Chapter 3 The Invitation

AVA POV

Fame, I learn, is just another word for "target."

Two days after the rescue, my apartment is under siege. News drones hover outside my window like metal wasps. Reporters camp in the hallway, shouting questions through my door. I can't leave. Can't breathe. Can't think.

My Anchor sits at four percent.

Hendricks gave me a backup stabilizer—a clunky external unit that clips to my belt and barely works. It buys me time. Not much. Maybe a week.

I'm trapped. Terrified. And so angry I could scream.

Then comes the knock.

Different from the reporters' constant pounding. Measured. Official. Three precise raps that cut through the chaos.

I crack the door open.

A woman stands in the hallway, immaculate in a white uniform I've only seen in broadcasts. Academy insignia on her chest—two interlocking rings, silver and perfect. She's older, maybe forty, with sharp eyes and sharper posture.

"Miss Ava Ward?"

My heart stops.

"I'm Officer Reyna. I'm here on behalf of Director Grace." She pauses, letting the name sink in. "The Gravity Academy would like to extend you an invitation."

The words don't make sense. Can't make sense.

She steps inside without asking, and suddenly my cramped apartment feels even smaller. She doesn't sit. Just stands there, radiating controlled authority.

"The Academy has been impressed by your instinctive gravitational manipulation during the recent surge. We'd like to offer you a position in our next trainee class."

"You're joking."

"I don't joke, Miss Ward." Her smile is thin, professional. "Full scholarship. Housing. Meals. And most importantly—a new Anchor."

My throat goes dry. "They don't take Floaters."

"They don't usually." Her eyes flick to my dying Anchor, then back to my face. "But Director Grace makes exceptions for extraordinary talent."

This is everything. Everything I've wanted since I was six years old, watching those white towers from a rooftop and whispering "someday" like a prayer.

But nothing comes free. Not here. Not ever.

"What's the catch?"

Reyna pulls out a data pad, hands it to me. The screen glows with dense text—legal jargon, terms and conditions, paragraphs of carefully worded promises.

"You'll be testing a prototype Anchor. Perfectly safe, but we need real-world data from someone with your... unique experience."

I scroll through the contract. Most of it is incomprehensible. But one line jumps out, bold and unmistakable:

Participant assumes all risks associated with experimental technology.

"Define 'all risks.'"

"Standard liability waiver. Every trainee signs one."

"Do the other trainees get experimental Anchors?"

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You have twenty-four hours to decide."

She leaves. The door clicks shut. I'm alone with the contract and the dying device on my wrist.

By evening, my neighbors know. Word spreads fast in Floater districts—hope travels faster than fear.

They gather in the hallway, in the stairwell, outside my door. Celebrating. Crying. Touching me like I'm already gone.

"One of ours made it out!"

Mira finds me on the roof. She's eighteen, all sharp edges and suspicion. Lost her brother to a faulty Anchor three years ago. Watched him float away during breakfast.

She doesn't hug me. Just stands there, arms crossed.

"They don't do favors, Ava."

"I know."

"If they're picking you, it's because they want something."

"I know that too."

"Then why are you thinking about saying yes?"

I hold up my wrist. Three percent now. The backup stabilizer is failing too.

Mira's face softens. Just slightly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

The Drift Memorial is quiet at night. Just me and the photos of the dead.

Mom's face stares back at me, frozen in that last smile. I press my palm against the faded picture.

"What would you do, Mom?"

The city hums around me. Cables creak. Anchors beep. Somewhere, someone is crying.

Mom's last words echo in my head: Stay grounded, baby. Always stay grounded.

But what if the only way to stay grounded is to leave?

Officer Reyna is waiting in my apartment when I return. Sitting in my only chair like she owns the place.

"Have you made your choice?"

I look at my Anchor. Three percent. Flashing red. Counting down to nothing.

I look at the contract. At the fine print. At the risks I'm supposed to assume.

"If I say no?"

"Then we thank you for your time and leave." She glances at my wrist. "But Miss Ward... how much time do you have left?"

My jaw tightens. Anger flares hot and bitter.

She knows exactly what she's doing. Exactly what choice I have.

No choice at all.

I sign.

Three days later, I stand outside my apartment with everything I own in one bag. My neighbors crowd the street—some crying, some cheering, all of them looking at me like I'm already a ghost.

Mira pushes through the crowd, grabs me hard.

"Don't let them change you."

"I won't."

"And Ava?" Her voice drops. "If it's a trap... run."

I nod. Can't speak.

The Academy transport descends from the sky—sleek, white, pristine. Everything my world isn't. The door opens with a soft hiss.

I step inside.

The seat is soft. The air is clean. The view through the window shows my district shrinking below—cables and tethers and desperate people holding on.

For the first time in ten years, I'm floating willingly.

I'm going to the place that makes the Anchors. Maybe I'll finally learn why my mother's failed. Maybe I'll learn why they all do.

The transport climbs higher. The city falls away. And I don't look back.