The dimly lit chamber of the underground laboratory stretched out before Simon, humming with the quiet, rhythmic pulse of machinery that kept the Regime's most prized operations running. A faint, sterile scent lingered in the air—a mix of antiseptic and something darker, something primal that Simon couldn't quite place. The temperature was cold, bordering on frigid, yet Simon barely felt it. His mind was consumed by the decision he'd just made, the monumental shift that now hung over him like a weighted cloak. The signature he'd scrawled on Chancellor Voss's immaculate document had sealed his fate.

He had consented.

Consent was a rare commodity in the Regime's laboratories. Most subjects brought here—like the rows of students suspended in glass test tubes around him—were taken by force or manipulation, harvested for their abilities, broken down and rebuilt into something useful. The difference for Simon, Voss had said, was his choice. He had chosen this path, chosen to serve The Regime, chosen to ascend.

He had chosen to survive.

Simon shuddered, though it wasn't the cold that caused the tremor to ripple through his slender body. His skin was taut over his bony frame, pale and scrawny from years of malnourishment and neglect. The days of his childhood, when their household income dwindled after his father's disappearance, had left their mark on his body—a stark contrast to the perfect, engineered forms floating in the tanks around him.

The lab was quiet, save for the constant hum of machines and the soft bubble of liquids that bathed the unconscious bodies within the test tubes. The students inside the tubes were at various stages of transformation. Some looked peaceful, their bodies slowly reshaping themselves under the influence of science and dark magic. Others, though...Simon swallowed hard as his eyes caught sight of one who looked more like a corpse than a student, skin drawn tight against bone, eyes vacant and glassy.

Success or failure. Life or death. There was no in-between.

Voss had promised that Simon was different. That he was special. Exceptional. He had even used that word. The Chancellor's voice echoed in Simon's head, urging him forward.

A sharp voice pulled Simon from his thoughts, cutting through the ambient noise like a scalpel. "Simon Knight?" Dr. Finch stepped into the room, clipboard in hand, his eyes as cold as the metal instruments lined up on the nearby table. He was older than Simon had expected, with salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to match the sterile atmosphere of the lab. His white coat was pristine, and his hands moved with the precise, detached grace of someone who had performed this process many times before.

Simon nodded, his throat too dry to speak.

"Take off your clothes," Dr. Finch ordered, not unkindly, but with an air of authority that brooked no argument.

Simon hesitated, fingers trembling as they moved to unfasten the buttons of his uniform. His hands shook as he peeled away the layers, each movement feeling like a shedding of his former self. When he was done, he stood there, exposed and vulnerable in the dim light. The harsh glow of the overhead lamps cast his reflection against the metallic walls, showing every rib and scar, every inch of the malnourished frame that he had carried since childhood.

A whisper of insecurity crept into Simon's mind as his gaze flitted to the tanks once more. He was nothing like them. What if they had made a mistake? What if Voss had seen something in him that wasn't really there?

"Ah, Simon," came the voice of Chancellor Voss, smooth and soothing, as if reading Simon's very thoughts. The man entered the room with a confidence that commanded every molecule around him. He was tall, regal, dressed in the black uniform that marked him as one of the most powerful figures in The Regime. His presence exuded a kind of fatherly calm, though Simon knew that beneath the surface lay an ocean of cold ambition.

"I can see the fear in your eyes," Voss said, his tone almost paternal. "Not of us—no, you're not afraid of The Regime. You fear that you aren't worth it. That perhaps you won't succeed. That I've made a mistake in choosing you."

Simon felt his chest tighten at the words, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. Was it that obvious? His fists clenched at his sides, but he didn't speak. What could he say? Voss was right.

"I've seen hundreds of students come through these doors," Voss continued, his voice like velvet over steel. "And many of them have failed. They were not worthy. But you? Simon, you have already proven yourself. You are different. You are exceptional."

Simon swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand. "Th-thank you, sir," he stammered, unable to meet Voss's piercing gaze.

Voss stepped closer, his boots clicking softly on the tile floor. He extended a hand and gestured toward the tanks. "Do you know what it means to sharpen a soul, Simon?"

Simon blinked. The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"I didn't think you would," Voss said with a slight smile. "You see, what we do here...it's not about changing you. What you see in those tanks are students in the process of becoming something more. But their base—the essence of who they are—that remains unchanged. What we do is sharpen it. We take the raw material and refine it. You've been a compliant citizen, Simon, a sheep following the path laid out for you, but you've shown moments of brilliance—ideas that could shape the future of our country."

Simon's heart pounded in his chest, each word from Voss like a thread weaving into the fabric of his soul. Could he really be that? Could he become something worthy of The Regime's vision?

"You marvel me," Voss said, his eyes glittering with approval. "Despite your conditioning, despite the hardships you've endured...you adapt. And that is why you are here."

Simon's breath caught in his throat. Voss was praising him—him—the scrawny boy who had been nothing but a shadow behind his father's disappearance and his sister's disobedience. Voss saw something in him that no one else had ever seen.

"But," Voss's voice hardened slightly as he gestured once more to the students in the tanks, "what you will become requires more than just compliance and adaptation. It requires transformation. These students...many will not survive the process. They lack the will, the essence needed to ascend. But you, Simon, you have something they do not."

Simon's gaze drifted toward the tanks, where some students floated peacefully, while others looked as though they were on the edge of death. His stomach churned, but Voss's words anchored him, pulling him back from the precipice of doubt.

"I see that potential in you," Voss said, his voice low and intense, "despite your pain, despite your loss...even despite your sister. You can be something more. Something truly worthy. You can become what The Regime needs."

"My sister?" Simon's voice was barely a whisper, his heart racing at the mention of Jayde. His throat tightened, and for a moment, a flash of color—brilliant, vivid—crossed his vision, a memory of a time when dreams still danced in the corners of his mind.

Voss's gaze hardened, though his smile remained. "Your sister is...an unfortunate anomaly. She is lost to us. But you? Simon, you can still be saved. You can become something great. Something your father never was."

The mention of his father hit Simon like a blow to the gut, but it also ignited something deep within him. His father had been a Dreamer, a traitor to The Regime. He had disappeared into the ether, leaving Simon and Jayde to fend for themselves in a world that demanded loyalty and conformity.

"I...I want to be worth it," Simon said, his voice shaking. "I want to be worth it, sir."Voss placed a hand on Simon's shoulder, his grip firm, reassuring. "You already are, Simon. Now lie down. The process will begin shortly."

Simon turned toward the testing table, his body moving on autopilot. He climbed onto the cold surface, his heart pounding in his chest as he lay down, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white with tension.

Dr. Finch appeared by his side, a syringe in hand. "This will help you relax," he said, his voice clinical, detached.

Simon barely registered the prick of the needle in his arm. His mind was already spinning, his thoughts swirling around Voss's words, around the students in the tanks, around the image of his sister, Jayde, and the path she had taken.

As the sedative began to take hold, Simon's muscles relaxed, his eyelids growing heavy. Voss's voice was the last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him.

"Unlike your father...unlike your sister...you will become something greater, Simon. You will embody what it means to be Regime."

And with that, Simon's consciousness faded, leaving him adrift in the void, his body and soul ready for the transformation to come. The sharp, cold hum of science mingled with the caress of dark magic, and the process began.