The doors opened before dawn.
Light spilled into the holding room, harsh and sudden. Theron's eyes adjusted slowly. Two soldiers stood in the doorway, one holding a board.
"Up," the first soldier said. "When your number is called, stand at attention."
The children stirred. Some rose immediately. Others needed a moment.
The soldier with the board began reading. "7285. 7287. 7289."
Three children stood. The youngest girl from the wagon was among them. She swayed slightly but kept her feet.
"7291. 7293. 7294."
Theron pushed himself upright. His chest pulled. He kept his expression flat.
More numbers were called. The boy with the bloody nose didn't respond. The soldier repeated his number twice before moving on.
When the list finished, gaps stood where children should have been. Theron counted four missing from the night before. No one mentioned them.
"File out. Single line."
They moved through the corridors in silence. The route was different from the previous day. They passed closed doors, turned down narrower hallways, descended a short flight of stairs. The walls here were darker, the stone damp.
They stopped at a wide room with benches along one wall. A man waited inside, scissors in hand. His station was simple: a stool, a bucket, a broom leaning against the wall.
"Sit when called," a soldier said. "Do not speak."
The first child was brought forward. The man worked quickly, cutting hair close to the scalp. Clumps fell to the floor. When he finished, the child was gestured to a bench.
One by one, they were processed.
When Theron's turn came, he sat. The man grabbed a handful of his hair without preamble and began cutting. The scissors were dull. They caught and pulled. Theron didn't flinch.
The man paused mid-cut. "Hold still."
Theron hadn't moved.
The cutting resumed. Hair fell around his feet. When it was done, the man brushed loose strands from his shoulders and pointed toward the bench.
Theron stood and joined the others.
They were led to another room. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with folded gray fabric. A woman stood behind a table, arms crossed.
"Remove your clothing," she said. "Place it in the bins."
The children hesitated.
"Now."
They complied. Theron stripped down and dropped his clothes into the wooden bin at his feet. The fabric was stiff with dried blood. No one commented.
The woman moved down the line, handing out uniforms. Gray tunics, rough trousers, cloth shoes. Everything was slightly too large or too small. Theron's tunic hung loose on his frame. The shoes pinched.
"Dress."
They pulled on the uniforms in silence. When they finished, the woman collected the bins and left without another word.
A different soldier appeared. "Follow."
The next room was smaller. A desk, two chairs, a shelf of ledgers. A man in clean robes sat behind the desk, writing. He didn't look up as they entered.
"Line against the wall."
They obeyed.
The man finished his notation and set down his pen. He rose and approached the first child, examining them with the same detached precision as the day before. He checked their brand, noted something on a slip of paper, and moved on.
When he reached Theron, he stopped. His eyes moved to the chest wound, partially visible beneath the loose tunic.
"Remove the shirt."
Theron pulled the tunic over his head.
The man leaned closer. The wound had closed, the edges sealed but still raw. He pressed two fingers against the scar tissue. Theron's jaw tightened but he made no sound.
"Three days," the man said, not to Theron. "Penetration through the sternum. Complete respiratory failure confirmed at time of injury." He straightened and made a longer note on his paper. "Aberrant regeneration. Secondary classification required."
He moved on.
Theron pulled the tunic back on.
They were returned to the corridor. A woman waited there, holding a board. She scanned the group, lips moving silently as she counted.
"Viable group to the left. Delayed group to the right."
She began pointing. Most went left. A few went right. The youngest girl was sent right. She didn't react.
When the woman reached Theron, she paused. She checked her board, frowned, and pointed left.
"Viable. Irregular flag maintained."
The groups were separated. Theron's was led further down the corridor to another holding area. This one was narrower, the ceiling lower. Benches lined the walls. A bucket sat in the corner, same as before.
The door closed. The lock turned.
Theron sat on the nearest bench. He counted the children. Fifteen total. Most were older than the ones who'd been sent right. A few bore visible injuries: split lips, bruised faces, limps that hadn't been there yesterday.
No one spoke.
A soldier entered an hour later. He pointed at a boy near the back. "7287. Come."
The boy stood. His hands shook but he walked forward. The soldier led him out. The door closed again.
The boy didn't return.
Afternoon came. Another soldier. Another number called. A girl this time. She left without looking back.
When evening arrived, the boy with the bloody nose still hadn't been brought to their room. His number had been called that morning. Theron remembered it clearly.
By nightfall, his space in the holding area had been filled by a new arrival. A boy with a shaved head and a brand on his forearm. A different number.
He sat where the other boy had sat and stared at the floor.
No one acknowledged him.
Theron lay on the bench, arms crossed over his chest. The wound pulled when he breathed too deeply. He kept his breathing shallow.
Across the room, someone coughed. The sound echoed briefly, then stopped.
The light from the corridor dimmed. Darkness settled into the space, broken only by the thin line beneath the door.
Theron closed his eyes.
His forearm still burned where the brand had marked him. He traced the edges with his finger, feeling the raised skin, the shape of the numbers.
7291.
He let his hand fall.
Sleep came slowly, interrupted by the sounds of others shifting on their benches, the occasional scrape of shoes against stone, the steady rhythm of breathing.
When morning came, the doors would open again.
Another list would be read.
More numbers would be called.
Theron knew this now. He had watched the pattern unfold. He had seen which actions drew immediate response and which were logged in silence. He had noted the children who disappeared and the ones who remained.
He offered no resistance. Asked no questions. Met no one's eyes unless directed.
He simply observed.
And he stayed alive.