Seven o’clock. I stood outside Reeves’s private lab in the basement of Building E. Most students didn’t know this level existed. The elevator didn’t stop here unless you had special access. I’d had to use the maintenance stairs, which felt right somehow. The backdoor approach for the backdoor arrangement.

The hallway lights flickered, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The whole setup screamed "secret experiment gone wrong" in a way that would’ve been funny if I wasn’t about to become the experiment.

I knocked twice on the metal door. No response. I tried the handle and found it unlocked.

The laboratory inside looked like something from a science fiction movie. White walls. Stainless steel tables. Computer terminals with multiple monitors displaying data I couldn’t begin to interpret. Glass cases containing what might have been samples or specimens or both.

And Professor Laurana Reeves, bent over a workbench in a white lab coat, her scarlet hair loose around her shoulders.

"You’re punctual," she said without looking up. "Good. Close the door behind you."

I did. The heavy door sealed with a soft hiss. Automatic locks engaged with a click that felt extremely final.

"Should I be worried about that?" I asked, pointing at the locks.

"Privacy measures," Reeves said, straightening. "What we’re doing here requires discretion."

She turned to face me, and I managed not to react visibly at the change. She’d shed her professional attire. Under the lab coat, she wore a black tank top that left her shoulders bare and hugged her figure in ways the blazer and dress shirt never had. Her arms were sculpted with lean muscle, and a pattern of glowing red lines traced from her wrists up to her biceps—some kind of Root-Type modification I hadn’t seen before.

"Take off your shirt," she said.

"You always start with this?"

"I need to see the injuries from your match."

"They’re mostly healed."

"That’s what interests me." She gestured to an examination table. "Shirt off. On the table. Please."

The please sounded tacked on. An afterthought. I complied anyway, unbuttoning my uniform shirt and setting it aside. The bandages around my ribs still held the faint traces of blood that had seeped through.

Reeves approached, her ruby eyes clinically assessing the damage. "Mrs. Tanaka’s report said three broken ribs, a fractured ankle, second-degree burns, and extensive bruising. Is that accurate?"

"Four broken ribs. But otherwise yes."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Fine."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Sore," I admitted. "But functional."

"Lie back."

I did, the cold metal of the examination table sending a chill through my skin. Reeves began unwrapping the bandages around my torso. Her fingers were cool against my skin, her touch clinical but not impersonal.

"Remarkable," she murmured. "The bone has nearly reset completely. And the bruising is already yellow-green. This should be purple at best."

"I heal fast."

"No one heals this fast." She pressed her fingers against my side, feeling for the breaks. "Not without assistance."

I winced as she found a tender spot. "Careful."

"Does this hurt?" She pressed again, harder.

"Yes."

"Good. That means you’re still human." She stepped back, making notes on a tablet. "Sit up. I need to test your range of motion."

I complied, swinging my legs over the side of the table. Reeves set aside the tablet and came to stand directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something subtle with notes of amber and spice.

"Raise your arms overhead," she instructed.

I did. The movement pulled at the healing ribs, but the pain wasn’t debilitating.

"Now to the sides."

I extended my arms outward.

"Twist at the waist. Slowly."

Each movement brought her hands to different parts of my torso, checking muscle response, bone alignment, the extent of the remaining injuries. Her touch remained professional, but I noticed the way her eyes lingered on the definition in my arms, my chest, the lines of muscle that the Specimen ability maintained without effort.

"Your adaptive response," she said finally, stepping back. "How does it work?"

"I don’t know the details."

"You’re lying." She didn’t sound angry. Just certain. "You demonstrated gravitational manipulation, elasticity, portal creation, and fire generation. Those aren’t adaptations. They’re discrete abilities with distinct energy signatures."

"My registration—"

"Is a fiction." She cut me off. "A very expensive, very convincing fiction that your father’s lawyers crafted. But it’s still a fiction."

I said nothing.

"I’m not asking because I want to expose you," she continued. "I’m asking because it’s unprecedented. And because if you’re telling the truth about being an adaptive type, you’re the most significant case in recorded history."

"And if I’m not?"

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. "Then you’re something else entirely. And that’s even more interesting."

She moved to a cabinet and withdrew a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.

"What’s that?" I asked.

"A mild stimulant. It will temporarily accelerate your heart rate and increase your Essentia output. I need readings at elevated levels."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then our arrangement becomes considerably less mutual." She filled the syringe with practiced precision. "But I don’t think you’ll refuse. You’re too curious about your own limits."

She wasn’t wrong. And I needed to know what she knew—what she suspected—about what I really was.

"Fine." I extended my arm. "But I want information in return."

"Such as?"

"Everything you know about Drain-types."

Her eyes widened fractionally. The only sign of surprise she allowed herself. "Interesting request."

"Is it?"

She tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. Found a vein. Swabbed the area with alcohol.

"Drain-types were officially classified as extinct seventy years ago," she said, positioning the needle. "The last documented case died during an incompatible drain attempt that triggered catastrophic rejection."

"And unofficially?"

The needle slid in. I felt the cold liquid enter my bloodstream. "Unofficially, the NEA has investigated twelve suspected cases in the last decade. Most were misdiagnosed. A few weren’t."

"What happened to them?"

"Sharp pinch," she said, withdrawing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the site. "They were studied. Extensively."

Something in her voice made me look up. Her eyes held mine, communicating something beyond her words.

"How extensively?" I asked.

"Think about it, D’Angelo. An ability that can take power from others. Copy it. Store it. Use it later. How valuable would that be? How dangerous?" She disposed of the syringe. "The NEA doesn’t let that kind of ability walk around freely."

My heart rate increased, whether from the drug or her words, I couldn’t tell. "But you would."

"I’m not the NEA." She moved closer, standing between my knees as I sat on the edge of the table. "I’m a researcher. I want to understand, not control."

The stimulant was definitely working now. Colors seemed brighter. Sounds sharper. I was acutely aware of every point of almost-contact between us—her lab coat brushing my knees, her hands resting on the table edge beside my hips, her face inches from mine.

"What do you want to understand about me?" I asked.

"Everything," she said simply. "How you drain. Who you drain. What happens during the process." Her eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "Whether the drain requires physical contact or emotional connection. Or both."

The room felt warmer suddenly. The air heavier. My skin prickled with awareness as the drug enhanced every sensation. I could feel Reeves’s Essentia now, a low thrumming frequency that reminded me of hot metal and something sharper beneath—a scalpel’s edge or a surgeon’s focus.

"You think I’m a Drain-type."

"I know you are." She placed a hand flat against my chest, directly over my heart. "Your pulse is racing."

"The stimulant."

"Not just that." Her fingers splayed across my skin. "You respond to proximity. Your Essentia patterns shift when someone enters your space."

Her hand was warm against my chest. Too warm. The temperature rose where she touched me, and I realized the glowing red lines on her arms had brightened, pulsing with what might have been her own accelerated heartbeat.

"That’s your ability," I said. "Heat manipulation."

"Very good." She didn’t remove her hand. "Thermal regulation and transference. I can raise or lower temperature through direct contact."

The heat from her palm intensified, not painful but impossible to ignore.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Creating a controlled stimulus." Her voice remained clinical, but her eyes had darkened. "I want to see if your ability responds to increased sensation."

The heat spread across my chest, branching outward like a web of warm currents beneath my skin. My Essentia responded automatically, cycling faster to match her output. The drain stirred in the back of my mind, reaching toward her Essentia like a plant seeking sunlight.

I could taste her now—cinnamon and steel and something sweet underneath that I couldn’t identify. The drain wanted to open. Wanted to pull from her reserves.

I kept it closed by force of will.

"Fascinating," she murmured. "Your pupils are dilating. Your skin temperature is rising to match mine. The connection is forming even without your conscious control."

Her free hand came up to my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. The heat followed her touch, leaving trails of warmth that lingered.

"Professor," I said, my voice lower than I intended. "What exactly are we researching here?"

Her lips curved upward. Not quite a smile. "The conditions under which a Drain-type’s abilities activate instinctively rather than intentionally."

Her fingers slid into my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine despite the heat.

"And those conditions include this?" I asked.

"Physical stimulus is one documented trigger." Her thumb brushed over my lower lip. "Emotional intensity is another."

The drain pulsed at the back of my mind, growing harder to control. Her Essentia called to it, rich and complex and powerful. The taste of her filled my mouth, and I hadn’t even opened the connection yet.

"There are ethical concerns with this approach," I managed.

"There are ethical concerns with everything worth doing." Her eyes held mine. "Tell me, Rome. Do you always maintain this level of control? Or do you ever let the drain decide for you?"

The way she said my name—not D’Angelo, but Rome—broke something loose inside me. The formality dropped away, and suddenly we weren’t professor and student. We were two people with abilities that responded to each other on a fundamental level.

"Sometimes," I admitted. "When the connection is strong enough."

"Show me."