The mess hall stank of sweat, old grease, and desperation. Which was about what you'd expect from a prison cafeteria in a dimensional hellhole.

  I sat hunched in my corner, poking at the gray slop that might have been food in some previous life. The texture was wet and grainy, like wet cement.

  The rotation board had just gone live.

  I watched as prisoners crowded around it like it was lottery results, except the prize was slightly better odds of not dying today. I watched them from my spot, keeping my expression vacant, my eyes unfocused.

  The crazy act had to be maintained even when I was alone, practice makes perfect, and the walls had eyes here.

  I chewed slowly, letting my gaze drift across the room.

  There was excitement clustered near Rafe's table, whispers spreading like ripples in a puddle. Drama always found the legacy types like flies found corpses.

  I caught fragments of conversation floating across the mess hall.

  "...Bridge One…"

  "...wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy…"

  "...they're sending her to…"

  Bridge One was the tear that never closes. It holds the highest body count in the Front, it's where they sent people they wanted to make examples of… Either a death sentence or a fast-track promotion, depending on who you pissed off and how creatively you did it.

  I shoveled another spoonful of slop into my mouth.

  I scanned the room for the gossip's subject, curious despite myself. My eyes found her at the crowd's edge: it was Sadie. Her expression was blank as ever, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. She wasn't even looking at the board, she had already known her fate, apparently. Standing with a coffee mug in hand, more interested in the caffeine than her potential death sentence.

  So the assignment was hers… Bridge One. I could tell by the way people kept glancing between her and the board, the furtive looks, the whispers behind hands.

  “…Legendary Origin…”

  “…Isn’t she the Cicada family's golden…”

  “...Sentenced to death…’

  Either they were wasting their best asset or testing her limits. With people like Sadie, probably both simultaneously. Her pale eyes focused on something beyond the room, beyond the Front, beyond giving a single shit about any of this.

  I tuned into the whispered conversations around me again.

  Eavesdropping was an essential survival craft, especially in a place where information was worth more than comfort.

  "She won't last a week," one prisoner muttered to another, nodding toward Sadie.

  "Bullshit," his companion replied.

  "It's typical Cicada shit," a third voice joined in. "They always get the extreme assignments to further their Political positioning."

  "At least she's not stuck with the feeding frenzy freak from yesterday," someone redirected the gossip, and my ears perked up.

  "Who, that worm freak that went full goblin buffet on the bridge?"

  "I feel for the poor bastards that get stuck with him."

  "At least the worm freak is useful," someone added. "Unlike certain Legacy pretty boys who just talk about being fast."

  The gossip died as someone actually approached Sadie.

  The male Legacy approached the female in her natural habitat. Rafe crossed the distance with smooth, practiced movements, he had the confidence of someone who's never fought for a meal.

  The mess hall quieted, as everyone watched the Legacy interaction like it was free entertainment.

  Rafe's head inclined slightly, formal but not submissive, respect without deference. Sadie turned her head a fraction, acknowledging his existence, which for her counted as a warm welcome.

  I read the body language: they knew each other, these two, there were no introductions needed. House politics written in their postures, some history I didn't have access to yet. They had probably been circling each other at events since they could walk.

  The mess hall held its breath, waiting for whatever happened next.

  Rafe spoke first, his voice carrying just enough for me to catch fragments.

  "Bridge One... casualty rate... someone of your caliber..."

  Sadie's expression didn't flicker, absolute zero, no thermal signature. Her response was brief, just four words at most, delivered like a heavy door slamming shut.

  "Not your concern, Meridian."

  The verbal equivalent of a shrug wrapped in ice. Rafe paused, something crossing his face too fast for me to register what it was… frustration, relief, or indigestion.

  "Not dying would be convenient," he replied, equally brief.

  Sadie turned back to her coffee, conversation ending with that simple movement. Rafe stood there lost for words, then retreated with what dignity a dismissed suitor could salvage.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  I finished my slop, stood, and headed toward the assignment board.

  The crowd had thinned, most prisoners already knew their fate, processing through the stages of grief or relief. I found my name on the list, my heart doing something stupid despite my detachment.

  I allowed myself one moment of relief before crushing it down where emotions go to die.

  A presence materialized beside me, it was a large, familiar, radiating authority and old leather. Curtis, the massive guard from yesterday's speech.

  I tensed slightly but maintained my vacant expression,

  Curtis studied the board, then glanced at me like he was examining an interesting insect. Recognition flickered in his eyes, he knew exactly who I was, the one with the worms, the feeding frenzy.

  I nodded slightly, keeping my eyes unfocused, vacant stare fully engaged.

  Curtis grunted, a sound that carried judgment

  "You're the new one," Curtis said. "Kaz says you have good ears. That's good."

  I risked minimal response, kept it flat and simple: "Yes, sir."

  Curtis's eyes narrowed, running some internal assessment.

  "Sometimes listening just means dying informed instead of ignorant," he countered.

  Curtis jerked his head toward a side corridor—not a request, the grammar of command. I followed, wary but curious—when authority says walk, you walk and wonder later.

  We moved through the quieter passages, away from busy prisoner traffic. Curtis's explanation came in fragments:

  "Most prisoners focus on their Origin."

  "Combat training, power advancement, the flashy shit that gets you killed."

  I stayed silent, absorbing his words, when someone offers free information, you shut up and take notes.

  "Smart ones learn how the place actually works."

  We reached a reinforced door.

  Curtis keyed it open.

  .

  Beyond the door was a monitoring station, with screens showing the bridge feeds across Section Seven. Tear activity in real-time, colors, temperatures, dimensional signatures scrolling like a stock ticker of death.

  I stared, absorbing the scope of what this was, of what control looked like, of how they used information as a weapon.

  "Why do you think you survived your first surge?"

  “My worms fed, healing me, allowing me to keep fighting until nothing remained to fight.”

  "Wrong. You survived because the tear was minor." Curtis said, shaking his head.

  "Goblins have rather predictable fighting patterns, containable by any half-competent team."

  "If that had been a wendigo or Vampiric tear, you'd be dead, feeding frenzy or not."

  "Understanding tears matters more than Origin power."

  "A Grade 2 Sacred ignorant of patterns dies faster than a Grade 5 who reads them."

  Curtis glanced at the screens, something old and tired in his expression.

  "Kaz sees something in you, says you think before acting, at least sometimes."

  "Most parasitic Origin users don't last long here."

  My interest sharpened, directly relevant information.

  Curtis's expression darkened, the memory of something ugly surfacing.

  "The hunger makes them stupid, they chase kills, ignore positioning, break formation to feed, like what you did yesterday."

  "Six months back, we had another consumption type, he absorbed abilities from those around him."

  "He was powerful as hell, but he was as reckless as a teenager with a new car."

  "And he was dead in his third week, chasing a Grade 3 into a tear trying to absorb its abilities."

  "He was frozen solid before finishing the feed, he was found three days later half-eaten by something else."

  I absorbed the lesson: power without discipline equals a pretty corpse.

  "Survivors learn to control hunger, not serve it."

  Curtis pulled up a display showing tear classifications. Color codes, temperature markers, dimensional signatures, it was more complex than I expected.

  His point was clear that most prisoners never learn this, they just fight what comes and hope.

  I studied the display, mind already memorizing some of the patterns.

  "I’m not offering to train you, I don't have time or interest for that."

  "But the information exists here, in this monitoring station accessible after shifts, it has low-security clearance."

  "I'll learn it." I said, with genuine interest.

  Curtis stared for a long moment, something shifting in his assessment. Most new convicts wouldn't bother, they want combat glory, not homework.

  "First smart thing you've said."

  Curtis left without saying anything else, the door closing behind him. I settled in front of displays, began my work.

  Tear classifications scrolled past—Frost, Rot, Scream, Hunger, Void, Undead—each with subcategories. Warning signs, emergence patterns, survival protocols for each type.

  Hours passed, I lost track of time, far too absorbed in data. Dimensional signatures, color shifts in its membrane before it ruptures, temperature tells. Information dense, counterintuitive, overwhelming… my head throbbed with the information.

  The worms stirred restlessly beneath my skin, bored, wanting action, wanting to feed.

  They didn't understand the advantages of studying, only hunger and satisfaction.

  I ignored them, kept reading, and kept memorizing. This was for my survival.

  A note caught my attention, something about prediction versus reaction. Prediction being survival, reaction being death with a few extra steps. I memorized that, and made it my new operating principle.

  I found a section on advanced warning signs.

  Color shifts in dimensional membrane, blues graying means Frost, reds darkening means Rot. Temperature changes preceding emergence, sometimes tangible before visible. Sound frequencies indicating beast type, specific pitches, specific nightmares.

  None of this appeared in the orientation, veteran knowledge, hard-won and hoarded.

  I wondered why they don't teach everyone. Scrolled further, found the answer in a notation.

  Advanced training reserved for prisoners exceeding three-month survival threshold.

  The system's efficiency was brutal, let them die ignorant, save their investment for proven survivors. I felt disgusted but not surprised… The Front doesn't pretend to care about fairness.

  I was getting early access because Kaz vouched for me, and spent capital on a gamble.

  I memorized patterns, committed them to instinct, and refused to be another wasted resource.

  An alarm sounded. It was a shift change, the evening meal period beginning. I blinked, realizing hours had passed without me noticing. Missed midday ration entirely, my stomach registering a complaint.

  I logged out of the monitoring station, stood, stretched my stiff muscles. My eyes burned from screen light, my head throbbing with information density.

  But my mind was full with tear patterns, warning signs, the process of not dying. This was worth the missed meal, worth the headache, worth the hours of grinding study.

  I made my way to the evening mess, legs stiff from hours of sitting. I grabbed my food, ate quickly and mechanically, mainly sustenance, not for taste… not that it tasted good.

  The evening mess hall had different energy now, it was quieter, more tense, people processing their assignments. Some faces missing from the morning could only mean they transferred, they were training or they died, it was hard to distinguish from absence alone.

  I didn't linger, didn't socialize, the crazy worm boy doesn't make friends, that's the cover. Returning to the barracks.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, stared at the wall, letting the day process. Sadie's Bridge One assignment, Curtis's warning, the monitoring station, the dead consumption user. It was lot to process.

  Then something shifted my focus, I looked down at my hands. The worms had been unusually quiet all day.

  I closed my eyes, breathed slowly, and reached inward toward the other consciousness. Felt the worms beneath my skin, they weren't just parasites now, they were me.

  During the surge they moved together, thought together, fed together. That wasn't just a mindless frenzy; they were in sync, cooperation, and shared purpose.

  I focused on the sensation, tried to reach the worm-consciousness without the trigger of violence.

  A flicker of awareness that wasn’t quite my own started bleeding through.

  The worms stirred, responding to the deliberate attention, curious about this new contact.

  I opened my eyes, looked at my palm with focused intent.

  Willed that single worm's consciousness to the surface.

  A pale segment pushed through skin, writhed once.

  I allowed myself a small, cold smile, the first genuine expression in hours.

  “Hey Fish!”