Chapter 4 The Gravity of Privilege

AVA POV

The Gravity Academy doesn't float above the city by accident—it's a reminder that some people are meant to rise, and others are meant to fall.

The transport docks with a soft hiss. The door opens. I step out onto a platform that shouldn't exist—gleaming white stone suspended thousands of feet above the ground with nothing holding it up. No cables. No tethers. Just perfect, effortless control.

My legs lock.

Behind me, Officer Reyna clears her throat. "Miss Ward?"

I force myself forward. One step. Another. The platform doesn't shake. Doesn't groan. It just... floats.

The Academy spreads out before me like something from a dream. White towers spiraling upward, glass walkways connecting them in elegant arcs, gardens suspended in midair with trees that shouldn't survive this high. Everything is clean. Perfect. Impossible.

Students pass by in groups—laughing, confident, wearing uniforms so pristine they practically glow. They all have the same posture, the same easy grace of people who've never worried about falling.

They see me. Stare.

"That's the Floater girl."

"From the video."

"What's she doing here?"

Their whispers cut through the air like knives. I keep my head up, my face blank, even though my cheeks burn.

Reyna leads me through corridors that smell like antiseptic and privilege. We pass more students. More stares. A girl in a perfectly pressed uniform actually steps aside like I might be contagious.

The auditorium is massive. Rows of seats descending toward a stage, all filled with new trainees. Fifty, maybe more. I'm directed to a seat in the back.

I'm the only one alone.

Everyone else sits in pairs or small groups, already forming alliances. They all look the same—straight backs, expensive haircuts, Anchors that gleam with newness. Perfect posture. Perfect faces. Perfect futures.

I slump in my seat and immediately regret it. Sitting up straight hurts when your spine isn't used to it.

The lights dim. A hologram materializes on stage—a woman, tall and elegant, with silver hair pulled back so tight it could be a weapon. Her uniform is immaculate. Her eyes are cold.

Director Grace.

"Welcome to the Gravity Academy." Her voice fills the space, amplified and absolute. "You are the elite. The chosen. The future engineers who will maintain the stability of our world."

She pauses. The silence is suffocating.

"You will learn to control gravity itself. But control requires discipline. Discipline requires sacrifice. And sacrifice..." Her eyes sweep the room. For a moment, I swear she's looking right at me. "...requires obedience."

A chill runs down my spine.

"Those who cannot meet our standards will be removed. Those who question our methods will fail. Those who succeed will become something greater than themselves." She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Welcome to your future."

The hologram vanishes.

Around me, students whisper excitedly. I sit frozen, her words echoing in my head.

Obedience.

After orientation, an instructor reads names from a data pad. Partner assignments.

"Ava Ward, you'll be partnered with Ethan."

A tall Grounder stands—seventeen, dark hair, sharp eyes that assess everything. His uniform is perfectly tailored. His watch probably costs more than my entire apartment building. He crosses the room with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.

He stops in front of me. Looks me up and down like I'm a broken piece of equipment.

"You're the Floater."

"And you're a Grounder. Guess we're both stating the obvious."

His jaw tightens. "Let's get one thing clear. I'm here to become an engineer, not babysit charity cases."

Heat flares in my chest. "Good. I'm here to learn, not deal with entitled—"

"Save it for training," the instructor snaps. "You'll have plenty of time to hate each other later."

Ethan walks away without another word. I watch him join a group of other Grounders, all of them laughing about something I'll never be part of.

My dorm room is small. But compared to my apartment, it's a palace.

Running water. Actual, hot, running water that comes out of a tap whenever I want it. A bed with a real mattress, not a pile of blankets on a metal frame. Walls without cracks. A window without bars.

I touch everything carefully, like it might disappear. The sink. The sheets. The light switch that works without flickering.

My roommate hasn't arrived yet. The other bed is still made, untouched.

I lie down. Stare at the ceiling. It's white. Clean. No water stains. No maps of decay.

For the first time in ten years, I don't tie myself down.

The bed is too soft. The silence is too loud. I can't sleep.

The next morning, I'm summoned to the Medical Wing.

The corridors are empty this early. My footsteps echo. Everything smells sterile—chemicals and control.

Director Grace is waiting.

She stands in the center of a white room, hands clasped behind her back, watching me enter like I'm a specimen under glass.

"Miss Ward. I'm pleased you accepted our offer."

"Did I have a choice?"

Her smile is thin. "There's always a choice. You chose to survive."

She gestures to a chair. I sit. Technicians move around me in silent efficiency, preparing equipment I don't recognize.

A case is brought forward—sleek black metal, Academy seal on top. Grace opens it herself.

Inside is an Anchor unlike anything I've ever seen. Black instead of gray. Smaller. More elegant. It pulses with a soft blue light.

"This is a G-Series prototype," Grace says. "It will give you unprecedented control over your personal gravity field. Far beyond what standard Anchors provide."

"Why me?"

"Because you survived with a failing F-Class for two weeks. Because you manipulated gravity instinctively during the surge. Because..." She pauses. "You're desperate enough to say yes."

The truth stings more than I expect.

A technician approaches, tools in hand. "We'll need to remove your current device."

My hand instinctively covers the dying F-Class on my wrist. It's been with me for five years. It's kept me alive.

It's also killing me.

I let go.

They work quickly. The F-Class unclasps with a soft click. For a moment, I feel it—weightlessness. Terror. The sensation of nothing holding me down.

Then they attach the prototype.

It's warm. Alive. It syncs to my wrist, sends a pulse through my entire body—not painful, just... present. Like something clicked into place that I didn't know was missing.

My body stabilizes. The constant fear in my chest loosens.

I can breathe.

"How does it feel?" Grace asks.

"Like I'm not dying."

"Good." She nods to the technicians. "Monitor her for the next forty-eight hours. Report any anomalies."

I'm dismissed.

I walk back through the empty corridors, feeling lighter than I have in years. Stronger. The prototype hums softly against my skin, a constant reassurance.

Then I hear it.

A voice. Clear. Sarcastic. Inside my head.

"Oh great. They stuck me with the scared one."

I stop dead. Look around. The corridor is empty.

"What—who said that?"

"Relax. I'm not a ghost. I'm your Anchor. Name's Aero. And apparently, we're stuck together."

My heart slams against my ribs.

I run.

Back through the corridors, back to the Medical Wing, bursting through the door so hard it bangs against the wall.

"There's something wrong with my Anchor!" My voice comes out high, panicked. "It's talking to me!"

The technician looks up from his screen, confused. "Anchors don't talk, Miss Ward."

"This one does! It just—it said—"

Inside my head, Aero laughs. Clear. Amused. Definitely real.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."

I signed up to test a prototype. They didn't mention it had a personality.