Exterior — OPOM Selection Center — Day

  The structure doesn’t sit there.

  It occupies the horizon.

  Reinforced concrete and composite metal. Clean lines, not a centimeter of kindness. Control towers like fingers pointed at the sky. Drones on slow, orderly, ruthless patrol. Layered blast gates. Sensors everywhere—small, invisible… but present like eyes under the skin.

  The air hums with tension.

  The kind that hangs before a storm that can’t decide to break.

  A blue bike slows. Stops.

  Jason gets off.

  Helmet hooked to the duffel. Simple clothes. Functional. No symbols. No flags. Just him.

  The engine cuts.

  Silence.

  Only the wind remains… and the distant hum of OPOM tech. That thin bzzz that seems to say: you’ve already been measured.

  A tide of candidates crowds the entrance.

  Hundreds. A nervous, hungry mosaic.

  And they’re not all the same.

  There are the trained “normals”: military posture, hard eyes, bodies that already know how to obey.

  There are the evolved with dormant codes: they look human… until you really look. Movements too clean. Reflexes too sharp. Low potential—but real.

  And then there are the “actives.”

  The ones whose code actually manifests.

  From Grade C upward, you feel them even standing still.

  The others—E, D—can be tough, dangerous, even excellent… but they’re still human with a ceiling.

  From C on, something pushes from the inside.

  Stronger the higher you go.

  And if the code is strong enough… it becomes hunger.

  The difference isn’t aesthetic.

  It’s pressure.

  Advanced tech suits. Partial exoskeletons. Full rigs—too big to be “human.” Visible implants: plates, cables, joints not born of flesh. Relaxed faces, hard eyes. And others—unarmed. Normal clothes. Bare hands.

  Support systems everywhere: plates, sheaths, modules, micro-reactors beneath technical fabric.

  They’re not there to be strong.

  They’re there to get stronger.

  To carry power that would snap a body on its own.

  Sculpted physiques beside ordinary bodies.

  War shoulders next to real-life bellies.

  Confident stares.

  Nervous stares.

  Stares that want to eat the world.

  Jason enters the flow and walks.

  Even stride.

  He doesn’t speed up.

  He doesn’t slow down.

  Quiet.

  Looks hit him like pins.

  A candidate in a powered suit sizes him up, that half-smile that says you’re already dead.

  Another, no gear, clenches his fists until the knuckles bleach white.

  One with a glowing visor tilts his head, like he’s scanning an interesting insect.

  Voices drift from the back, mashed with adrenaline and hot metal stink. A dirty chorus.

  “He’s got no suit…”

  “Either crazy… or actually strong.”

  “Let’s see how long he lasts.”

  Jason doesn’t react.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He inhales.

  Slow.

  The air comes in… then settles somewhere between sternum and gut, like a weight making itself at home.

  Calm eyes.

  Inside, though, everything is primed to blow.

  Not today. Not here. Not now.

  He stops at the main gates.

  Behind him the crowd keeps moving, pushing, breathing together. A collective animal. A single organism vibrating with hunger.

  Above the entrance, a luminous inscription cuts the concrete like a sentence:

  GLOBAL ORDER & PROTECTION FORCES

  SELECTION CENTER

  The noise dulls.

  Like someone pinched the world’s volume down with two fingers.

  Only his heartbeat remains.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Jason whispers, barely moving his lips:

  “I won’t fail.”

  His eyes lock in.

  Harder.

  Pure determination.

  “I’ll get into the OPOM special units. Whatever it takes.”

  An electronic beep.

  Then a second.

  Lower.

  The gates begin to open.

  Metal on metal.

  A vibration you feel in your teeth.

  And as the space ahead yawns open… Jason doesn’t step right away.

  He waits that extra half-second.

  Like he’s staring down something that isn’t just a place.

  But a beast.

  Then he goes in.

  —

  Atrium — OPOM Center

  The atrium isn’t an entrance.

  It’s a throat.

  Concrete. Glass. Metal. Everything massive, geometric, cold. Military architecture with no compromise: it crushes you by presence alone, like the place is already telling you where you end up if you screw up.

  Hundreds of candidates packed together.

  A constant, nervous buzz scratching the air. Not conversation. Dirty electricity.

  One sideways glance and the groups read themselves.

  Sharp-dressed kids, confident, clean clothes and résumé smiles.

  Mutants with barely-there auras: they don’t show it, but you feel it… like heat under the skin.

  Powered suits and exoskeletons: glossy, loud, too big for a room full of bodies.

  And then the loners: still, silent, eyes fixed ahead. The ones who don’t ask anyone for anything.

  Crossed dialogue. Fast. Venomous.

  “That one’s the European minister’s kid…”

  “Then he’s already in.”

  “They cut anyone here. Even daddy’s boys.”

  A short laugh. Nervous.

  Then back to that background noise, like an insect inside the ear.

  —

  Krel Sornar

  In the middle of the crowd stands Krel Sornar.

  Hands in pockets. Lean, athletic build.

  Nothing flashy. No theatrics. No suit.

  But his eyes… those are lit. Cold. Predatory.

  They’re not looking for approval. They’re mapping exits.

  Two candidates nearby speak low, like saying the name might summon bad luck.

  “That’s him… Krel Sornar.”

  “The Carnotaur?”

  “Yeah. Absolute monster. Prehistoric code.”

  “They say he’s already Grade A.”

  The whisper drops further.

  “Second in the world… like the second Black Flame. One of the strongest S-grades.”

  Almost guilty:

  “Too much power for his age.”

  “He’s lost control before… almost killed people.”

  The air around Krel vibrates—just a little.

  It doesn’t explode.

  It’s compressed.

  Held down by force.

  Another voice, sharp, no admiration:

  “He’s a monster.”

  “This isn’t an exam for him… he’s going straight to the Red Flames.”

  Krel stays still.

  Serious. Motionless.

  He sizes up the space like a battlefield.

  Looks at no one.

  And the way he breathes…

  he already looks ready to bite.

  —

  OPOM Observers

  From the upper balcony, two OPOM experts watch from above.

  Holographic screens. Streaming data. Percentages pulsing like heartbeats.

  Names, codes, risks.

  Clipped dialogue. Professional. Almost bored.

  “Top favorite.”

  “Yeah. If he doesn’t implode first.”

  Cut on Krel: jaw set, gaze glacial.

  Then the final line drops like a verdict. No drama.

  “His problem isn’t the body.”

  “It’s the head.”

  Pistol Boy.