they finish, I feel hollowed out.

  Every part of me aches. Not just from the handling, but from the effort of staying still, staying silent, staying myself while being treated like something owned. The two men who restrained us don’t leave. They stand close, watching carefully, ready to intervene if either of us moves wrong.

  I hate them.

  I tell myself they must enjoy this, that they must get something out of it. It makes it easier to swallow. It turns them into something less than human, and that helps me survive the moment. Humans wouldn’t do this to kids.

  Eventually, one of the doctors says we can get dressed.

  That’s it. No apology. No acknowledgment. They turn away before we’re even fully covered, already discussing us like we’re data points. The guards don’t step back until we’re clothed again.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, hands shaking despite my efforts to stop them. Kai sits beside me, shoulders brushing, his presence the only thing keeping me upright.

  I’m the first one to break.

  It starts with my chin trembling, a small betrayal I don’t catch in time. My breathing goes uneven, pressure building behind my eyes and chest. I don’t sob. I don’t wail. But something has to escape, and it comes out in quiet, broken breaths I can’t control.

  I lean into Kai.

  He leans back immediately, solid and unyielding, an anchor when everything else feels loose. We sit there like that, breathing through it together, letting the worst of it pass without words.

  A nurse comes in with food.

  She stops short when she sees us. Really sees us. Her expression flickers, pity sharp and unmistakable. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something comforting, something human.

  Then she closes it again.

  She sets the tray down and leaves without a word.

  Good instinct.

  No one else comes after that.

  We eat mechanically, the food is tasteless. Eventually, exhaustion pulls us back down onto the bed. We curl into each other again without discussion, limbs tangled awkwardly, a mess of contact and shared space that feels safer than distance.

  Like a ball of twine shoved into a drawer without care. Knotted. Tangled. No clear way to fix it without cutting something important.

  At least that’s how it feels in the moment. For now, being tangled feels better than being taken apart.