I’m counting buckets when the gate slams open.

  Five hang from the terrace—rope, wood, different weights. I swing, dodge, strike, slip inside the arc—then a bucket clips my ribs. Pain blooms purple under my shirt; I taste iron where none should be.

  The clang travels through the house like a warning bell. I freeze, then head upstairs.

  Everyone’s already in the living room. Dust clings to the adults—smells of hot metal and fear. Uncle Abid pulls a slim white card from his coat—gold chip in the center, cyan LED blinking like a dying star.

  “They call it the Grid of Last Exit,” he says. “Seventeen and up. One card. One chance. Bring back supplies—earn points. No card, no exit.”

  I feel the room tilt. One chance per house. One shot to step outside the safe ring.

  Then someone says it: “We need weapons.”

  Every head turns to me.

  I nod once. “Yes. But first—tests. The weapon must fit the person.”

  I turn the basement into a forge. My father goes first—sweat drips onto steel, sizzles. I adjust grip, balance, reach. One by one, the men take turns. None can cut the hanging buckets clean.

  “Control it,” I call. “Use your feet.”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  They try again. Deeper cuts this time. I hand out armor—shoulder guards, forearm plates—metal cold against skin.

  When they leave, the younger ones step forward.

  Odai speaks first. “We want to fight too.”

  I’m sitting on the floor, Flake curled against my leg. I scratch his ear. “I lead.”

  They protest—I raise one eyebrow, show the bruise blooming across my ribs. Silence falls.

  I test them all. Aroha gets a bow—her aim nearly perfect. Etisham takes a spear, Odai a sword and shield. Hiba a light blade, Eshle twin daggers. I keep my own—short, sharp, already stained with my blood from a missed parry.

  Later, we run stamina drills—buckets again, but this time dodge only. My bruise throbs with every breath; I welcome the rhythm.

  We sit on the bed, sweat cooling.

  “I can beat Aariz now,” Eshle boasts.

  I smile, lift my shirt an inch—purple blooming like a storm cloud. “You’re not fighting me. You’re fighting the air I let you breathe.”

  The room goes quiet.

  Flake leaps onto Odai’s head—claws out, tiny red line across his cheek. First blood drawn by my own build. Odai yelps; no one laughs.

  ---

  Outside, the adults reach the supply store—**too easy**, **too quiet**.

  Uncle Shahzad watches the entrance. A shape steps from fog—**no card on wrist**. Guard **snaps the man’s arm** like dry wood—**crack echoes**, **no one helps**.

  I see it all through Odai’s phone feed—pixelated horror. First lesson: **no card, no mercy**.

  ---

  Night falls. Generator hums—**my magnet spins**, **wire burns my finger**—blister rises, I don’t flinch. One bulb glows. One signal hums.

  I type a message into the short-range device—**300 miles**, **maybe more**. Press Enter.

  Nothing.

  Then a voice—**not speaker**, **not TV**—**inside my ear only**: *“Your students are currency. Spend them wisely.”*

  I stare at the screen, finger throbbing, bruise pulsing. **Currency spends easy.** **I just have to decide who breaks first.**