The sterile silence of the room was broken by the creak of the door. A boy about seven years old stepped inside. His dark eyes darted around uncertainly until they landed on the child already sitting on the bed.
The man in the white coat entered and rested a hand on 013's shoulder.
"013, say hello to your new brother. His is 089. He will live with you from now on."
013's lips curved into a small smile, his face softening. "Yes, Father."
He turned toward the boy and gestured for him to sit. When their meal trays were brought in, 013 slid his portion across the table.
"Here, take my food too."
089 frowned, confused. "Aren't you hungry?"
013 shook his head. "I haven't had a brother or sister in years. You're the first one. I was always alone. Seeing you here makes me… happy. Now I have someone to play with. Sharing food is the best way to make friends, don't you think?"
Something flickered in 089's eyes, but he forced a grin and nodded. "Sure. I'll be your friend."
He ate eagerly, swallowing both his share and 013's with satisfaction. Afterward, the two of them played until exhaustion pulled them down into sleep.
That night, the room grew still. The faint tick-tick of the clock on the wall filled the silence as 089 lay awake on the floor.
He opened his eyes and glanced at the bed where 013 slept peacefully.
Slowly, he rose, clutching his thin cushion to his chest. His footsteps were light, careful and deliberate.
Standing beside the mattress, he looked down at the boy's sleeping face.
His lips curled into a twisted smile.
Without hesitation, he pressed the cushion over 013's nose and mouth, then threw himself down on top of it, pinning the smaller body beneath his weight.
At first 013's body jerked and thrashed, but as the seconds stretched, the movements weakened. His legs kicked once, twice, then stilled. His arms fell limp against the sheets.
089 lifted the cushion and stared at 013's pale, motionless face. His chest swelled with triumph.
The boy was no longer breathing.
A rush of joy lit his features. He climbed off the bed, breathing heavily but grinning to himself.
In his mind, this victory meant freedom, freedom to eat fully, without sharing, without hunger clawing at his belly.
It was not the first time.
His mind replayed the memories with cruel clarity.
There had been a dog, once. A little mongrel with a wagging tail, shoved into his room to "keep him company."
At first, he had played with it, but food was scarce. The dog whined too often, begged too much, and one day he had snapped.
He sharpened the edge of a spoon on the concrete until it gleamed like a crude knife.
Then, while the dog wagged its tail and pressed close to him, he drove the metal into its ribs again and again until the body stopped twitching.
Then he grew afraid that 'Father' would punish him, but 'Father' did nothing. Father did not harm him or punish him.
He had eaten every meal in silence after that, never sharing, never interrupted by whining.
Later, Father introduced another boy. About his age, quiet and shy looking.
089 had pretended to accept him. They ate together, played together, but he kept the sharpened spoon hidden under his blanket.
One night, the boy crept up on him with a jagged shard of porcelain, thinking to kill him first.
But 089 had been ready. The spoon plunged into the child's chest before the weapon could even be raised.
The boy gasped, coughed blood, and went still.
089 had dragged the body to the door, left it there like garbage. No punishment came.
Instead, the next morning, he received rations for two. No scolding. No mention of the body.
Only food, more food, given to him every day until his stomach stayed full for months.
It became a pattern.
A boy was placed in his room. 089 killed him. Rations doubled. Sometimes he waited months before Father replaced his "brother," sometimes more than a year, but the cycle never failed.
With each death, his belly grew full, and with each reward, the lesson burned deeper: kill, and be rewarded.
It was all a game to Father. A cruel experiment where hunger was the leash, and survival meant playing along.
So when he looked at 013, he thought he saw another easy target. The boy was kind, soft, willing to give up his own food without hesitation. Naive sheep. Perfect prey.
089 crouched beside the bed again, staring at the still body of his victim. A smirk spread across his lips. But then—
Something snapped tight around his throat.
089's eyes bulged in shock as an arm hooked beneath his chin, pulling him back.
Two thin legs wrapped tightly around his waist, locking him down. He was dragged onto the mattress with sudden force.
013's voice whispered hot against his ear, low and filled with venom.
"You thought I was dead."
089 clawed at the arm strangling him, but 013's grip only tightened. Panic shot through his chest as air refused to enter his lungs.
His kicks grew frantic, his fingers scraping at skin, but it was useless.
"You thought I was weak," 013 hissed. His voice trembled, not from fear but from cold fury.
"But I knew. I knew you would try."
089 tried to twist, to throw him off, but the boy clung to him like iron. The pressure on his throat grew unbearable.
"Now you will pay the price for what you've done," 013 growled. His teeth clenched as he tightened the chokehold.
"Tit for tat. Go and pass on, you filthy scum."
089's vision blurred. His struggles weakened. The room spun in silence, broken only by the rasp of his choking breath.
And then, stillness.
013 remained locked around the limp body for long moments, refusing to loosen his grip until he was certain. Only when he felt the last twitch fade did he release 089, letting the boy's lifeless form drop onto the bed.
The room was silent again.
013 sat back, chest heaving, eyes wide in the dim light. His small hands trembled, but there was no regret in his face. Only a grim acceptance.
The next morning, the door groaned open. Footsteps echoed, steady and unhurried, before the man in the white coat stepped into the room. His gloved hands clapped together, the sound sharp in the silence.
"Well done, 013," Father said. His voice carried warmth like praise, yet it cut like a blade.
"Truly remarkable. You let him believe you were weak, then turned and sent him to death. That was strategy, not luck."
His eyes glimmered with amusement as he studied the small boy on the bed, sitting stiffly beside the lifeless body.
"You didn't just survive. You controlled the game," Father went on, tone almost admiring.
"Remember this, 013. Weakness is a mask. Mercy is a weapon. You wore them well."
013 said nothing. His face was blank, his eyes lowered. He already knew what kind of man Father was. He had known for years.
The silence stretched.
Father tilted his head, smiling with mock affection. "Don't be so cold, 013. I'm proud of you."
The body of 089 was dragged away that day, leaving the room sterile once more.
Years passed. The tests continued. With each one, 013's silence grew heavier. He stopped asking questions.
On the morning of his seventeenth year, the lock clicked open.
This time, Father did not enter first. A girl stepped through the door.
She was his age, her presence almost unreal against the gray walls. Her skin was pale as milk, her eyes a deep ocean blue that seemed to carry their own light. Her lips, soft and pink, parted as she caught her breath from the long walk down the corridor.
She was too beautiful for this place.
" 098," Father said as he entered behind her, voice calm and precise.
"This is 013. From now on, you will live together."
013 sat at the desk, pen scratching across a notebook. He did not look up. He did not spare her a glance.
The girl shifted, uneasy beneath his silence. Father only smiled, as though this was exactly what he expected.
"Play nice, my children," he said.
013's pen did not pause. He kept writing, as if neither of them existed.