The ache in Caleb’s shoulder had settled deep by the time the burner comms-chip vibrated on the rusted footlocker. Hunger pulled under his ribs, sharp enough to make his hands tighten.

He reached down and tapped the screen. An encrypted message popped up.

You look exhausted. I could order a heated transport for you. You just have to ask.

Caleb rubbed his taped knuckles against his jaw and typed a manual reply. I take the rail.

So stubborn. The second text appeared immediately. Did you see the file name in the bay? The registry confirms it. You are growing. I am so proud.

He tossed the comms-chip back onto the metal footlocker, leaving the message unanswered. Her surveillance pressed in from all sides.

A heavy knock rattled the steel door.

Caleb grabbed his combat knife off the footlocker and pulled the heavy latch open.

Hiro stood in the hallway wearing a casual gray hoodie over his undersuit. He held a large, grease-stained paper bag. The smell of roasted meat and hot spices bled through the paper, flooding the freezing corridor.

Iharu leaned against the cinderblock wall behind him in an expensive civilian jacket. Kikaru stood a half-step back in a tailored gray academy jacket, surveying the peeling paint of the hallway with clear distaste.

"What are you doing here," Caleb asked, keeping his hand on the doorframe.

"We brought food," Hiro said, holding the bag up. "You looked terrible walking out of the staging tent. I ordered a surplus platter from the artisan district. The real stuff."

Caleb stared at the bag. The smell tore at his empty stomach, making his grip on the knife slip. He forced a slow breath through his nose.

"I didn’t buy anything," Iharu muttered. "I just came to see how pathetic the Seventh Division housing is. It looks like a prison cell."

"It lacks basic thermal insulation," Kikaru added, shivering slightly. "This violates minimum recovery standards."

"Close the door behind you to keep the draft out," Caleb said.

Hiro hurried inside and set the heavy paper bag onto the rusted footlocker. Iharu followed, kicking the heavy steel door shut with his boot. The loud clang sealed the four of them inside the cramped room.

Kikaru remained near the edge of the mattress, keeping her posture perfectly aligned. She watched Caleb pull three massive skewers of roasted meat from the bag.

Caleb sat on the mattress and tore the meat off the wooden stick with his teeth. He swallowed the spiced chunks almost whole. The dense calories hit his stomach, dulling the sharp ache beneath his ribs. The twisting cramp finally loosened. He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping as the tension drained away.

Hiro sat cross-legged on the floorboards, pulling a smaller skewer from the bag. "The kill house data uploaded to the public leaderboards. Your mechanical dismantling times are completely skewing the curve. The academy recruits are trying to copy the knife strikes on the joints, but they keep breaking their wrists on the armor plating."

"They swing too hard," Caleb said. He started on the second skewer. "They fight the metal. You have to wait for the machine to shift its weight. The gap opens itself."

Iharu leaned his back against the closed steel door. He chewed on a piece of dried fruit, watching Caleb eat. The arrogant swagger the redhead usually projected for the camera drones was missing.

"I locked up today," Iharu muttered.

Hiro stopped chewing, lowering his skewer.

Iharu glared at the floorboards. "During the trench simulation. The crawler dropped from the ceiling. I had the scatter-gun leveled, but I planted my bad leg. The acid burn pulled. I froze for two seconds. If the safety limiters were off, I would be a smear on the concrete."

His face flushed dark red, his grip tightening on the dried fruit.

Caleb finished the second skewer and tossed the wooden stick into the empty bag.

"You favor the burn because you think about the pain before you step," Caleb said, keeping his tone diagnostic. "You anchor your weight on your good leg, which makes your hip alignment entirely predictable. The machines read balance. They attack the dead side."

Iharu looked up. "So what is the fix?"

"Stop planting," Caleb said. "Keep your feet moving. Drag the bad leg if you have to, but don’t anchor it. A moving target forces the machine to recalibrate its trajectory. You buy yourself the two seconds you lost."

Iharu processed the mechanics. He gave a stiff, jerky nod.

Kikaru crossed her arms, the sharp lines of her jacket contrasting with the dull gray concrete. She stepped closer to the mattress, tracking the deep purple bruising that extended from Caleb’s shoulder up the side of his neck.

"This room is freezing," Kikaru stated. "Your core temperature drops too much here, and it slows your recovery. I can requisition a heated compression weave through the Mitsurugi supply chain. It will arrive by morning."

"I don’t need corporate charity," Caleb said, wiping his hands on a napkin. "The room is fine."

Kikaru’s spine snapped rigid. "It is not charity. It is maintenance. You are dragging down the squad’s overall readiness rating by recovering in a freezer."

"I survived lower-sector winters without heating," Caleb replied. "I’ll manage."

She stepped directly into his personal space, her gloved fingers hovering an inch from the medical tape sealing his collarbone.

"You bleed through the foam because your body works too hard just to stay warm," Kikaru murmured, a stubborn frustration leaking into her tone. "Stop fighting the people trying to keep you standing, Mercer."

Caleb held her gaze. He recognized the genuine concern hiding behind the aggressive corporate mandate.

"I’ll take an extra blanket from the quartermaster," Caleb offered.

The corner of Kikaru’s mouth twitched. She lowered her hand, stepping back with a sharp click of her brace. "Acceptable."

His burner phone vibrated on the footlocker. Caleb tapped the screen. A text from Tali appeared.

Your heart rate just dropped. Did you finally eat, or do I need to haul a plasma heater over to that concrete box you sleep in?

Caleb pocketed the phone.

Hiro stood up, dusting off his track jacket. "We should clear out. Curfew checks run in twenty minutes. The Third Division proctors deduct engagement points if we miss the bunk count."

Iharu pushed off the steel door. "Next time, you buy the meat, scrubber."

"Add it to my tab," Caleb said.

They filed out into the freezing hallway. Kikaru paused at the threshold, offering a final look at the miserable barracks room before stepping out. She pulled the heavy steel door shut behind her. The latch engaged with a loud clack.

Caleb stood alone in the dark.

The roasted meat fueled his limbs, settling the frantic ache inside his ribs. The bruising still throbbed, a grinding reminder of the heavy steel in Bay Four.

He stripped down to his undershirt and laid back on the stiff mattress, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He closed his eyes, letting the freezing air settle over the thin blankets.