The water in the mop bucket had gone past gray. Bits of food floated on the surface, rice, wilted greens, anything that hadn't made it to the trash or into someone's mouth now drifted in the murk.

  Dane slowed, watching the debris swirl and settle.

  Yeah, he thought. Time to change that.

  The mess hall was usually loud with laughter and conversation, a steady roar. Today it was muted. Very few people were eating.

  Everyone had been excited for the drills to start. But once they had, the difference was impossible to ignore. There was a gap between those who had gone through the tutorial and those who hadn't. Even some conscripts and war slaves were struggling to keep up.

  Dane lifted his head, scanning for a place to dump the water.

  Near the prep tables, a Vanguard stood beside another support member, Martha. She'd been assigned to the west wing but had finished early and come to help him clean the central floors. One hand rested on her cart. The other was clenched tight at her side.

  The Vanguard was talking. His voice was too low to make out. One gloved hand rested on the small of her back.

  Dane watched it slide lower.

  Martha stiffened. She shifted sideways, trying to create space, but he stepped with her, smiling like it was all harmless.

  Wood splintered between Dane's fingers.

  He stepped forward.

  "Move your hand."

  The Vanguard glanced over his shoulder, irritation flashing across his face before he turned fully around. His eyes dragged over Dane's eyes first, dragging on the mop, the bucket, the soaked gloves, the support badge.

  His smirk curled wide.

  "Didn't know janitorial duty came with opinions," he said.

  His hand didn't move.

  Martha tried to step away. The Vanguard caught her sleeve, fingers bunching fabric.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  Dane closed the distance and knocked the man's hand aside. Not violently. But pushing it hard enough to surprise the man.

  He was close enough that the Vanguard had to tilt his chin slightly upward to meet his eyes.

  "I said," Dane repeated evenly, "move your hand."

  The Vanguard laughed once. "You're out of line, support."

  Dane felt the mana gather before the flames formed. Everything was as if it had been in slow motion. The twitch in the man's ring finger. The whisper of a chant.

  The fire engulfed Dane. igniting his Jumpsuit. But faster than a blink of the eye, the flames were extinguished, steam curling off the singed grey janitor's clothes. Dane could almost make out a song from his childhood.

  The melody stopped, and a sharp voice cut through the room.

  "Derrek."

  The Corporal stood at the entrance to the atrium, her authority radiating off her like a force field.

  "Report to your Team Leader," she said coolly. "If you have enough energy to start fights after drill, Ron clearly isn't running you hard enough."

  Derrek's jaw tightened. He stepped back.

  The Corporal turned her gaze.

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  "Martha, finish up here. Dane... my office. Now."

  Dane hung the broken mop in his locker. The splintered wood rattled against metal as chips began to fall off.

  He should go. Instead, he turned back toward the mess hall. Martha was scrubbing the floor too hard, each stroke sharp and angry.

  "Hey," Dane said quietly. "Are you okay?"

  She turned on him, eyes flashing.

  "You think you're some kind of hero?" she snapped. "Who asked you to step in?"

  Dane froze.

  "That kind of man doesn't stop," she continued. "You didn't fix anything. You just made the next time he tries something... It's gonna be worse."

  "I… I'm sorry," Dane said.

  "Yeah," she replied flatly. "Me too."

  She went back to scrubbing.

  Dane stood there, the words settling heavy in his chest. Every time he tried to make the right call, it backfired. The mess hall blurred. He was back in the coliseum, standing over Ryn, offering mercy.

  He began snapping his fingers, his head down. He turned towards the back offices.

  "Hello, ma'am," Dane said as he entered the bare office.

  She gestured toward the chair.

  He didn't sit.

  Juliet Sloane studied him for a long moment before speaking.

  "Dane," she said evenly, "you are terrible at laying low."

  He didn't flinch.

  "I saw most of what happened in the cafeteria."

  "Then you know what he was doing."

  "Yes," she replied. "I do."

  She stepped away from the desk, hands clasped behind her back.

  "But we have a process. Code of conduct violations are reported and then investigated. Then corrected. We do not take the law into our own hands."

  "He cast a lethal spell."

  "And that spell would have killed almost any support member," she said calmly. "Even with my intervention."

  The words settled between them.

  "Derrek now knows there is more to you than a mop," she continued. "Stories will begin to circulate. Speculation will follow. And soon someone will start pulling at your cover story."

  Dane hadn't considered that. He had seen something wrong and acted.

  "I'm done apologizing for helping people."

  "I'm not asking you to apologize." Her tone sharpened slightly. "I made a mistake."

  That caught his attention.

  "I assigned you to support, believing that hanging out in the background would keep you out of trouble," she said. "It did not."

  He waited for the reprimand. But it didn't come.

  "You don't belong in support." She paused as she took another exhausted breath. "You're transferring to my unit."

  He blinked in surprise.

  "There will be a member from every division," she continued. "You will represent the supporters."

  "What exactly does that mean?"

  "It means you will serve as our collector in the field. When we deploy, you will break down what we kill. On the ship, you will train with us."

  Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  "And you will not be mixing with the general population again."

  There, it was her true motive. Containment.

  Dane held her gaze.

  "You don't trust me."

  "I don't," she admitted.

  "You are dismissed. Your new team is waiting in the training hall."

  The hum of imperial tech greeted him as he entered.

  His core reacted instinctively. The suppression field pressed in, binding him to mid C-rank. He could have pushed through it, but decided that it was best not break something as valuable as a suspension field. His status sheet remained unchanged, but he felt that what he could draw out was finite.

  A massive man stood near the center of the arena. Nearly seven feet tall. Broad enough that he probably had to duck and turn sideways to leave a room. He slouched slightly, shoulders tucked inward as if apologizing for taking up space.

  Beside him stood what Dane initially registered as a demon.

  Her blond hair was pulled back tight. And she had half of a red Hannya mask on. She had two blades at her hip that looked as if they had been forged by an expert craftsman.

  Jason would have corrected him on the type: it was either a wakizashi or a tanto. Dane had never cared which was which.

  A smaller man in a plaid shirt stepped forward from behind the giant, thick glasses magnifying eyes already bright with curiosity.

  "My name is Travis," he said. "I've been informed we are receiving a collector. Am I correct in presuming that's you?"

  His cadence was peculiar. He made slight pauses, like he was getting distracted mid-sentence.

  "That's quite the power source you have," Travis added, stepping closer. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

  "I don't..."

  It was too late. Travis had already grabbed his wrist, lifting his arm and squinting toward his midsection as if he could see through the fabric.

  "Hm. Organic in nature… fascinating. Are you Dungeon-born?"

  The massive man reached forward, gripping Travis gently by both shoulders and pulling him back.

  "Sorry," he said calmly. "He forgets boundaries."

  He extended his hand. And Dane returned the gesture.

  "I'm Ethan. Field lead."

  "I thought this was Corporal Sloane's unit," Dane said.

  "It is," Ethan replied. "She commissioned it. I command it in the field."

  He met Dane's gaze evenly.

  "I spent six years conscripted on the outer rings. I have more combat experience than anyone else here."

  He squeezed Dane's hand like a vice. Dane didn't let his grip slacken.

  Veins pulsed in Ethan's forearm, and the striations in forearms nearly doubled in size.

  "Jesus," Ethan muttered. "You're sturdy for a little guy."

  "Thanks."

  Before the handshake could escalate further, the blonde assassin pulled off her mask.

  A jagged scar ran from her right cheek down past her neck.

  "Hi!" she said brightly. "I am Abigail Turner. But my friends call me Abby. You can stop trying to break each other now. After all, that's her job."

  Her accent was Southern and wouldn't have been out of place in some buyou. She was pointing to Juliet Sloane standing at the doorway.