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Vex didn't waste time the next morning. No warm-up, no lecture. Just tossed Keira a training blade the second she walked into the private evaluation room and told her to come at him.
She caught it. Felt the weight wrong in her hand. Too light, balance off. Valkan issue, not human. She adjusted her grip and tried to look like she was figuring it out for the first time.
"Any time, Morris."
He stood in the center of the mat, relaxed. Not the stance of someone waiting. The stance of someone who already knew what he'd see.
She moved.
Kept it basic. High guard, standard human military approach, the kind they taught in boot camp back when Earth still ran its own recruitment. She came in with a thrust Vex could read from across the room and he sidestepped it easy. His blade tapped her ribs. Not hard. Just enough.
"Again."
She reset. Came in from a different angle. He blocked, redirected, tagged her shoulder. She felt the sting through the training suit.
"You're holding back." His voice flat. "Don't."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He circled left. She tracked him. "You move like you're scared of the blade. Like you've never held one before. But your footwork says different."
Her throat went tight. She adjusted her stance. Made it sloppier.
Vex smiled. It wasn't friendly.
"Try again. And Morris—if you insult me one more time by pretending you don't know what you're doing, we're going to have a much longer conversation."
She didn't answer. Just came at him again.
This time she opened up. Not all the way. Just enough to look competent. Enough to satisfy him. She kept her strikes clean, her defense predictable. Standard patterns. Nothing fancy.
He met her move for move. Faster than she expected. His blade work was tight, efficient. No wasted movement. Valkan military doctrine, but he'd added his own edge to it. She caught the rhythm of it, started to counter.
That's when he pressed.
He came in hard. A quick combination that forced her back three steps, then a low sweep that nearly took her legs. She dropped her center of gravity, pivoted, brought her blade up in a rising parry that slid along his and locked their hilts together.
They stood there. Close. Too close. She could see the pale gold of his eyes, the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
"Better," he said quietly. "But still careful."
He disengaged. She stepped back, breathing harder than she wanted to.
They went again. And again. He pushed her faster each time, chaining attacks that didn't leave room for thinking. Just reacting. Her body remembered what her brain was trying to forget.
She slipped.
It happened fast. Vex came in with an overhead strike that transitioned into a thrust aimed at her throat. High-low fake, classic instructor move. She should have blocked, retreated, reset. That's what a normal trainee would do.
Instead her hand moved on instinct. She sidestepped, caught his wrist with her free hand, rotated her blade in a tight circle that hooked under his guard and came up along the inside of his arm. A disarm technique. Not Valkan. Not standard human.
Ghost Corps.
Banned fifteen years ago after the treaty. Considered too lethal for training, too brutal for modern military doctrine. She realized what she'd done half a second too late.
Vex froze.
So did she.
The room went silent except for her breathing. His blade was on the mat. Hers was an inch from his throat. Her hand still gripped his wrist.
She let go. Stepped back. Tried to look confused.
"I don't—I didn't mean—"
"Where did you learn that." Not a question. A demand.
She dropped the blade. Let it clatter. "I don't know what I did. I just—reacted."
"That move's been illegal for over a decade. It's not in any active training manual. Not human, not Valkan, not anywhere in the coalition."
"Maybe I saw it somewhere—"
"You executed it perfectly." He picked up his blade. Didn't take his eyes off her. "Muscle memory doesn't come from watching, Morris. It comes from drilling. Hundreds of reps. Who taught you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She kept her face blank. "No one. I told you, I just—"
He moved.
Faster than before. She barely got her blade up in time. He drove her back across the mat, strike after strike, no breaks. She defended. Barely. Her arms burned. He wasn't holding back anymore.
She saw the opening. A gap in his guard, left side, just for a second. Her body responded before her brain could stop it. She dropped low, swept his leg, came up inside his reach with her blade angled for his liver.
Another Ghost Corps move.
She caught herself this time. Froze mid-strike. But it was too late.
Vex grabbed her wrist. Twisted. Her blade fell. His came up smooth and pressed cold against the underside of her jaw, tilting her chin up.
They stood there. His chest against hers. The blade edge light on her skin. Not cutting. Just present.
"Who are you."
His voice low. Almost soft. More dangerous that way.
She met his eyes. Didn't look away. "Keira Morris. Prisoner exchange. You read my file."
"I read a file." He shifted the blade. Just enough pressure to make her breath catch. "Files lie. Bodies don't. You've got combat scars on your hands. Calluses in the wrong places for someone who's only seen garrison duty. And now you're throwing techniques that haven't been taught in fifteen years."
"You're wrong."
"Am I." He tilted his head. Studied her face like he was memorizing it. "Then you won't mind a full medical workup. Blood panel. Gene scan. Complete service record verification."
Her stomach dropped. A gene scan would ping every military database in the coalition. If anyone ran her DNA against the Ghost Corps archive—if there was anything left in those files—
"That's not standard procedure for trainees."
"It is when I request it." He stepped back. Let the blade fall. "Report to medical tomorrow morning. 0600. Don't be late."
He walked toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the panel.
"One more thing, Morris."
She didn't answer.
"That move you used. The disarm." He glanced back over his shoulder. "I've only seen it once before. Five years ago. Instructor exchange program, human black ops demonstration. The operator who ran it died three months later. Classified mission, off the books."
Her blood went cold.
"Her call sign was Ghost Seven."
The door slid open. He walked through without waiting for a response.
Keira stood alone on the mat. Her hands shaking. The training blade heavy on the floor where she'd dropped it.
He knew.
Maybe not everything. But enough.
And tomorrow morning, he'd have her blood.