Valentina continued, "That's why only Silver Needles in Bullet Time can stand against the Chelicera monsters. Statistically speaking, once a person becomes infected, their strength can increase by ten to sixty times within hours, and that surge lasts for one to two weeks.
"Think about it — an average adult can lift maybe a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds at most. But a Chelicera, especially one transformed from a healthy adult, can easily lift anything under four tons. A hundred-meter sprint that would take a normal person twelve to sixteen seconds? For a Chelicera, it's over in the blink of an eye. Against an enemy like that, what could an ordinary human possibly do?"
Her voice softened. "Humanity needs Silver Needles. Only then can both sides fight on something close to even ground. That's the purpose of our existence."
Hester thought for a while before asking seriously, "How long must a Silver Needle's Bullet Time last to qualify for the battlefield?"
"Four hours," Valentina answered. "Every operation is carefully timed. Teams constantly rotate to ensure everyone's safety as much as possible."
Hester finally understood. "Then… Miss Chiya's Bullet Time — do you know how long it is?"
Valentina smiled knowingly. "Of course. Around here, everyone knows that number."
Hester tilted her head, curious.
"Seventy-six hours and forty-three minutes," Valentina replied. "In that regard, Chiya is nothing short of a legend."
As they spoke, Valentina stopped in front of the door marked 403.
Handing over a keycard, she said, "This will be your dorm room. Go ahead and try it."
Hester held the card to the sensor beside the handle. After a mechanical click, the door sprang open. She pushed it gently and stepped inside. The gray floor looked like some kind of hardened resin, and her rubber soles made a faint, sticky sound against it.
The living room was roughly twenty-five square meters. On the wall opposite the door was a tall window nearly two meters high. Outside, the sun was already setting — the southern side of the room was steeped in dusk, but through the glass, she could see several large plane trees swaying in the golden light and evening breeze. Beyond them lay the meeting line of forest and sky, free of tall buildings — open and distant.
At the center of the room stood a long rectangular white table. Scattered along its edges were books, pens, and little trinkets whose purposes Hester couldn't guess. A few mirrors leaned precariously against the table legs, tilted at odd angles as if ready to fall and shatter at any moment.
As she passed, Hester reached out and gently pushed one of the mirrors back into place.
Beneath the window sat a long, old fabric sofa. She placed her hands on its backrest, knelt upon the seat, and quietly pushed open the window.
The evening breeze carried a trace of chill as night approached, but the scene before her—like an oil painting—briefly soothed her anxiety and sorrow.
To her right was a small protruding balcony, remodeled into an open kitchen. Pieces of cheese, ham, cucumber, and cherry tomatoes were scattered messily across the counter, while the sink beside it was piled with bowls still stained with sauce.
Hester turned back. "So… I'll be living here from now on?"
"Yes," Valentina replied gently. "Your basic luggage will be delivered shortly."
Hester glanced around. There were five doors nearby, but only three had nameplates. Two of them also had paper posters stuck on—one of a rock band, and the other of an elderly man hunched over a desk, writing under a dim lamp.
"Your room's the one by the window, on the west side," said Valentina.
Following her direction, Hester carefully pushed open the door to her own single room.
The interior was simple: a bed, a wardrobe, a small cabinet, and a south-facing window—the same one overlooking the neat row of plane trees.
"If you need anything else," Valentina said, placing a paper on the bed, "just send an email to Mr. Weir in logistics. He'll do his best to take care of any living necessities."
She tapped the sheet gently—it was filled with the dormitory's living guidelines.
"Also," Valentina added, "we've already forwarded your basic info to Miss Fletcher, who lives next door. She's set to officially transfer departments later this year. Until then, she'll help you get used to daily training routines. Any questions, Miss Hester?"
"…You can call me Jane," Hester said softly, eyes lowered. "And yes, I do have a question. If my Bullet Time doesn't last more than four hours… what can I do then?"
"Oh, there's plenty you can do," Valentina said with a light laugh, pointing to herself. "For example, you could work an administrative position here at the base, like me. Or train as a field medic. But that's something you won't need to worry about until after you turn fourteen."
Hester wanted to ask more, but Valentina's phone suddenly rang. She answered quickly, gave Hester a small wave, and stepped out of the room.
The golden sunset reflected in Hester's eyes. With her uninjured left hand, she picked up the "Resident's Guide" that Valentina had left behind, read a few lines, then set it aside.
As dusk deepened, the small single room was left with only Hester. She slowly sat on the soft bed, her fingers gently brushing over the smooth blanket beneath her.
---
At 11 p.m., Valentina finally finished sorting the season's data files in her office. Few people in Sector Three kept such long hours, but she preferred working in long, focused stretches rather than spreading tasks thinly across days.
Just as she was about to shut down her computer and go home, she noticed a new email in her inbox. It was from Mr. Weir, the logistics officer—detailing all the new Silver Needle recruits' material requests up to that day.
Such data was routinely shared with the Psychological Support Division, where Valentina worked.
Typically, during their first six months at the training base, new recruits rarely requested personal items.
On one hand, the AHgAs organization provided thorough daily necessities, covering almost every detail of life. On the other, the children had all recently survived catastrophic events. Most were still gripped by anxiety and trauma, with little mental space to care about material comfort.
Only when they began adjusting to life at AHgAs—developing a fragile sense of trust—did they start requesting small, personal items beyond the basics. Both the act itself and the nature of those items served as subtle indicators for Valentina and her colleagues, used to evaluate each newcomer's psychological recovery.
Valentina scanned the list line by line, just as she always did. But when she reached the very bottom, she let out a soft, surprised "Hmm?"
At the last entry was Jane Hester's name—she had already submitted a request that very day.
---
[Email: Jane Hester's Logistics Request]
Dear Mr. Weir,
This is Lavette from the student dormitory. Since the new trainee Jane Hester doesn't yet know how to send emails, I'm writing her first logistics request on her behalf.
Miss Hester would like:
A small cast-iron chair (preferably dark green),
A half-round wooden side table (sized to fit under the window ledge),
A double-sided jacquard rug large enough to place the chair and table on (preferably white with green accents, half-round or square),
Some iron wire,
Red, green, and black card stock,
And a glass dome with a wooden base, suitable for placing on the side table.
Thank you very much for your help.
Best regards,
Lavette
(End of Chapter)