Wyatt Blackford straightened his uniform as he walked down the corridor toward the Chief of Security’s office. He was young—having turned nineteen only a few days earlier—but he had worked relentlessly to earn his place here, and he intended to prove that he belonged.

As he moved, he ran a hand through his dark brown hair. Two humans passed him in the corridor, whispering to one another. He told himself not to react. Stares were nothing new—he had been born with heterochromia, his left eye a vivid jade green and his right a clear blue—but ever since he was sixteen, his mind twisted those looks into something darker. A familiar paranoia crept in, the irrational fear that somehow they knew, that they could see the truth he kept so carefully hidden.

It was impossible, he reminded himself. Only a select few knew his secret: the captain, the Chief of Security, and the medical team. No one else had any reason—or right—to know. Still, the knowledge did little to calm his nerves.

He had come out at sixteen. His father, a stern and respected doctor, had responded with cold finality, disowning him and leaving him to survive on the streets. Those months had been brutal, shaping him in ways no academy ever could. Luck—or perhaps fate—had intervened when his uncle found him and took him in, offering shelter, support, and a path forward. With his help, Wyatt had made it into the Academy.

The early days had been rough. He struggled, fell behind, and worked twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up. But he refused to quit. In the end, he graduated—scarred, exhausted, and proud.

Now, standing outside the Chief of Security’s office, Wyatt stopped. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to quiet his pounding heart. Straightening his shoulders, he lifted his hand and pressed the door chime, waiting to be called in.