Most cadets ca out shaken.
So cried. So laughed. So stood blank-eyed in the hallway for twenty minutes afterward.
The Hall of Mirrors wasn't literal — not made of glass — but the na stuck. A high-tier psychological simulator laced with neural feedback triggers and predictive AI. Built to test a cadet's ntal and emotional resilience.
Every first-year had to go through it.
Alone.
Rook stood outside the chamber door, reading the regulation note on the wall.
Hero Aptitude Cognitive Loop v4.3 — H.A.C.L.All scans are confidential. AI logs are sealed. Trainees will not receive transcripts.
Lies.
Every file went sowhere.And Hernan knew exactly where.
"Rook Vale," the tech said from behind the glass. "You ready?"
"Yes."
The door slid open with a soft hiss. The air inside was still and cold, like it had been waiting.
He stepped into the black chamber.
The room closed behind him.
And then the floor dropped away.
Not physically — perceptually.
The simulation wrapped around his vision with zero warning: no flicker, no fade. Just one mont he was standing in a circle of soft lights... and the next, he was seven years old again, standing in his living room.
The closet door was cracked.
Blood in the air.
His mother screaming.
Rook didn't flinch.
The simulation tried harder.
It shifted. Warped. Pushed ti forward. Showed him faces — Aya, Nico, Tessa, Virex. Showed him their deaths. Over and over. Made him choose who to save. Made him hesitate. Made him feel.
But it was trying to draw blood from iron.
His pulse never broke pace.
When the floor opened beneath Aya's simulated body and she scread for help, he simply turned.
"I wouldn't be there," he said flatly.
When Tessa bled out in his arms, whispering "Why?", he answered, "Because soone had to."
When Leo appeared — triumphant, smiling, arms spread in false glory — the simulation expected fury.
But Hernan only watched.
And said nothing.
The AI hesitated.
It tried one final test: a mirror.
His own face, reflected back.
But not the mask.The real one.
Blood on his hands. His father's eyes. His mother's voice whispering his na.
And still, he didn't blink.
He walked up to the mirror.
And whispered, "You're not real."
Then he reached out and cracked it.
Outside the room, the tech monitoring the test flinched as warning signals pulsed across the feed.
Subject has breached containnt protocol.Predictive loop corrupted. Emotional flatline sustained.AUTONOMOUS REPORT: ABERRANT PSYCHOTRIC PATTERN DETECTED.
Another warning followed:
FLAG: SEND TO CAPTAIN VIREX — URGENT
The report began compiling.
Until the terminal went black.
The file disappeared.
And the lights flickered.
Later, in his dorm, Rook stared at the sa system screen.
The one he'd overridden remotely. Quietly. Permanently.
The HACL logs were gone.The cara footage erased.The flag to Virex rerouted into a corrupted diagnostics folder labeled "Janitorial Schedule."
He'd rewritten his own psychological record in twelve minutes.
And no one even knew he'd entered the room.
He closed the screen and stood by the window.
Tessa passed below, headphones on, laughing at sothing Nico said.
Aya trailed behind, gaze flicking upward — always watching.
He watched them.
Not like friends.
Like pieces.
He didn't know what the final board would look like.
But he knew one thing for certain:
No mirror made by man would ever see him again.
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