Consciousness returned in fragments.

  First came awareness of discomfort—wrists and ankles bound tightly to what felt like a metal chair, the cold surface pressing against his back. Then sound—the distant hum of what might be generators or ventilation systems, the occasional creak of metal expanding or contracting. Finally, sight—as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the cavernous space of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse materialized around him.

  High ceilings with exposed rafters. Concrete floors stained with oil or chemicals. Rusted machinery pushed against distant walls. A single bulb hanging from a chain about twenty feet away, casting more shadows than light.

  Nick remained perfectly still, controlling his breathing to feign continued unconsciousness while assessing his situation. The taser had temporarily disrupted his mana flow, but he could feel it returning now, the familiar cool energy circulating beneath his skin.

  He extended his enhanced senses outward, searching for any sign of his captors. No breathing patterns, no heartbeats, no subtle shifts of weight that would betray human presence. The warehouse appeared completely empty except for him.

  Extending his awareness further, Nick detected no signs of life within several miles—just the ambient sounds of wind through broken windows and the distant calls of crickets. Wherever they had taken him, it was isolated.

  "Why leave me unguarded?" Nick murmured to himself, finally opening his eyes fully.

  The restraints binding him to the chair were professional-grade—thick zip ties that cut into his skin when he tested their strength. But why bring him all this way only to abandon him?

  Unless...

  Nick shifted his awareness inward, using the mana to scan his own body. Immediately, he detected abnormalities—areas where the blue energy pulsed with agitated intensity, particularly around his internal organs. Unlike the food reaction, which had triggered an immediate warning response, this was different—subtler, more insidious.

  They've poisoned me. Not to kill—at least, not immediately.

  But that didn’t mean survival was the goal.

  The poison wasn’t crude—it worked in layers, subtle and slow, like it was designed to be noticed only if you were paying attention. Or if your body fought back like his did.

  But why no guards? No cameras? No restraints beyond zip ties?

  Whoever brought him here hadn’t cared what happened next.

  Maybe that was the point. Isolation. Poison. Let fate—or whatever lived in him—decide.

  Which meant…

  Either someone expected him to die quietly out here. Or someone wanted him far away when things went down on campus.

  Nick focused on the areas where the mana showed the greatest agitation—his liver, kidneys, heart, and certain neural pathways. The poison was methodical—disrupting, weakening. But wherever he concentrated his mana flow to those areas, the corruption cracked and dissolved, and strength gradually returned to that area.

  His body was fighting back, using the mana as both a detection system and a remedy.

  Nick closed his eyes, centering himself despite the discomfort of the restraints.

  Drawing on Arlize's meditation techniques, Nick directed the mana flow deliberately to his liver first. The blue energy responded, concentrating there with heightened intensity. For twenty minutes, he maintained this focus, feeling the poison's effects diminish as the mana neutralized its components.

  Next, he directed the energy to his kidneys, then his cardiovascular system, methodically cleansing each area. The process was exhausting, requiring a level of concentration he'd never attempted before, but gradually he felt strength returning to his weakened body.

  Hours passed as he worked through his system. Outside, darkness deepened, moonlight occasionally breaking through clouds to cast silver rectangles on the warehouse floor through broken skylights. Still no sign of his captors, though Nick remained certain they were monitoring him somehow—cameras or biosensors too subtle for even his enhanced perception to detect.

  As he directed the cleansing mana through his nervous system, Nick took mental inventory of his possessions. His backpack with Maggie's equipment had been left in his dorm, thankfully. But the phone that had been in his pocket when they grabbed him was missing—either confiscated or destroyed. Without it, contacting anyone for help would be challenging, but it also meant one less way for them to track him.

  By the time he'd completed the systematic cleansing of his system, Nick estimated at least five hours had passed. Midnight, perhaps later. His body felt stronger now, the foreign substance largely neutralized, though fatigue from the intense mana work left him drained.

  Now for the restraints.

  In his previous attempts with mana manipulation, Nick had focused on defensive and sensory applications. But Arlize's memories contained offensive techniques as well—including the ability to generate intense heat through concentrated energy.

  As Nick sank deep into himself, the memory unfolded

  —Arlize, chained in the dungeons beneath Kieroth's fortress after being captured by Lord Malek's forces. For three days, they had tortured him, seeking information about Aurilia's defense plans. On the fourth day, when the guards had grown complacent, Arlize had channeled concentrated aether through the iron manacles, superheating the metal until it weakened enough for him to break free.

  "Heat follows intent," Arlize's mentor had taught him. "Direct it with precision, and even metal will yield."

  Nick focused on that memory and channeled the mana into a thread-thin filament along the zip tie's edge. Unlike his earlier attempts at manifesting energy, where the blue light had flared wildly, this time it formed an almost surgical tool—a testament to his growing finesse. The plastic began to smoke, then melt, without burning his skin. The control felt natural now, like remembering a skill his body had always known rather than learning something new. Not new. Recovered. Like the knowledge had been waiting in his bones. He could use this again. He would. "Integration," he thought, recognizing this as what his mother had once called the third stage of mana development: when practitioner and energy move as one.

  With a final surge of effort, Nick flexed his wrist and the zip tie snapped. One hand free, he quickly released his other wrist, then bent to free his ankles. Standing proved challenging, his legs unsteady after hours of immobility and mana exertion, but he forced himself upright, scanning the warehouse more thoroughly now.

  The building was larger than he'd initially assessed—perhaps an old manufacturing facility or distribution center. Abandoned equipment loomed in shadows, and loading bay doors lined one wall. An office area was visible in the far corner, its windows shattered.

  Nick moved cautiously toward what appeared to be the main entrance, his senses extended for any sign of surveillance or traps. Finding none, he eased the heavy door open and stepped outside.

  Cool night air washed over him, carrying the scent of soil and growing crops. Stars blazed overhead in an unfamiliar pattern—away from campus and the city's light pollution. In every direction, farmland stretched to the horizon, punctuated only by the occasional distant light from what might be farmhouses.

  "Miles from anywhere," Nick muttered, trying to orient himself.

  Without his phone or any other technology, determining his exact location was impossible. The moon pointed west but that told him little about where they had taken him or how to return to campus.

  A strategic assessment of his options yielded limited choices. Wandering unfamiliar farmland in darkness invited injury or further disorientation. Remaining outside made him visible to any observers. The warehouse, while exposed, at least offered shelter and familiarity.

  He slipped back inside and locked the door—not because it would stop anyone, but because it gave him control over something. If they were coming back, they’d have to break down the door. And that, at least, would make noise. Until then, his best course was to recover his strength through rest and preparation.

  He found a defensible position in the office area where he could observe all approaches while remaining partially concealed. Then, settling into a cross-legged position that Arlize had often used during extended campaigns, Nick entered a meditative state designed to maximize recovery while maintaining awareness of his surroundings.

  Four counts in. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

  The mana surged like cold fire, scouring him from the inside. Every pulse carried a sting—as if burning out infection. Not healing. Cleansing. A purge in motion. As his mind cleared, Nick analyzed his situation more thoroughly.

  This wasn’t surveillance. It was something else.

  An escalation, yes—but to what, he couldn’t say. There were no guards. No equipment. No obvious signs of data collection. Just a remote warehouse, a drugged body, and too many unanswered questions.

  If it was meant as an experiment, it lacked structure. If it was meant as an execution, it lacked finality. Maybe that was the plan—ambiguous by design. A test of how far he could fall. Or how far he could go.

  Nick clenched his fists. Fury prickled beneath his skin—not just at whoever had done this, but at himself, for letting it happen. Again.

  He was still here and his escape would force them to recalibrate their assessment of his capabilities—potentially revealing more about their objectives and methods than they had intended.

  Nick maintained his meditative state through the night, allowing his body to recover while his mind processed possibilities. When the first gray light of dawn filtered through broken windows, he sensed no approach or surveillance. Rising smoothly, he conducted a final sweep of the warehouse, searching for any clue about its location or his abductors' identities.

  In the office area, he discovered a faded shipping label stuck to a dusty desk: "Meridian Agricultural Supply, County Road 27, Willow Creek." The name meant nothing to him, but it offered a starting point.

  Exiting through a side door, Nick oriented himself toward the rising sun and began walking. A dirt access road eventually connected to a paved county road with no visible traffic. The morning air was cool, heavy with dew that soaked his shoes as he established a steady pace that Arlize could maintain for hours.

  For nearly four miles, he encountered nothing but farmland—corn and soybean fields stretching in every direction. By sunrise, Nick reached a sleepy crossroads—gas station, diner, and a faded sign: Willow Creek, Pop. 427.

  Nick approached the gas station first, its fluorescent lights humming in the morning quiet. The attendant—a heavyset man in his sixties with a weathered face and suspicious eyes—looked up from his newspaper as Nick entered.

  The man glanced at the wall clock that read 7:37 AM, looked back at Nick and asked, "You need something?"

  "Just got a bit turned around," Nick replied, keeping his tone casual. "Can you tell me how far it is to Westlake University from here?"

  The man's eyebrows rose slightly. "That'd be about a hundred miles northeast. You're a long way from campus, son."

  A hundred miles. They'd transported him much farther than he'd anticipated. Getting back would require transportation and time—both in short supply.

  "Is there a bus service or something similar?" Nick asked.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Greyhound stops at the Miller's store in town proper, but not till 3 PM." The attendant studied Nick more carefully now, noting his disheveled appearance. Eyes narrowing, he asked, "You got money for a ticket, kid?"

  Nick patted his pockets, confirming what he already knew—his wallet was gone along with his phone. "Not on me," he admitted.

  The attendant's expression hardened. "This ain't a charity, and I don't need trouble."

  "No trouble," Nick assured him, mind racing through options. He could attempt to call Maggie, but the attendant would likely be suspicious of someone using the store phone without making a purchase. Besides, any call might be monitored, especially from this location.

  The bell above the door jingled as another customer entered—an older man in overalls and a worn baseball cap, his face deeply lined from years of sun exposure.

  "Morning, Pete," the farmer nodded to the attendant, then glanced curiously at Nick. "Early for college kids to be out this way."

  Nick recognized an opportunity. "Actually, I was hoping to catch a ride back toward Westlake. My car broke down a few miles back, and I've got classes today."

  The farmer sized him up with weathered gray eyes. "Westlake's a fair piece. I'm heading to Riverdale to deliver some equipment parts—that's about thirty miles in that direction. Can take you that far if it helps."

  "That would be great, thank you," Nick said, relief evident in his voice.

  The farmer paid for his coffee and gestured for Nick to follow him outside to a battered pickup truck loaded with machinery parts. As they pulled away from the gas station, Nick caught the attendant watching them through the window, phone in hand.

  "Name's Earl," the farmer said as they turned onto the main road. "Don't normally pick up strangers, but you don't look like trouble. Just stranded."

  "Nick. And I appreciate the ride more than you know."

  The truck smelled of motor oil, farm dust, and tobacco. Comfortingly ordinary. After the sterile emptiness of the warehouse, even that was a balm. As they drove, Nick studied road signs and landmarks, building a mental map.The farmer seemed content with silence, occasionally commenting on crop conditions or weather patterns but he didn't question Nick's circumstances.

  Riverdale proved to be a larger town with a regional bus terminal. Earl dropped him at the station with a gruff nod and firm handshake.

  "Terminal's got a Western Union if you need to call someone for money," he offered before driving away.

  Nick considered his options. The terminal was busier than the gas station had been—too many people, too many security cameras, too much potential for monitoring. If Callahan Industries had the resources to abduct him from campus, they certainly had the capability to track him through transportation networks.

  The TV mounted in the bus station's waiting area cycled through news headlines. Nick paid little attention as he headed to the station bathroom until a familiar name caught his ear.

  "...unexplained explosion at the Callahan Industries research facility in Zurich has raised questions about experimental research being conducted there. Callahan's spokesperson denied allegations of unsafe testing procedures, while rival tech CEO Marcus Eidolon has called for increased oversight of neural interface experiments..." The camera cut to a silver-haired man with intense blue eyes—the same man from the conference photo Nick had found. Eidolon spoke with measured precision about "concerning patterns of accidents" and "the need for ethical boundaries in consciousness research." But what chilled Nick was the ticker scrolling beneath: "Related: Three researchers previously employed by Dr. Elias Zhang reported missing after this incident."

  Nick paused, this explosion wasn't just an accident—it was connected to Maggie's brother and whatever research he had been conducting before his disappearance.

  In the station restroom, Nick assessed his appearance—dirty clothes, disheveled hair, the lingering pallor of someone recovering from an illness. In short, he looked miserable. He cleaned up as best he could with paper towels and hand soap, getting some water in his hair before returning to the main terminal area.

  A security guard eyed him suspiciously but said nothing as Nick approached the information desk.

  "When's the next bus to Westlake University?" he asked the clerk.

  "9:30 AM, and arrive at 1:45 PM," she replied. "One-way is $27.50."

  Nick nodded, then moved away from the counter. Without money, the bus wasn't an option unless he used the Western Union, which would create a paper trail. His status as a missing person might work in his favor—he could potentially approach a police officer and report his kidnapping, but that would trigger official investigations that might complicate his information gathering.

  As he walked away, he noticed the security cameras tracking movement throughout the terminal. Each scan sent a subtle electromagnetic pulse that tingled against his heightened senses—another new awareness that had emerged since his mana work in the warehouse.

  He inhaled deeply, recalling how Arlize had concealed himself on scouting missions behind enemy lines. Drawing the mana inward, Nick compressed it into a tight core at his center, visualizing his energy signature shrinking from a beacon to a whisper.The next security scan passed over him without triggering the familiar tingle. The cameras still saw him physically, but the electronic detection systems that might flag unusual energy patterns would register nothing distinctive. It wasn’t perfect, and he couldn’t hold it indefinitely. But it was good enough for now.

  Looking around the terminal, he weighed his options on what to do next, and as he did so, he spotted a campus security vehicle from Riverdale Community College pulling into the station lot. The officer inside was dropping off what appeared to be a student. A potential solution formed in Nick's mind.

  When the officer returned to his vehicle, Nick approached with the confident stride of someone with legitimate business.

  "Excuse me, Officer," he called. "I'm a student at Westlake University. There was an incident on campus last night—I was attacked and woke up miles from campus. Is there any way you could help me contact Westlake security?"

  The officer—Ramirez, according to his nameplate—studied Nick with professional assessment. "You file a report with local PD yet?"

  "No sir, I just made it to town and wanted to contact campus first. I'm supposed to testify at a disciplinary hearing today." The lie came smoothly, calculated to appeal to another campus officer's sense of institutional procedures.

  Officer Ramirez considered for a moment, then gestured to his vehicle. "I can radio it in, see if they've got a report matching your description. What's your name?"

  "Nick Valiente. I'm a freshman in the business program."

  The officer typed something into his vehicle's computer, waited, then picked up his radio. After a brief exchange, he turned back to Nick with a more serious expression.

  "Westlake Security confirms they've got a missing person report with your name filed about two hours ago. They're sending a vehicle to pick you up. Should be here in about forty minutes."

  Nick felt a surge of surprise—someone had reported him missing already. Jordan? Maggie? Or perhaps Callahan Industries themselves, establishing a cover story?

  While waiting, Officer Ramirez insisted on taking preliminary information for his own department's report, though he agreed to wait on filing until Westlake Security arrived. Nick provided a carefully edited version of events—attacked while walking to the gym, waking up in an abandoned building, finding his way to town—omitting any mention of mana or deliberate poisoning.

  When the Westlake Security vehicle arrived, the officer who stepped out was unfamiliar to Nick—a stocky man with a military haircut and too-alert eyes for standard campus security.

  "Mr. Valiente? I'm Officer Dawson. We've been looking for you." His tone was professional but his gaze lingered on Nick's face too long, assessing rather than concerned.

  Not standard security, Nick concluded. Another military personnel. But something was off. Something about the way Dawson spoke made Nick’s mana hum faintly—not a warning, but a recognition. Like calling to like.

  The drive back to campus started in tense silence, Dawson's eyes frequently finding Nick in the rearview mirror.

  "You seem remarkably resilient," Dawson observed after several minutes, his accent carrying the faintest hint of something not quite American—perhaps South American, though Nick didn't register its significance. "Most people wouldn't recover so quickly from what you experienced."

  "I've always healed fast," Nick replied carefully.

  "A family trait, perhaps?" Dawson's eyes met his in the rearview mirror, holding for a beat too long.

  "You could say that."

  Dawson nodded slowly. "Interesting."

  As they drove, Dawson received a text message. Nick caught only a glimpse of the screen—the words "Harrington" and "protocol" visible before Dawson quickly tucked the phone away. His posture shifted subtly, a new tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

  "Big evening ahead," Dawson commented, seemingly casual. "I hear there's an important lecture happening at Willard Hall later."

  "Professor Harrington's neural interface presentation," Nick replied, watching Dawson's reaction carefully.

  "Yes, that's the one." Dawson's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Quite the breakthrough in the field, from what I understand. The kind of research that changes everything."

  The conversation then turned to more direct questions about Nick's abduction—how much he remembered, what he might have seen or heard. Nick maintained his simplified narrative, presenting himself as confused and somewhat traumatized but cooperative.

  When they finally arrived at the Westlake Security office, Nick was surprised to find Professor Feldman waiting, her silver-streaked hair pulled back severely, arms crossed as she conferred with the security director.

  "Mr. Valiente," she acknowledged, her sharp eyes cataloging every detail of his appearance. "You've caused quite a commotion this morning."

  "Someone attacked me last night," Nick replied, watching her reaction carefully. "I woke up in an abandoned warehouse miles from campus."

  "So you've said." Feldman's tone revealed nothing. "The director needs your statement, then you should see the campus medical center. You've missed your morning classes, but I'm sure your professors will understand given the circumstances." Her eyes flicked to his chest—right where the taser burns lay. She knew more than she should it seemed.

  The security director—a balding man named Reeves with the easy confidence of former law enforcement—led Nick through a formal statement process. Photos were taken of faint electrical burns on his chest from the taser, and descriptions recorded of the warehouse and his journey back to campus.

  Throughout the procedure, Nick maintained his role as confused victim while noting the strange tension in the room. Reeves seemed genuinely concerned, but Feldman watched the process with calculated intensity, as if searching for discrepancies in Nick's account.

  "We'll investigate thoroughly," Reeves assured him when they finished. "In the meantime, we'll assign additional patrols to your dormitory area. Officer Dawson will escort you back now."

  As they left the security building, Feldman fell into step beside Nick.

  "Interesting timing," she remarked quietly. "Coincidentally, Professor Harrington's lecture on neural interfaces is still scheduled for this evening. I assume you're still planning to attend?"

  The question carried layers of meaning Nick couldn't fully decode. Was she warning him? Testing him? Something in her tone suggested personal interest rather than institutional concern.

  "I wouldn't miss it," Nick replied carefully.

  Feldman nodded once, sharply. "Good. Some educational opportunities are irreplaceable." With that cryptic comment, she turned and walked away, leaving Nick with Officer Dawson for the remainder of the escort to his dormitory.

  The campus felt different as they crossed it—students moving between buildings as always, but now Nick noticed additional security personnel at key locations, their attentiveness belying their casual postures. His kidnapping had elevated something, accelerated some timetable he wasn't yet privy to.

  When they reached his dormitory, Dawson left him at the entrance with a final assessing look. "Take care, Mr. Valiente. Security will follow up if we have more questions."

  Nick climbed the stairs to his floor rather than taking the elevator, using the time to prepare himself for whatever awaited. Jordan's room would likely be empty, but there might be new surveillance in his own room.

  To his surprise, when he entered his room, he found it meticulously clean—neater than he had left it. The electronic hum from the ceiling vent was gone, suggesting the surveillance devices had been removed. On his bed lay his missing phone, placed precisely in the center of his pillow.

  Nick approached cautiously, extending his senses for any traps or new monitoring devices. Finding none, he picked up the phone. A single text message waited on the screen, from an unknown number:

  "Meet me at Murphy's Bar downtown, 5 PM. - M.E."

  The timing couldn't be coincidental.

  Nick weighed his options. Harrington’s lecture started at 7 PM. He had time to meet M.E. first—if that message was real. If any of this was.

  But the timing gnawed at him.

  Kidnapped in the dead of night. Dragged a hundred miles from campus. Dumped in an empty warehouse with poison in his veins. Then—no surveillance. No cleanup crew. Just a neatly returned phone, placed like a gift. A meeting invitation, waiting on his pillow.

  None of it felt random.

  Someone was scripting this. The only question was whether Nick was the protagonist—or just another disposable piece on someone else’s board.

  He set the phone down and headed to the shower, wanting to wash away the lingering scent of the warehouse and clear his mind. The hot water revitalized him, though his body still felt the after-effects of both the poison and the intense mana work he'd performed to neutralize it.

  Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, Nick checked the time—10:45 AM. He’d already missed Statistics, which made Feldman’s presence at the security office all the more unsettling.

  She wasn't campus security. She had a reason to be there—sure. She was his professor, maybe even concerned about his absence. But how’d she known he was missing? What was her specific interest in him?

  Nick pushed thoughts of Professor Feldman aside. He still had forty-five minutes left of Intro to Comp Sci and Intro to Business later that afternoon. Returning to routine might be his best defense for now. Leaving his dorm, Nick scanned the parking lot, his breath pausing when he noticed the surveillance truck—the one that had been stationed there all week—was conspicuously absent. He picked up his pace, half-jogging across campus toward the Computer Science building, his backpack bouncing awkwardly against his spine.

  The lecture was already underway when Nick slipped through the door. Several heads turned, conversations momentarily hushed, and he felt the weight of curious stares. Professor Lin paused mid-sentence, acknowledged him with a subtle nod, then smoothly resumed her lecture about algorithmic efficiency. Nick found a seat in the back row, sliding into it with as little disruption as possible.

  "What did I miss?" he whispered to the student beside him, a guy with disheveled hair and coffee-stained fingers who was typing furiously on his laptop.

  "Binary search trees," the student murmured without looking up. "She's about to get into worst-case scenarios."

  Nick pulled out his notebook, trying to focus on Professor Lin's diagrams projected on the screen, but his mind kept circling back to the missing surveillance truck and what its absence might mean.