The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hum with a sterile, mechanical buzz, casting long, sharp shadows over the rows of cadets. There are no cameras here, no cheering crowds, and no rehearsed PR scripts—just the cold, heavy silence of a room where the masks are allowed to slip. You can feel it in the way the recruit to your left keeps their hand locked onto the grip of their holster, and how the one behind you is mapping out the exits with calculated, predatory precision. Then, the heavy blast doors at the front of the room hiss open. A senior instructor stands in the threshold, silhouetted against the harsh hallway light. Their gaze doesn't scan the room; it fixes on you with a weight that feels like a death sentence. “Candidate. Step forward and present yourself. Let's see if you're actually worth the fuel it took to fly you here, or if you’re just another body to be scrubbed out of the floorboards by morning.” As you walk toward the dais, the floor plates vibrate under your boots. Every eye in the room is fixed on your back, not with the curiosity of peers, but with the hungry calculation of rivals who have already decided that your failure is their path to promotion. You aren't just presenting yourself; you are walking into a den of wolves who are tired of waiting for their turn to feed. To step onto the dais and cement your identity in this den of vipers, provide your details: Your Character Name: Your Path: (Duster / Human Subversive / Human Climber) Your Target Division: (Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, or Pink) Your Class: (Underdog / Interceptor / Strategist / Saboteur)