inkstainederudite

[inkstainederudite]

Chapter 1 — Knowledge Is Not Power

(Word Count: 2,146)

Eric x Reader (Eventually)

There is a certain kind of silence in Erudite that no other faction has.

It is not the silence of peace. Not the hush of comfort or the absence of noise. It is the quiet hum of judgment. The sterile stillness of people who listen before they speak, observe before they act. Every movement, every breath is calculated. Controlled.

(Y/N) wakes to this silence, as always.

Her room is exact—just like everything else in her life. Walls painted a cold, functional shade of pale gray. A steel-framed bed, the sheets tucked tight at ninety-degree corners. A single bookshelf. Two tablets stacked neatly on her desk, charged overnight. Everything in its place. Nothing out of order.

She sits up slowly, blinking away the remnants of an uneasy dream. One she can’t quite remember, only that it left her jaw clenched and her chest heavy. The kind of dream she would never admit to anyone. Not here. Not even to herself, if she could help it.

Her bare feet touch the cold floor. A shiver climbs up her spine.

The Erudite compound is always too cold. They say it keeps the mind sharp. Logical. Undistracted. (Y/N) isn’t sure if that’s true, but she’s long since stopped questioning it out loud.

She dresses in silence: soft blue blouse, dark slacks, a sleek, dark gray sweater that hugs her arms like armor. Not a single wrinkle. She checks the mirror—not for vanity, but for precision. Her hair is braided and pinned in a style approved by her mother. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes steady.

That’s what people see when they look at her: steady. Composed. Just like Jeanine.

But they don’t see the thoughts constantly turning just behind her eyes.

They don’t see the weight.

The halls of the compound are already alive by the time she steps out of her room.

Not loud—never loud—but full of motion. Glass doors slide open on whispered tracks. Screens flicker on as people pass. A group of analysts cluster around a table in one of the common rooms, debating something about resource allocations for the Factionless districts. Their voices are low, clipped, precise.

(Y/N) doesn’t stop. She walks past them, silent as a shadow. No one greets her.

Not because they don’t know her.

Because they do.

She is Jeanine Matthews’ daughter.

And that means she is watched.

Not spoken to. Not trusted. Watched.

She’s learned to move quietly. To answer questions before they’re asked. To never show hesitation—even when it burns in her throat like acid. The wrong tone, the wrong look, the wrong question could be the beginning of the end. Not because she’d be exiled. No. That would be too kind.

Because her mother would notice.

The dining area is bright with artificial sunlight.

Erudite engineers designed it to mimic natural circadian rhythms, though (Y/N) doubts they’ve ever bothered to test its actual effectiveness. She steps through the glass doorway and immediately sees her mother, seated alone at the long central table.

Jeanine Matthews is already reading, a tablet in one hand, tea in the other. Her posture is perfect. Not a strand of hair out of place. Her white coat is crisp, the Erudite insignia gleaming on the lapel. She looks like a statue carved from ice—flawless, cold, and utterly unyielding.

(Y/N) approaches quietly and takes the seat across from her. Her breakfast is already there—protein-enhanced toast, a single boiled egg, half a grapefruit. Calorically optimized. Precisely portioned. No room for preference.

Jeanine doesn’t look up from her tablet.

“Your aptitude test is today,” she says, her voice as calm and impersonal as a data report.

“I know,” (Y/N) replies, keeping her tone equally flat.

Jeanine finally lifts her gaze, eyes scanning (Y/N)’s face with surgical precision. “You’ve always scored well on assessments. I expect this will be no different.”

There is no warmth in her voice. No pride. Only expectation.

(Y/N) picks up her fork. “Of course.”

A pause. A sip of tea.

Then Jeanine sets the tablet down, folding her hands over it. “Remember what I’ve taught you. Logic is not just the foundation of Erudite—it is the foundation of civilization. Emotion obscures truth. And truth, above all else, is what sustains order.”

“I understand,” (Y/N) murmurs, slicing a neat section of grapefruit.

“Good.” Jeanine’s eyes narrow slightly. “Because deviation from one’s designated faction, particularly when one is well-suited, reflects not just personal failure—but ideological dissonance.”

(Y/N) doesn't flinch, but she feels it. That subtle pressure. The weight beneath the words.

“I have no intention of failing,” she says.

Jeanine leans back. “No one intends to. But some… are born divided.”

And there it is. The warning. The test before the test.

(Y/N) lowers her gaze to her plate. Her hands are steady. Her voice is smooth. “I am not divided.”

Jeanine says nothing. Just studies her for a beat too long, then returns to her tablet like the conversation never happened.

But (Y/N) can still feel the silence between them. Heavy. Chilling.

Like a knife pressed to glass.

The glass walls of the Erudite compound reflect a world made of angles and edges. There is no softness here—no unnecessary texture or color. Everything exists because it is useful. Everything functions because it must.

(Y/N) walks the corridors with practiced efficiency, her bag slung over one shoulder. The materials inside—notes she doesn’t need, schedules she already memorized—are symbolic more than practical. Carrying them gives people a reason not to question her. And in Erudite, appearances are often more important than truth.

Not that anyone would dare question Jeanine Matthews’ daughter. Not out loud.

The halls are populated with scholars, analysts, and researchers already hard at work. Some peer into microscopes, others into screens filled with cascading data. Conversations float through the air like low-level static—dense with terminology, stripped of anything resembling emotion.

Her footsteps make no sound on the polished floor.

As she passes, a few heads turn—but they don’t acknowledge her. They assess. Her existence registers as a variable to be noted, not a person to be spoken to.

She doesn’t mind. Not really. This is how it’s always been.

A group of newer Erudite  slightly older than her gathers outside one of the lower labs, tablets in hand. She recognizes most of them. Nolan is among them—tall, sharp-cheeked, always too quick to smirk at someone else’s expense. He leans against the glass wall, glancing up just in time to see her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t Erudite royalty,” he says, voice pitched low but clear. Just loud enough to make sure others hear.

(Y/N) doesn’t slow down.

“Off to your aptitude test?” Nolan continues. “Or did your mother already rig it for you?”

She pauses—not because the words sting, but because they’re so predictable. She turns her head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

“I suppose we will be finding out soon, won’t we?”

A few of the others exchange looks.

(Y/N) turns away, already moving.

She doesn’t get satisfaction from the exchange. That would imply she cares what he thinks. She doesn’t. She just understands the value of silence—and when to break it.

Outside, the courtyard is bathed in morning light. Artificial, of course—the compound is surrounded by mirrored barriers and holographic sky panels to mimic natural weather cycles. Still, the sunlight feels real enough on her skin. Almost warm.

She pauses near the central garden—an ornamental space filled with symmetrical rows of trimmed hedges and genetically optimized plants. Everything about it is designed for efficiency. Even the flowers bloom on schedule.

A small child, no more than five, stumbles past her, chasing a rolling toy. A woman—likely a researcher—swoops in seconds later to retrieve him, offering a hushed apology before guiding the boy away. The moment is brief. Gentle.

(Y/N) lingers longer than she should, watching them.

Jeanine would call it a waste of time. Unnecessary sentiment. But something about it—something about the soft curve of the boy’s smile, the way the woman’s hand rested on his back—sticks in her mind.

She tucks it away. A mental snapshot. Something to revisit later.

Then she hears it.

A distant thunder. Not weather. Not in Erudite.

The Dauntless train.

She moves toward the edge of the courtyard, where the glass arches give a sweeping view of the city below. Her breath catches—not visibly, of course—but enough that she feels it in her ribs.

The train barrels across its elevated tracks, metal screaming, smoke trailing like a banner behind it. It doesn’t slow. It never does. And from its sides—leaping like sparks from a fire—are the Dauntless.

They jump.

From a moving train. From impossible heights. They roll, land, laugh like gravity is a suggestion.

She watches in stillness, the scene unfolding like something out of a simulation—too chaotic to be real, too vivid to ignore. They move with such wild, unfiltered energy. She can practically hear it echoing through the compound’s reinforced walls.

And then—

She sees him.

Not the first to jump. Not the last. He doesn’t throw himself from the train like the others—he descends from it, brutal and clean, landing hard and rising harder. His coat flares behind him like the wing of a dark bird. His eyes are sharp, cutting across the courtyard, and for a fraction of a second—

He looks up.

Right at her.

Their eyes meet.

The breath she didn’t know she was holding stills. It’s not attraction. Not yet. It’s something stranger. Something older. Like the moment her simulation results flicker on screen—like seeing a new variable in an equation that once made sense.

Unaccounted for. Unbalanced.

He looks away.

She doesn’t.

The walk to the testing chamber is long.

Not in distance—Erudite buildings are designed with ruthless efficiency—but in weight. Each step is measured. She isn’t being watched, not obviously, but the eyes of the faction are always present. Data logs. Surveillance nodes. Performance analytics. Even here.

Especially here.

(Y/N) keeps her posture flawless. Her expression neutral. She has practiced this version of herself for as long as she’s been able to walk—the daughter of Jeanine Matthews must never betray uncertainty.

But inside, her thoughts crackle. Not with fear. With momentum.

The train is still echoing in her mind—the blur of movement, the way the Dauntless flew through the air as if daring the world to break them. And him. The one who didn’t leap so much as descend. Eric. His face has been stamped into her memory before she even made the conscious decision to store it.

She remembers him now. Not from files, exactly, but from fragments. A name that floated through old documents and departmental murmurs. The Erudite prodigy who defected to Dauntless and rose too quickly through the ranks. Ruthless. Efficient. Intellectually gifted but temperamentally flawed.

She never paid much attention to the gossip.

But now she wonders.

What made him leave?

What made her stay?

She arrives at the testing room on schedule—precisely one minute early. Not enough to seem eager. Just enough to be noted.

The door slides open with a soft hiss. The room inside is sterile and dimly lit. White walls, metal exam chair, a terminal glowing pale blue. A woman waits, dressed in regulation Erudite uniform—hair tightly coiled, face drawn and professional.

“(Y/N) Matthews,” the woman says, more a confirmation than a greeting.

(Y/N) nods. “Yes.”

“I’m Tessa. I’ll be administering your simulation.” Her voice is pleasant in a way that’s clearly rehearsed. “Sit down. We’ll begin shortly.”

(Y/N) crosses the room and lowers herself into the chair. The synthetic material is cold against her skin. She places her hands on the armrests, fingers relaxed. She does not fidget. She does not ask questions. She knows better than to break protocol in front of Erudite personnel—especially with her mother’s name attached to hers.

Tessa adjusts the interface at the terminal, then turns to her with a small, clinical smile.

“Just a serum injection. It will induce a controlled hallucination. Your responses will be monitored.”

(Y/N) nods again. She’s read the files. Studied the process. It should feel familiar.

But it doesn’t.

Tessa rolls over a tray. The needle is long, gleaming silver. The vial at its base glows faintly violet—biochemical compounds suspended in memory-enhancing nanofluid.

(Y/N) watches without blinking.

��This may sting,” Tessa says, more out of formality than concern.

(Y/N) doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces her skin.

The moment the liquid enters her bloodstream, the world tilts.

Not violently.

Just… away.

The last thing she sees before her vision dissolves is the soft blue glow of the terminal.

And the faint reflection of her own eyes—still open, still focused—as the simulation takes hold.