James eased into the exoskeleton like slipping into an old habit he’d forgotten he had. Hydraulic joints hummed awake at a soft command, pistons calibrating to the contours of his limbs. The suit’s collar sealed around his neck with a whisper; a thin layer of cool polymer kissed his throat and then warmed to his skin. A faint display flared across his vision—readouts, pressure maps, and a pulsing indicator for respiration.

He focused on that pulse. Breath training was part of the protocol: not just to conserve oxygen, but to sync his diaphragm with the suit’s internal timing. The exoskeleton would amplify movement, not intention, and if his lungs slammed against a mismatch he could end up fighting the very system meant to support him.