Reality didn't care what he wanted.
Even if he screamed, even if he begged — no one would hear him. Or worse, no one would care. The truth was simple and brutal: he was here, and that meant nothing good.
Pain still clung to his body like a second skin. Numb, yes, but always there. His muscles ached like they'd been torn apart and stitched back together wrong. He forced himself to sit up and look around.
Someone new had been thrown into the room.
That made six boys and four girls total — no, wait. His eyes searched again. The boy who had vomited red earlier… he was gone. So were two of the girls. But he saw it — their blood was still here, crusted on the concrete like paint left to dry. Their faces were fresh in his mind. Eyes wide, frozen in agony, mouths parted in silent screams. They died clawing at life — and life didn't claw back.
He saw them, too — the threads. Faint, like strands of light, lifting gently from their cold bodies. Rising, dispersing into the ceiling like smoke. Maybe that was the soul, or whatever was left of it after the serum had its way.
Amen for them. If nothing else, they deserved that.
He wanted to ask someone what was happening, but he remembered — they had nothing. No possessions, no answers, and no education. Just pain and confusion. They were all just children tossed into the dark and told to survive.
So he lay back down, hunger gnawing at his stomach like a rat in a cage. Sleep came not from peace, but from desperation.
When the door hissed open again, he jolted awake.
A man stepped in. Not a doctor. A guard. He wore black armor and carried something like a metal baseball bat — a blunt weapon, meant to suppress, not protect. His face was hidden behind a tinted helmet. He didn't say a word.
He placed four bowls on the floor. A gray, thick paste sat in each. No one knew what it was made of, but their stomachs answered before they could think. Loud grumbles filled the air.
But something was off.
Four bowls.
There had been more of them before.
He turned his head slowly, counting. Only three other children remained.
That meant ten had become four.
Bloodstains marked the floor, walls, even the undersides of the beds. He hadn't noticed them before. He hadn't wanted to. But now he saw them clearly.
The guard didn't linger. He shut the door, locking them in once again.
And then they ran.
No hesitation. They pushed, shoved, clawed their way to the bowls. He almost slipped on dried blood, but he didn't stop. Survival had its own rules, and they were learning them fast. Somehow, they each got a bowl.
They ate in silence.
It didn't taste good. It didn't matter. They devoured every bite like it might be their last. Maybe it would be.
When the food was gone, they looked at each other.
Not with kindness. With calculation.
He gave them numbers in his head.
Number 1 was the tallest. He looked older, maybe seven, but thin — skeletal, even. His dark brown hair clung to his head like wet rags, and his eyes were empty. Not sharp, not stupid. Just… empty.
Number 2 was the newest. He'd arrived after him. Blond hair, average size. He hadn't spoken a word yet, but his eyes watched everything. Quietly dangerous.
Number 3 was the smallest. Brown-haired, fragile-looking. But his eyes were alive — brighter than anyone's. He noticed things. Thought faster than he let on.
And then there was him.
Number 4. Six years old. Brown hair. Average everything. The most forgettable in the room. But maybe that was a strength too.
Because no one suspects the one who blends in.