THE F-RANK THAT BUILDS ABILITIES

Midnight came quietly.

The academy grounds, once alive with sparring shouts and ability drills, had settled into an eerie stillness. Dormitory windows were mostly dark, save for the occasional flicker of someone binge-watching old Hunter matches or replaying trace simulations.

Donnie stood beneath the shadow of the tech tower.

He had waited exactly thirteen minutes past the agreed time. The message had said midnight—but anyone with secrets rarely arrived on the dot.

The air was cold. Not biting, but restless. Clouds slid across the moon in slow motion, like a curtain being adjusted over the sky.

A figure stepped out from the darkness.

Not from the dorm, not from a nearby path—but from behind a utility wall. As if they had been waiting there long before Donnie arrived.

They wore a hooded jacket, black and utility-grade, but not standard Ridgewood issue. A trace band glowed faintly on their left wrist. Their face wasn't covered, but they kept it tilted low.

"You're Donnie."

It wasn't a question.

Donnie didn't respond immediately. "You sent the message?"

"Yes. I saw your trace flare."

"You saw it from where?"

The figure stepped closer. "That doesn't matter. What matters is what you're becoming."

Donnie narrowed his eyes. "You said it wasn't an accident."

"It wasn't. Most people can't perform a hybrid formation without assistance. It takes years of guidance or a rare trace fracture event. But you—we're seeing signs of evolution."

"We?"

The figure hesitated. Then: "There's a group. Former students, mostly. People who've stopped believing the academy system works. You don't grow by staying inside these walls forever."

Donnie crossed his arms. "Why are you here?"

"Because someone like you isn't supposed to exist. You're unranked. You're supposed to fail, give up, or be invisible. But you're not."

There was no flattery in the tone. Just facts. Observation.

Donnie asked the question he'd been holding back all day.

"Do you know what Contagious Echo means?"

The figure froze for a second. "Where did you hear that?"

"I saw it in the archives."

"You shouldn't have."

"But I did. So what is it?"

The figure sighed and leaned against the wall. "It's not a disease. Not like they describe it. It's a condition. A ripple effect. Certain trace types—mostly unclassified ones—can influence other traces. Not like copying or stealing. More like unlocking patterns in others who were never meant to have them."

Donnie's mind went quiet.

"So you're saying I could... infect people?"

"Not physically. But through exposure, yes. Your ability may start showing others new trace branches. It's rare. Dangerous. But it's real."

"Then why hide it?"

"Because the academy doesn't want wild variables. They want clean, categorized power sets. Something they can measure and control. You can't be measured."

Donnie didn't move.

"Then what do you want from me?" he asked.

The figure turned toward him.

"I want you to keep growing. Don't let them stop you. But I'm warning you—when your ability hits 30% hybrid recognition, the system will flag you. And after that, the school will intervene."

"How do you know that?"

"Because it happened to me," the figure said. Then they held out their wrist.

Their trace band displayed a blinking red symbol—one Donnie hadn't seen before.

> [Trace Locked: Category Black]

[Hybrid Evolution Blocked – External Surveillance Active]

"They clipped me," the figure said. "Locked my evolution. I can't build new patterns anymore. Not without breaking the rules."

Donnie stared at the blinking light.

"I won't let them do that to me."

"Good." The figure began to walk away. "Then be careful what you show. And don't activate anything new during monitored hours."

"What do I call you?"

The figure glanced back once.

"Trace Zero. You'll hear from me again."

Then they vanished into the shadows, faster than Donnie expected. No trail, no sound.

Just gone.

---

The next day started like normal.

Classes resumed with combat theory in the main auditorium. Instructor Crane paced in front of the giant whiteboard, tapping diagrams of gate environments.

"What's the number one cause of death in an unstable gate?" he asked.

Students raised their hands. One answered, "Overconfidence."

Another said, "Trace burnout."

"Wrong," Crane snapped. "It's hesitation. Split-second hesitation. When you're inside a gate, things don't wait for you to be sure. They act. And if you don't—then you die. Simple as that."

The air in the room grew heavy.

Donnie sat near the back, jotting down nothing. His mind wasn't on hesitation or theory today. It was on the conversation from last night. And the term: Category Black.

Was that what awaited him?

Lucen, sitting two rows ahead, turned his head with a smirk.

"Hey, Copyboy. You manage not to burn your room down last night?"

Donnie ignored him.

Crane's voice cut through. "Lucen. Want to demonstrate your air-spike combo for us today?"

Lucen stood quickly. "Gladly."

He stepped into the projection zone. The Trace Band activated instantly, fire forming around his legs. He kicked forward, twisted mid-air, and launched a compressed spike of heat toward the target dummy.

It landed with a loud impact.

"Clean, but you rotated too soon," Crane noted. "A real enemy would've sidestepped that arc."

Lucen sat back down, wiping his arm dramatically. "Still stronger than unranked air flicks."

Crane's eyes locked on Donnie.

"Reeve."

Donnie looked up.

"Show us your version of that movement."

Lucen chuckled.

Donnie stood, walked to the projection zone, and took position.

He'd never done the air-spike combo before. He'd only observed it. A few sketches. No live testing. But that didn't matter. Observation was everything.

He started the movement.

Right foot pivot. Backward shift. Mid-air arc swing. But instead of finishing Lucen's motion, Donnie added a delay—a half-step pause—and twisted with his left arm guiding the motion.

A completely different form.

Flame curved, not spiked. It snaked through the air in an S-shape and struck the dummy at the side, bypassing the front shield completely.

Crane said nothing for a moment.

Then:

"Modified. Improvised. Not bad."

Lucen frowned. "That wasn't my technique."

"It wasn't," Crane said.

Donnie walked back to his seat without looking at anyone.

The band on his wrist blinked a new message.

> [Hybrid Arc: 21%]

System Warning: Monitoring Active

---

That night, Donnie sat in the courtyard by himself.

Veera approached with a plastic bottle in one hand. "You looked like you were about to explode back there."

"I was improvising."

"I know. I could tell. That wasn't Lucen's trace."

He nodded. "I changed it mid-air."

Veera sat beside him. "You're not the same student I saw two weeks ago."

"I'm not trying to be."

A pause.

"You know they'll come after you eventually, right?" she said. "Once they realize your data doesn't match any templates."

"I know. Someone already warned me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Doesn't matter."

Veera leaned forward. "If they flag you, they'll isolate you. Might even restrict your output."

Donnie turned to her. "Would you still talk to me if I got flagged?"

Veera didn't answer for a second.

Then: "I'd probably talk to you more."

Donnie smiled. It was the first real one he'd given anyone in days.

---

Back in his room, he opened his sketchpad.

He didn't draw Lucen this time.

He drew Trace Zero—the way they stood, the way they moved. Then he sketched the arc of their wrist motion from memory. A strange backhanded formation. It wasn't like anything he'd seen.

He labeled it:

> "Unknown Trace Style – Potential Transfer Point?"

Just as he was about to close the book, his Trace Band flashed red.

A message blinked:

> [Admin Notice: You have been selected for individual assessment.]

[Instructor: Crane. Room B-4. Tomorrow at 0600.]

Donnie stared at it.

He knew what this was.

The school was testing the limits of what they'd seen.

And he was ready.

© Anthony Osifo 2025 – All rights reserved.