Liam O'Connell adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, the harsh, midday sun beating down on the
parade ground of the prestigious Blackwood Military Academy. He didn't sweat easily, but he did burn, a fact he was careful to manage with industrial-strength sunscreen.
He looked exactly like the rest of the new recruits: buzz-cut, sharp uniform, and nervous.
energy that vibrated in the humid summer air. But Liam was acutely aware of the secret he
carried, one that set him irrevocably apart: Congenital Insensitivity to Pain (CIP). He couldn't feel a broken bone, a searing burn, or a muscle tear. His body was a machine without a warning light.
That's precisely why he was here. He knew people thought he was reckless, maybe even crazy.
But he wasn't looking for danger; he was looking for discipline. He needed external rules.
external limits, to compensate for the internal sensor he lacked. Military school felt like the ultimate manual control.
"O'Connell!" Sergeant Major Rhodes, a man built like a granite slab and possessing a voice that could curdle milk, barked his name. "You just completed the obstacle course in record time, but you missed the final rope! Drop and give me fifty!"
Liam immediately hit the dirt. Fifty push-ups. Easy. Too easy.
"I said fifty, Recruit!" Rhodes yelled, looming over him.
"I am giving you fifty, Sergeant Major," Liam replied, his voice calm. He was already at push-up number fifteen.
Rhodes grabbed a nearby stopwatch. "I saw you graze the wall on the low crawl. You could have scraped half your face off! Are you even aware of the risk, O'Connell?"
Liam paused, holding plank position, a faint, almost teasing smile playing on his lips. "I am always aware of the risk, sir. I simply don't care about the injury."
Rhodes stared, his nostrils flaring. Liam was a paradox—the perfect soldier because he was fearless and the biggest liability because he was too fearless. He never complained, never
flinched, and never understood why the other recruits were collapsing from exhaustion.
That night, Liam was assigned to Quartermaster Storage B-7, a notoriously dusty, neglected
warehouse where they kept all the older, unidentifiable 'educational surplus.' He was tasked with inventorying a shelf of ancient, leather-bound books.
He pulled a box down, sneezing at the dust cloud. The box contained not books, but a collection of bizarre, non-military items: a crystal orb that hummed faintly, a brass sextant covered in
symbols that looked more like runes than navigation markers, and a single, cobalt-blue glass
vial filled with swirling, opalescent liquid.
As he went to lift the vial, his elbow accidentally knocked the sextant, which fell against the
crystal orb. There was a high-pitched CRACK, and a brilliant, searing-white light exploded from the setup.
Liam instinctively threw his arms up to shield his eyes. He didn't feel the light, but he felt the
sudden, crushing pressure, like a hand squeezing the air out of the room. When the light faded, the air was cold, scented with jasmine and ozone, and the concrete walls of Quartermaster
Storage B-7 was gone.