Xavier headed back to the space chamber with the same steady pace, slipping into the next session before half the third-years even realized a first-year was walking among them. The room was different this time—lights dimmed, more holo-grids hanging in the air, the gravity pads tuned tighter to simulate real orbital strain. The instructor didn't bother with introductions. He simply started the class with a stack of equations and navigational patterns that looked like they were meant to scare off anyone who wasn't supposed to be there.

Xavier didn't flinch. He read through each projection as if someone were handing him puzzle pieces he'd already seen before. The third-years around him kept glancing over whenever the instructor asked a question, waiting to see which idiot would embarrass themselves. Xavier answered two of them before anyone else raised a hand, and the third time, one of the seniors hissed under his breath about "first-year freaks" while shifting in his seat.

Then came the practical session.

The instructor switched the entire chamber to full simulation mode—the gravity went uneven for a moment, the floor rumbling as the projectors mapped a debris-heavy orbital run. The corridors floating on the display were tight, narrow, twisting with magnetic interference that made the controls jitter with every turn.

"Your goal," the instructor called out, "is to maintain a stable flight path for one full minute. If any of you drop below the threshold, you get to start over."

The seniors groaned. Xavier didn't.

He strapped himself into the motion rig again. The simulation snapped into place—asteroid dust glittering, broken ship parts drifting, pressure warnings lighting up along the edges. The rig jerked him backward before he could brace, and he fought the sway, catching the drift too late and slamming into a floating hull plate. The whole thing rattled like someone dropped a trashcan over his head.

"Reset," the instructor said.

Xavier rolled his neck and went again.

This time, he calculated the drift faster, but the magnetic pull cracked sideways out of nowhere and threw him off course. Another reset. One of the third-years cursed loudly after failing the same spot, punching the air like it offended him personally.

Xavier watched the pattern on the monitor. Saw the fluctuation. Saw how it repeated, even though it looked random.

Third try.

He leaned forward, fingers on the holo-controls, eyes locked on the course. The rig lurched—he anticipated it. The magnetic spike hit—he countered before it even showed on the board. The false-gravity plates pulled at his ribs—he centered his weight and forced the pathway to align. His arms burned halfway through the minute, but he locked into the strange rhythm of the simulation, letting the ship move like it was part of him instead of something he was trying to steer.

And for the first time in that entire session, someone made it to the end of the minute.

The instructor looked mildly surprised. A few seniors looked mildly irritated.

Xavier unstrapped himself, rubbing his shoulder but not out of pain—more to test if anything had shifted wrong inside his muscles again. It hadn't. His body had adapted faster than he expected.

The rest of the afternoon rolled into docking trials, emergency stabilizer drills, and a brutal artificial-gravity collapse where half the class went tumbling across the floor. Xavier tripped once near the start and didn't make that mistake again. The seniors noticed, even if they pretended not to. He wasn't perfect, but he learned faster than he should have, and the instructor kept giving him that long, unreadable stare every time he handled something that wasn't aimed at first-years.

By the time the lights dimmed and the room powered down, Xavier's shirt clung to him with sweat and his fingers ached from gripping the control handles for so long. The instructor walked over while the others filtered out.

"When," Xavier asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, "do I get to try an actual ship? Real piloting. Not simulations."

The instructor snorted. "When you've stopped crashing into my debris fields."

"I only crashed twice."

"You crashed every time you didn't take it seriously," the man said, adjusting his sleeve. "You'll get your hands on a ship when your reaction times catch up to your mouth. For now, simulations are enough."

Xavier didn't argue. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the exit while the instructor called after him:

"And don't ask again tomorrow. The answer's still no."

Xavier didn't pry. He could always try it by other means, which required money, and he had 100 million to dispose of everyday. For now, he had trained enough.

He left the academy and drove off on his bike.

Xavier reached the Midnight Club just as the sky outside dipped into that early evening glow. Inside, the place felt the same as always—bass humming under the walls, neon bleeding into the corners, a haze of drinks and perfume floating through the air—and as always, he didn't stop for anyone. He went straight to the private room because Reva had messaged earlier saying the work was done.

Surprisingly, Angel wasn't there.

"Where is the owner of the room?" he asked.

"She left about an hour ago. I think she is trying to hurry and complete her gigs as soon as possible. But I don't think she is going to finish all of it within a week."

"I invited her to come with us. Looks like she really wants to come, but I guess we will see her again after a few months."

"She is just angsty because she fears someone else will take her place in your harem." She chuckled and pointed her finger at the side. "Your new phone is on the table. Try not to break this one."

Xavier picked it up. The design wasn't flashy. The moment the screen lit up, he felt how absurdly smooth the interface was. Reva didn't build operating systems; she sculpted them. Everything connected like the device was reading his intent. Transitions, menus, security layers, everything snapped into place and it was so clean it felt alive.