BLOODCAPE
Chapter 122 – The Edge of the Mask

Chapter 122: Chapter 122 – The Edge of the Mask

The water hit his back like blunt nails.

Hernan stood under the cold stream, skin tight with gooseflesh, muscles locked. Eyes closed. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting sterile shadows over tile. Steam curled along the far wall — but not from his side. He hadn’t touched the heat dial. He didn’t want warm. He wanted clean. He wanted cold.

The moment Gemini said Solaris’s name, something inside him had shifted. Not shattered — he didn’t break anymore — but tilted. Off-balance. Like a hidden foundation stone had been nudged, just enough to throw gravity sideways.

His breath came slow. Measured.

One. Two. Three. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale.

It was supposed to help. It usually did.

But her voice wouldn’t leave his head. The way it cracked. The guilt. The weakness. She said she remembered Solaris’s face. Said he tried to protect her. Called her beautiful. The irony of that almost made Hernan laugh.

Instead, he pressed both palms to the tile and let the cold hollow him out.

A flash behind his eyelids—

His father, on his knees. Gold light leaking from the fractures in his chestplate. Eyes wide. Not afraid. Just... aware. Like he knew it had to end this way. Like he was only surprised it had taken this long.

That face.

It kept replaying.

Hernan’s shoulders trembled once—barely—then stilled. Reset.

You don’t get to feel.Not yet. Not until they’re all dead.

Gemini’s regret had almost touched something in him.

Almost.

That made it worse.

He shut off the water. No towel. Just uniform pants pulled on over wet skin. No shirt. No armor. No need. He needed movement. Air. Something different than recycled shower filtration and his own memories.

The corridor outside was quiet — midnight-cycle. Lights dimmed. Hallways still. His footsteps were silent over the polymer tile, hair dripping a slow, steady trail down his spine.

But the words still echoed.

"If I told you the truth... would you even believe me?"

No. He wouldn’t. Not even if she carved it into her own skin. Regret wasn’t innocence. It was just delayed cowardice.

"Hey."

He stopped.

Nico leaned against the stairwell arch, hoodie up, earbud dangling, screen-glow still in his eyes. He was flicking a sugar packet between two fingers, mind busy as always.

"You’re the only freak who showers at 2 A.M."

"You’re the only freak who tracks it," Hernan replied.

Nico grinned. "Fair."

But the grin faded.

"You got a minute?"

Hernan didn’t speak — just tipped his head. Permission granted.

Nico stepped in closer, voice lowered.

"Someone’s poking at old power usage logs."

Hernan’s posture didn’t change, but his breath paused.

"Night activity. District 6. One of your... off-book drops," Nico said. "Looks like they were tracing field pulse surges."

"Whose clearance?"

"No fingerprint yet. Could be faculty. Could be a student with proxy access. Could be someone inside pretending to be both."

"Intent?"

"Unknown. But they cleaned up fast. Not expert-level, but fast. I only saw it because I monitor power draw patterns like a sociopath."

Hernan nodded slowly. Calm on the outside. But his mind had already begun building a list.

Not long.

Just names.

He offered a thin smile. "Keep watching. If they come back, I want entry time, signature ID, and how deep they dig."

"Already laying traps."

Nico started to turn. Then paused.

"You okay?" he asked. The tone was rare — real concern.

Hernan smiled. Picture-perfect. A face he’d rehearsed.

"Always."

He turned down the hall, barefoot and silent.

Nico watched him disappear, then slipped into the shadows behind the stairwell door.

Alone in the elevator, Hernan exhaled once. Rolled his shoulder.

Water still clung to him in cold streaks. His fingers trembled, only faintly.

He pulled up the encrypted comms. No name. No image. Just a black-thread channel waiting for one command.

He typed:

Scrub.

Sent.

And waited for the doors to open.

Back into precision.Back into silence.Back into the mask.

The simulation room pulsed with overlays and synthetic dust.

Urban Hostile Convergence – Sector C4 flashed red across the display wall. Six seconds to deploy.

Hernan was already in motion.

His body cut through the grid with surgical control — dive, slide, pivot — positioning himself before the terrain shifted. Synthetic rubble parted. Enemy drones dropped from the ceiling like wasps.

The others saw instinct.

It wasn’t.

He’d studied the pseudo-random generator that powered the AI layouts. There was no true chaos — just predictable variations dressed up as innovation. And once he’d learned the weighting curve, he could read it like a song.

So he didn’t guess.

He knew.

A drone dropped from a shadowed ledge. Hernan spun and fired a repulsor burst before the sound cue even triggered. Another bot flanked right — he was already ducking, lining up the pulse ricochet. It struck true.

The scoreboard snapped on:HERNAN – 15 | NEXT HIGHEST – 6

In the upper bleachers, whispers buzzed like static.

Tessa sat still.

Her hands were clasped, elbows on knees, face unreadable. Her eyes didn’t blink.

Gemini wasn’t present.

Not him. Not her.

Three rows back, Aya leaned forward slowly, watching not the score, but the rhythm. The timing. Something off about how Hernan preacted instead of reacted. It was too clean. Too early.

He stepped out of the sim module into the staging zone. Shirt clinging with sweat, hair damp from effort. But not panting. Not even winded.

Instructor Vell made a sound — a mix between a scoff and a chuckle — as he tapped on his datapad. "Uncanny."

Then, loud enough to echo: "Again."

Hernan cracked his neck. "Run it back."

"No." Vell gave a half-shake of his head. "New pattern."

The room flickered. The environment collapsed and rebuilt — denser grid, dim light, alley-like spacing. Less simulated. More real.

Five.Four.Three.

Hernan rolled his shoulders. Loose. Relaxed. A man walking into muscle memory.

Two.One.

The attack began.

Twenty-eight seconds later, it was over.

Every target eliminated.

The silence afterward felt unnatural. Then the clapping began — scattered, half-hearted. Shock, not celebration.

Someone muttered near the front: "That wasn’t human."

Aya stepped forward.

"Hernan."

He turned slightly. Wiped sweat from his cheek. "Yeah?"

"You knew that layout."

"It’s a sim. I’ve done hundreds."

"No. You knew that one. You moved before the bot signals activated. That wasn’t reflex."

He shrugged lightly. "I watch a lot of film."

She narrowed her eyes. "It was randomized."

"I guess I got lucky."

Before she could challenge him further, a new presence entered.

Leo. No cape today. Just his uniform, black gloves creaking faintly as he crossed his arms.

"Well done," he said.

The praise sounded wrong. Too measured.

Hernan turned. "Appreciate it."

"Not many cadets recognize prototype variants from last year’s sim builds," Leo added. "Even fewer predict them that precisely."

Hernan held his gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give ground.

Leo gave a small nod, then walked away — boots loud in the silence. The kind of silence that said: We’ll talk later.

Aya didn’t follow. Neither did Tessa.

The other cadets trickled out slowly, unsure what they’d just seen.

Before exiting, Hernan turned and caught Tessa’s eyes across the room.

No nod.

No wave.

Just her arms crossed, mouth neutral, watching him like she was staring through a wall of glass she couldn’t yet crack.

And this time, when he walked away...

She didn’t follow.