The staging corridor smelled of heat and metal.

  Karael stood with his back to the wall, helmet clipped at his hip, gauntlets locked in place. The unit around him moved with quiet efficiency, checking seals, tightening straps, testing weapons without ceremony. No one spoke unless a function required it.

  Marr was not there.

  The absence pressed harder than the weight in Karael’s chest.

  An escort gestured once. Karael stepped forward and took his place at the rear. He kept his pressure suppressed, breathing slow, measured, the way he had been taught. Without pressure, his body felt light, almost unsteady, like he was standing on unfamiliar ground.

  He glanced down at his right gauntlet.

  The strap sat at a slightly different angle than he remembered setting it. Subtle. Intentional. Marr’s doing. The thought steadied him more than it should have.

  The doors opened.

  Heat rolled in first. Then sound. Then the faint, constant vibration that meant instability nearby. The zone was already partially cleared. Civilians moved under guidance toward reinforced corridors, faces tight, steps hurried. Non venters took point, weapons up, spacing precise.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Karael followed instruction exactly.

  He did not rush. Did not anticipate. He stayed half a step behind where instinct told him to be. Slower than the veterans. Safer.

  It drew looks.

  Not hostile. Calculating.

  They moved deeper.

  The first contact came without warning. A shape surged from fractured stone, fast and wrong, momentum carrying it toward the line. Orders snapped out. Karael waited. He felt the familiar pull, the pressure rising in response to threat.

  He held it.

  The moment came. He stepped in, engaged pressure for a heartbeat, and struck.

  Impact was clean. Contained. The gauntlets hissed as they bled the rebound away. Heat flared along his forearms and vanished. He disengaged immediately and stepped back into position.

  No one commented.

  But the spacing shifted. Slightly. Enough to notice.

  They advanced again.

  By the time extraction was called, Karael’s arms ached and his gauntlets radiated a dull warmth that sank into bone. Without Marr nearby, the corrections came late, self made, imperfect. Pressure rebounded harder than it had in training. He absorbed it and kept moving.

  At the perimeter, a veteran glanced at him once. “Don’t make us adjust for you.”

  It was not an insult. It was instruction.

  Karael nodded.

  The return was efficient. No debrief. No questions. Metrics were logged and ignored. A new rotation notice appeared on the slate in his hands before he reached the locker corridor.

  Shorter interval. Closer zone.

  More frequent.

  As he removed his gear, Karael paused, fingers resting on the strap Marr had adjusted. For the first time, he understood something clearly.

  Marr had not kept him safe.

  He had taught him how to survive when no one would.

  The thought followed him as he left the corridor, pressure heavy and obedient, the next assignment already waiting.