No one touched the bag.
Not after what happened.
It lay in the center of the room, heavy and silent, its presence changing the air around it. It was no longer just an object. It was a consequence. Every child in the room understood that, even if none of them could explain it.
They avoided it without being told to.
Fear had already given them instructions.
Ethan didn't look away.
He didn't stare at it directly, either. His attention moved past it, around it, through it. He studied the ceiling above, where the opening had briefly appeared. He studied the cameras in the corners, their dark lenses fixed and patient. He studied the others—their breathing, their posture, their hesitation.
The boy who had touched it was gone.
Removed quickly.
Efficiently.
As if he had never been there at all.
Time stretched.
One of the younger children shifted, his legs unable to support him any longer. He sat down slowly against the wall, his movements small and careful, as if expecting punishment.
None came.
Another child leaned back slightly, resting his weight against the cold concrete behind him.
Still nothing.
Ethan understood then.
It wasn't movement that caused failure.
It was misunderstanding.
He adjusted his stance slightly, redistributing his weight without urgency. His breathing stayed even. His eyes remained calm.
Nothing reacted.
The cameras continued watching.
Always watching.
Across the room, a girl wiped at her face quickly, trying to hide the tears before anyone noticed. Her shoulders trembled despite her effort to stay silent.
Ethan looked away.
Not because he didn't see.
Because seeing was enough.
This place did not punish emotion.
It punished lack of control.
The silence continued, thick and suffocating.
It pressed against them, forcing them to exist inside it.
Waiting.
Listening.
Enduring.
Then, finally, the door opened.
The sound broke the silence instantly.
Every child looked toward it.
The man with the clipboard entered.
His presence carried the same calm authority as before. His eyes moved slowly across the room, observing each of them in turn. He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate.
He simply looked.
Recording.
Judging.
"Some of you have already failed," he said.
His voice was calm.
Certain.
No one spoke.
No one asked.
He stepped further inside.
"You acted without understanding. You reacted without control."
His gaze passed over the children, pausing briefly on each one. When his eyes reached Ethan, they remained there for just a moment longer.
Not approval.
Recognition.
He made a small mark on the paper attached to his clipboard.
The sound of the pen against the surface was quiet, but final.
"You will now return to your rooms," he said.
The words released something invisible in the room. Not relief. Not safety.
Permission.
One by one, they were guided back into the hallway.
No one resisted.
No one spoke.
When Ethan stepped forward, he felt the man's eyes on him again. Measuring. Considering.
He walked past him without hesitation.
The hallway was the same.
Unchanged.
Clean.
Controlled.
Unforgiving.
When Ethan entered his room, the door closed behind him once more. The lock engaged with the same quiet certainty as before.
He stood in the center of the room, listening to the silence settle around him.
This place was not chaos like the warehouse.
It was order.
Careful.
Intentional.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the metal bed, his eyes drifting upward toward the camera in the corner.
It watched him without blinking.
Without judgment.
Without mercy.
He didn't look at it for long.
Just enough.
Just once.
They were watching him.
Learning him.
Deciding what he would become.
Ethan lowered his gaze and sat in silence.
He didn't feel safe.
He didn't feel afraid.
He felt aware.
Because this place didn't belong to the strongest.
It belonged to the ones who waited.
And Ethan Crowe knew how to wait.