"1… 2…—"
Yuri's breath stuttered as he forced his arms to bend again.
The floor was cold. Unforgiving. Smooth enough to offer no friction—no mercy.
By the time he reached a hundred, his arms were shaking so violently they threatened to give out entirely. His chest burned like it had been packed with embers. Every inhale scraped his lungs raw. Sweat dripped from his chin and splashed soundlessly against the sterile white beneath him.
He stayed there for a moment afterward—arms locked, body trembling—refusing to collapse.
He didn't know why.
Stubbornness, maybe. Or fear of what would happen if he let himself rest too long.
Three weeks.
Three weeks since the voices stopped.
No footsteps.No speech.No commands.No faces.
Just the White Room.
Food arrived without ceremony—dry, tasteless, measured with insulting precision. Enough protein to keep muscle from rotting. Enough calories to prevent collapse. Never enough to feel full. Never enough to feel human.
It slid through the wall once a day.
A thin horizontal slit.Plate in.Plate out.
No hands.No sound beyond the faint mechanical click.
Once every twenty-four hours, another section of the wall hissed open—revealing a bathroom so ordinary it felt unreal. A sink. A toilet. A mirror that reflected him too clearly.
Thirty minutes.
Always exactly thirty.
Then it sealed again, as if it had never existed.
The only proof that time was still moving came from a cruel little circle of glass set high into the wall—no bigger than a coin, too small to matter. And yet, every morning, a thin blade of sunlight slipped through it and cut across Yuri's face.
Like a reminder.
Like mockery.
A normal man would've broken.
Yuri almost did.
He tested the walls until his knuckles split, until his hands shook too badly to form fists. He pressed his ear against the surface, breath held, listening for anything—machinery, voices, a hum, a lie.
Nothing.
No seams.No hinges.No visible door.
Just white.
His body had changed in the days he'd been trapped here—before he was even aware enough to resist it. His hair had grown long, heavy, constantly in his eyes. He'd torn strands from his own shirt and tied it back into a messy knot, loose locks falling no matter how tight he pulled.
But the physical changes weren't what unsettled him most.
It was the noise.
A faint static hum lived inside his skull—unceasing, invasive. Like electricity crawling along the inside of his thoughts. Headaches followed it in waves. Sometimes dull and distant. Sometimes sharp enough to blur his vision and drive him to his knees.
It never stopped.
Yuri rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.
What are you doing to me…?
The question had no answer.
—
Far above him, the city breathed.
A towering figure stood before the vast glass wall of a skyscraper, his back turned to the room. Below him, the city glowed—neon veins threading through darkness, traffic moving like distant blood.
He was enormous.
Broad shoulders stretched the tailored fabric of his suit, his posture relaxed yet immovable—like something that had never once needed to hurry. Moonlight traced the edge of his silhouette, carving him out of the night.
Behind him, kneeling perfectly still, was Anisa.
Her posture was immaculate. Back straight. Hands resting lightly on her thighs. Her long white braids spilled over her shoulders and brushed the floor like polished silver. Her head was bowed—not in shame, but design.
She did not look at him.
She was not meant to.
"The weapon is developing," she reported calmly. "Vitals have stabilized. Neural integration is progressing within acceptable parameters."
She paused.
"It is time to execute the next phase, sir."
The man's response came slowly.
"EXCELLENT…"
His voice was deep—unnaturally so—vibrating through the glass and into the room itself. He turned just enough for moonlight to catch the edge of his face, illuminating a thick, bushy mustache and the hint of a smile beneath it.
"YOU NEVER FAIL TO IMPRESS ME."A beat."THERE'S REALLY NO SUCH THING AS TOO PERFECT… IS THERE?"
Anisa hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second—so small it might've been imagined.
"No, sir," she answered. "There isn't."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
Then—
"…COME TO ME, ANISA."
She rose smoothly to her feet.
No questions.No hesitation.No illusion of choice.
She crossed the room toward him, every step measured, controlled.
Because she had never been given the right to refuse.
And neither had the boy in the White Room