Chapter 12: Stabilization

The door to the principal’s office opened with a soft, polished click.

A girl stepped out.

I felt her before I fully registered her.

Not loud.
Not sprawling.

Condensed.

Her AIM field was folded tight against her body, compressed into something sharp and precise. There was no waste to it—no stray bleed, no erratic fluctuations. Every movement of it felt intentional, like it was constantly correcting itself.

Strong.

And frighteningly controlled.

She adjusted the white armband on her sleeve as she walked past, posture straight, steps efficient. Short brown hair. Sharp eyes behind glasses that missed nothing.

Judgment.

My breath hitched.

“…I know her,” I murmured.

Misaki slowed beside me. “You do?”

“Not personally,” I said. “But I recognize her.”

The girl didn’t look at us as she passed, already focused on something else, her presence withdrawing as cleanly as it had arrived.

Only then did I realize how tense I’d gone.

“That was Shirai Kuroko,” I added quietly.

Misaki blinked. “…You mean Judgment’s teleporter?”

I nodded.

Misaki tilted her head. “You figured that out just now?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “No. I figured out why she feels like that.”

“Feels like what?”

I searched for the words.

“Like she’s constantly doing math,” I said finally. “Even when she’s walking.”

Misaki stared at me.

“…What?”

“Teleportation isn’t just jumping,” I explained. “She has to calculate coordinates every single time. Distance. Angle. Relative position. Her own body orientation. If she messes it up even a little—”

I trailed off.

Misaki didn’t need the rest.

“So her AIM field—” she started.

“—is always refining itself,” I finished. “It’s trained to be exact. No wasted motion. No sloppy output. That kind of control doesn’t turn off.”

Misaki went quiet.

“…That’s not something you’re supposed to be able to tell,” she said slowly.

“I know,” I replied.

She looked at me now, really looked at me, like she was seeing the outline of something new.

“You didn’t see her ability,” Misaki said. “You didn’t see her fight.”

“I didn’t need to,” I said. “Her field told me everything.”

Silence stretched between us.

Misaki’s smile didn’t come back right away.

“…That’s not normal,” she said finally.

“I know.”

She exhaled slowly. “You didn’t learn that in a lab, did you?”

I shook my head. “No. Yomikawa.”

That earned a sharp look.

“She trained me to survive,” I continued. “To notice things before they became problems. To read intent instead of waiting for impact. At first it was body language. Positioning. Tension.”

I hesitated.

“Then I realized I could do the same thing with AIM fields.”

Misaki stopped walking.

“…You what?”

“I can’t turn it off,” I said. “So she taught me how to use it without panicking. How to tell the difference between noise and threat. How to focus.”

I shrugged slightly. “The rest just… followed.”

Misaki stared at me like she was recalculating something important.

“…Do you have any idea,” she said quietly, “what people in this city would do for that?”

I stiffened.

She noticed immediately.

“Tch—relax,” Misaki said, waving a hand. “I’m not saying I would. I’m saying they would.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating in a way that had nothing to do with her usual theatrics.

“That alone makes you an asset,” she said. “To any school. Any research facility. Any organization with enough pull.”

I swallowed. “I don’t want to be one.”

“I know,” she replied, softer now. “That’s the problem.”

She sighed, then forced her familiar bright smile back into place, stepping forward again like she hadn’t just said something dangerous.

“…Guess it’s a good thing you’re walking around with me, then.”

I glanced at her. “Is it?”

Misaki smirked. “For you? Absolutely.”

That didn’t reassure me nearly as much as she probably intended.

Misaki slowed near the entrance to the administrative wing.

The building itself felt different from the rest of Tokiwadai—less ornamental, more deliberate. Tall windows. Clean stone. AIM fields inside were muted.

Adult.

“Well,” Misaki said lightly, stopping in front of the doors, “this is where they keep the scary people with clipboards.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “You make it sound worse than the labs.”

She glanced at me sideways.

“…Different kind of scary.”

Then, softer, more serious: “You’ll be fine. They wouldn’t have brought you this far if they weren’t already considering it.”

“I know,” I said. And I meant it.

She hesitated, parasol tapping once against the ground.

“I’ll wait nearby,” she added. “No pressure. Take your time.”

She turned, then paused.

“And Mirai?”

I looked at her.

“If they say anything you don’t like,” Misaki said, smile sharp but eyes steady, “you don’t have to say yes just because you want to be here.”

I nodded.

“…I know.”

She studied my face for a second longer, then seemed satisfied enough to step away, disappearing back into the polished pathways of Tokiwadai.

The doors closed behind me with a soft, final click.

The principal’s office was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind—more like the kind designed to make people choose their words carefully.

The woman seated behind the desk looked exactly like I expected: composed, immaculately dressed, posture perfect without being stiff. Her AIM field was faint but precise, held close to her body like a well-trained instinct. Probably level 1 or 2

She gestured for me to sit.

“Mirai Aihara,” she said calmly. “Thank you for coming.”

I sat, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.

“Tokiwadai has received a formal request regarding your temporary enrollment,” she continued. “It comes with backing from Anti-Skill and government sponsorship.”

That last part landed heavier than the rest.

“Normally,” she said, “we do not accept transfers under these circumstances.”

I swallowed.

“But,” she added, steepling her fingers, “your case is… exceptional.”

That word again.

“We are willing to consider enrolling you,” the principal said, “provided certain conditions are met.”

My heart picked up speed.

“There is one requirement that cannot be waived,” she continued. “An AIM field evaluation.”

My shoulders tensed automatically.

I knew this was coming.

“Tokiwadai is not merely an academic institution,” she said. “It is a school for espers who meet a certain standard. Even with sponsorship, we cannot enroll a student below Level Three.”

Level Three.

The number echoed in my head.

I looked down at my hands.

“I don’t like tests,” I admitted quietly.

The principal inclined her head slightly. Not unkind. Not apologetic either.

“Few people do,” she replied. “But this one is necessary.”

I could already imagine it—the sensors, the numbers, the quiet judgment hidden behind polite smiles. Machines deciding whether I belonged.

My stomach twisted.

“I won’t be asked to… demonstrate?” I asked carefully.

“No combat,” she said. “No strain. This is a standard measurement of output and stability.”

Stability.

I thought of Yomikawa’s training. Of walking through crowds without breaking. Of choosing when to listen and when to close myself off.

Of surviving.

“I understand,” I said.

The principal studied me closely.

“You are not obligated to proceed,” she added. “If you decline, alternative arrangements can be discussed.”

I lifted my head.

“I want to do it,” I said.

The words came out steadier than I felt.

She raised an eyebrow slightly. “May I ask why?”

I hesitated—then decided to be honest.

“Because I worked hard to get here,” I said. “Not just… to survive. But to choose something for myself.”

I thought of the city. Of the noise. Of learning how to stand in it instead of being crushed.

“I don’t want to give that up,” I finished.

The principal was quiet for a long moment.

Then she nodded.

“Very well,” she said. “The evaluation will be scheduled.”

She stood, signaling the end of the meeting.

“If your results meet the requirement,” she continued, “Tokiwadai will welcome you as a student.”

I stood too, bowing slightly—awkward, but sincere.

“Thank you,” I said.

As I turned toward the door, the weight in my chest hadn’t gone away.

But beneath it—

There was resolve.

I didn’t like the test.

I didn’t trust the system.

But I had trained for this.

Not because anyone told me to.

Because I wanted to stay.

The testing room didn’t look like a lab.

That was the first thing that put me on edge.

No restraints. No chairs bolted to the floor. No white walls stained by too much use. Just a wide, clean room with soft lighting, a circular platform embedded into the floor, and a ring of discreet instruments mounted along the walls.

Observation equipment.

Not punishment.

Still, my body didn’t care about the difference.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the technician said, voice calm, professional. Not looking at me directly—eyes on the tablet in his hands instead.

I stepped onto the platform.

The floor hummed faintly beneath my shoes as the sensors activated, the sound vibrating up my legs. AIM detectors. High-sensitivity ones. The kind that didn’t need you to do anything to start judging.

“Baseline reading first,” the technician continued. “Just stand naturally.”

Naturally.

I let out a slow breath and did nothing.

For a moment, the room stayed quiet.

The instruments didn’t react.

Numbers crawled across the monitors, hesitant, uncertain.

“…She’s not emitting,” someone murmured behind the glass.

My stomach tightened.

Of course I wasn’t.

Without resonance, my AIM field barely existed. A shadow of one. A suggestion.

I focused inward.

This was the part I hated—the waiting, the feeling of being measured as something incomplete.

“Subject shows minimal spontaneous output,” the technician said carefully. “We’ll proceed to active measurement.”

Active.

That was my cue.

I closed my eyes.

Not to shut the world out—but to choose.

I could feel them then, faint echoes stored deep in my awareness. Patterns I’d memorized. Structures I’d worn until they stopped cutting me.

Telekinesis was too rigid. Too invasive.

Pyrokinesis burned even when I remembered how it worked.

But electricity—

Electricity was different.

I knew its rhythm.

I’d lived next to it. Walked beside it. Learned its volume, its texture. Loud, yes—but honest. Straightforward. It didn’t twist inward. It didn’t hide.

It surged because it wanted to move.

And somehow… that felt safe.

I reached for that pattern.

Not copying blindly.

Not forcing it.

I aligned myself with it.

The shift was immediate.

AIM sensors spiked as something clicked into place, my field snapping into coherence like a circuit finally closed. The hum beneath my feet deepened, instruments lighting up one after another.

“Oh—!”

The technicians straightened.

“Output detected.”

Electric resonance rolled outward from me in steady waves—not explosive, not erratic. Controlled. Dense. The field hugged close to my body, structured and deliberate, humming with restrained energy.

I didn’t push it outward.

I didn’t need to.

The room filled with quiet tension as the monitors recalibrated, numbers climbing faster now.

“…That’s stable,” someone said.

“Very stable.”

I opened my eyes.

The air felt different—charged, but not hostile. Like standing beneath power lines without fear. The kind of pressure you could lean into.

I adjusted instinctively, smoothing the edges, keeping the flow tight and even. The way I’d learned to do while walking through crowds. While breathing through panic.

Control over volume.

Control over shape.

Not louder.

Cleaner.

The technician frowned at his screen.

“…This doesn’t match the preliminary profile.”

“Cross-check it.”

“I am.”

A pause.

“…Output’s sitting between Level Three and Four,” he said slowly. “But the stability index is—”

He stopped.

Looked again.

“…That’s not right.”

Behind the glass, someone leaned closer to their monitor.

“Field coherence is exceeding expectations,” another voice said. “Way above a typical 3.5.”

My pulse thudded in my ears.

I held the resonance steady, fingers curled slightly at my sides as I maintained the pattern. It hurt—not sharply, but constantly. Like holding a muscle flexed for too long.

But I could endure this.

I had endured worse.

“She’s compensating,” someone muttered. “The control’s masking inefficiencies.”

“Or,” another replied quietly, “she’s just that precise.”

The technician cleared his throat.

“Final assessment,” he said. “Please maintain output for ten more seconds.”

Ten.

I nodded once and focused.

Electricity thrummed through my field, not wild, not dominant—intentional. Purposeful. I didn’t think about Misaka Mikoto directly.

But I didn’t need to.

This wasn’t imitation.

This was alignment.

The seconds ticked by.

Then—

“Alright,” the technician said. “You can stop.”

I released the pattern carefully, letting the resonance unwind instead of snap. The hum faded. The pressure lifted. The room exhaled with me.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the technician looked up.

“…Final reading places you at Level Four,” he said.

The words didn’t land right away.

Level Four.

I blinked. “…Are you sure?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Based on effective output and control under observation—yes.”

Behind the glass, quiet murmurs broke out.

“That’s not possible for a first evaluation—”

“Look at the stability curve.”

“She maintained coherence the entire time.”

“That control—”

I stepped off the platform, legs trembling slightly now that I wasn’t holding myself together by sheer focus.

The door opened.

The principal stood there, unreadable as ever—but her eyes lingered on me a fraction longer than before.

“Well done,” she said.

Not impressed.

Not skeptical.

Just… acknowledging reality.

“You meet Tokiwadai’s requirements,” she continued. “Enrollment will proceed.”

Something loosened in my chest.

Not triumph.

Relief.

I hadn’t beaten the system.

I’d navigated it.

As I left the room, my hands still faintly buzzing, one thought settled firmly in my mind:

I hadn’t chosen electricity because it was strong.

I chose it because it let me stay myself.

And that—

That was what carried me through.