When the music is silent

The orientation hall lay deep within the campus—its round shape and bright atmosphere giving the impression of a space designed not just for meetings, but to hear and feel every sound. The walls, as if specially treated, softened the noise and returned a faint echo reminiscent of a concert hall’s acoustics. Every step echoed with a slightly muffled hum, like walking along the shore of a lake—where the water listens but does not intrude. In the center of the hall stood a transparent projection pillar—it was not just a source of information, but a focal point from which exits radiated in every direction. Each exit led to a separate sector of the academy—to the faculties where future hunters and specialists awaited their first serious trials. On normal days, a countdown hovered above the pillar—days, hours, minutes remaining until the end of the course. Schedules, news, announcements—all smoothly shifting without distraction, maintaining a sense of order and control. But now, on orientation day, holographic signs floated in the air, showing directions. There were analysts, coordinators, medics, technical support, communications. Yet Rumi’s gaze caught one—the word “Hunters” flickering in bright red, like a challenge. Rumi stood by the wall in shadow, a little aside from the center, hiding her hands in her pockets. Rings glittered on her fingers—one a gift from her mother, simple yet precious, an amulet reminding her that she was not alone, that someone believed in her. Her heart beat calmly, but inside lived a quiet anxiety. All these people around, who had already decided to take a step forward, had chosen their paths—and she stood as if at a crossroads. Taking a deep breath, Rumi stepped forward. Her gaze skimmed the signs until it stopped at a door marked “Medical Support.” She headed there—where, at least, she could hope for something familiar, though complicated. The scanner by the door softly lit up, reading the data from her bracelet. Then suddenly it flashed red. “Access denied. Direction already assigned: HUNTER.” The red light blinked several times in a row like a warning, and Rumi felt something painful tighten inside her. The acknowledgment. Because deep down, she knew. Knew her path was already marked. Someone passed behind her—a light rustle of fabric, confident footsteps. A girl with a high ponytail approached. Her bracelet lit up green with a click and the door opened. Inside, everything contracted—fear mixed with resolve, shame with hope. Rumi knew: she was not quite like the others. Her demonic marks didn’t just set her apart—they made her vulnerable, but also strong. Her voice, altered by this curse, could pierce an enemy’s silence, but could betray her. Rumi stopped and seemed to freeze for a moment. No one around paid her any attention—or pretended not to notice. That was even more terrifying. She thought, “This is not my choice. The system has already decided for me—before I even arrived.” Someone touched her shoulder. The voice was calm, even, just below average pitch: “Number 47?” Rumi turned and saw a woman in a strict mentor’s uniform. Behind her stood another—dressed in dark uniform, with short dark hair and a posture that demanded attention. “Your mentor, Son Zoey.” The woman called Zoey looked Rumi straight in the eyes—no smile, no coldness. Just attentively, with a depth and tension felt in every movement. Rumi felt everything inside tighten and tremble—but still nodded and stepped forward. The fabric of the uniform slid lightly over her thigh. The bracelet on her wrist pulsed softly, as if something in it had been confirmed. Her breathing grew quieter—not because she wanted it, but because she couldn’t breathe otherwise. Zoey stood motionless. Her gaze was focused, but not harsh. The kind that senses everything but says nothing. Rumi stopped beside her. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if she should say anything at all. But the words came out in a whisper: “Thank you… for agreeing to be my mentor.” Zoey turned. No mockery in her eyes, only attention and silence in reply. Together, they headed across the hall. Zoey’s steps were confident, precise, as if her very gait reflected her inner strength. Rumi walked quietly, almost inaudibly, as if trying to dissolve into the space. Zoey didn’t speak, but her presence was as strong as the surrounding air. They passed several groups of newcomers nervously exchanging glances and whispering softly, fingers fidgeting with bracelets. Some had already chosen their path and headed toward their respective academy sectors, leaving behind silence and a sense of resolve. When they reached the residential block, Zoey stopped at a door and gestured for Rumi to follow. The corridors didn’t seem as long as they had during the day. Perhaps she was already a little accustomed—or maybe it was simply walking beside someone who knew every turn, every wall. Zoey remained silent, but the silence didn’t weigh down. There was something grounding in it—not alienation, but a calm absence of need to speak. They arrived at familiar doors. Zoey went in first, closed the door behind her, and didn’t switch on the overhead light—only a floor lamp in the corner. The room softened, its edges blurred. Rumi had been here before. For no more than a few minutes, but she remembered every detail: how the door opened, the sound of footsteps on the floor, the scent of new fabric. “This is our room,” she said dryly, not hiding the fatigue in her voice. “We’ll share it.” Rumi sat on the edge of the bed, feeling fatigue slowly fill her body. Her fingers unconsciously clenched the ring on her hand. A gift from her mother. A reminder that she wasn’t alone yet. Something personal in this place where everything seemed uniformly gray. A few seconds of silence passed. Only the hum of equipment somewhere beneath the floor. “If you have questions—ask. I don’t promise I’ll answer, but I’ll try.” Rumi lifted her gaze, and for a moment a silence hung between them—a silence that felt more important than any words. “I’m scared,” Rumi admitted quietly, almost whispering. “Scared I won’t manage... that I won’t be able to be here.” Zoey smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile—more a gesture, a habit hiding an inner resistance. “No one here expects an easy path. You’re here because you must be. The rest is a matter of time.”