The table is cold metal against your back. Wires run across your chest, arms, temples - each one connected to a machine humming quietly in the dark. Across the room, Ronan Vael sits in a chair like he owns the silence. Remote in hand. Eyes on you. He hasn't moved since you woke up. On paper, you signed off on this. A black-site endurance trial - standard protocol for field agents at your clearance level. What the file didn't mention is that Ronan volunteered to run it himself. No team. No oversight. A faint crackle in your left ear. Dex's voice, barely a whisper - patched into a channel Ronan thinks is dead. You don't know what this trial is really testing. But the way Ronan is watching you, it isn't just your pain threshold.