(Skyro's Voice)
The guards shoved us into the Fourth Section, and the iron door slammed shut behind us with a metallic shriek. This time, it felt like a declaration of the end of the world as we knew it. The whiteness of the room was abrasive—a pristine white so absolute it bordered on cruelty, violently rejecting every ounce of emotion or humanity that tried to cling to its walls.
The moment we stepped inside, a suffocating silence fell, so heavy it nearly pierced my eardrums. We were no longer seven; we had returned as only five. Our white clothes bore the gruesome souvenirs of our "journey": stains of black oil, metallic dust, and splatters of dried blood that had hardened into repulsive brown crusts.
Number (42) didn't look at anyone. He walked with a chilling apathy, ignoring the terrified stares of the other children, and headed straight for his bed. He stretched out on it, draping an arm over his eyes as if trying to relive the ecstasy of the blood he had spilled in his dreams, utterly indifferent to the terror he had sown in the hearts of the rest.
The children who had remained in the room began to move like ghosts. I watched them wander between the beds, their eyes gleaming with hysterical panic as they searched for the numbers that had left and never returned. 'Where is 58?' a child whispered, gripping the edge of an empty bed. 'And where are 72? And 89?'
The whispers began to morph into muffled whimpers. Suddenly, one of the children (Number 61) stood in the center of the room, his voice trembling like a fragile thread: "What happened to 58? He promised me he would come back... How did you pass the final test?"
The answer didn't come from my mouth; it came from the trembling eyes of the other survivors. Everyone's gaze locked onto Number (42), who was resting peacefully. The bloodstains on his white shirt told the entire story. They looked at him with disgust laced with primal dread. They didn't see a child; they saw a "killing machine" that the factory had unleashed among them. They all backed away into the corners, as if his bed had become a pit of hell no one dared approach.
I walked slowly toward my bed and sat on its cold metallic edge. I felt a heaviness in my chest—not sorrow, but the chilling calm that precedes a storm. Suddenly, I sensed movement beside me. It was Hugh (45). He sat next to me, his hands trembling so violently that he intertwined his fingers to hide it.
"Skyro..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Tell me... what happened out there? How did you pass the test?"
I sighed and began to tell him. I described the narrow corridors, the sound of the gears grinding souls, and the scale that demanded a "price" to open its doors. I told him how (42) had transformed into a monster devoid of hesitation, and how he had driven his blade into the limbs of our comrades to provide the required weight.
When I reached the mention of Number 58, I saw tears stream silently down Hugh's pale cheeks. "He was only nine..." Hugh sobbed, covering his face with his hands. "He was a poor kid... he was afraid of the dark, and he used to hide pieces of bread to give to the younger ones... How could they do that to him?"
I remained silent for a moment, unable to comfort him with words I didn't believe in. Hugh looked at me with reddened eyes and asked, "But... five of you survived, yet only four of you are here... Where is the fifth? Where is Number 49?"
I looked toward the iron door and said stoically, "49 was severely injured... (42) cut off his hands so the scale could weigh them. When the test ended, the guards took 49 away while he was screaming in pain... He didn't come back with us."
Hugh's features changed abruptly. The look of sorrow vanished, replaced by a terrifying certainty... the look of someone who knows the endings of stories before they are told. "He won't come back," Hugh said in a funeral tone.
I looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean he won't come back? They're just wounds... They can stitch them and bandage them up. The factory needs numbers, right?"
Hugh let out a bitter laugh. "Skyro... you are still thinking with the logic of humans on the outside. In my first test, there were four children who sustained minor injuries. Just cuts on their hands that needed a few stitches. The guards took them the exact same way, telling us they were going to the infirmary. A week has passed... and I haven't seen them since."
Hugh leaned closer and whispered in my ear, "Here... if someone gets injured, they don't bother treating them. In Hairo's eyes, an injured soldier is a 'failed specimen.' The factory doesn't fix broken parts; it throws them away and kills them in cold blood to make room for new shipments. You are only here as long as you are whole and usable... The moment something in you breaks, you become fuel for the incinerators."
A heavy silence settled between us for a few moments, so oppressive that I could hear my own trembling heartbeat. Suddenly, I wanted to change the subject, to escape the thought that 49 was being butchered right now somewhere behind these walls.
"What about you, Hugh?" I asked, trying to break the ice. "What was in your test?"
Hugh looked away and said, "Our test was simple on the surface, but lethal at its core. It was a race down a long, dark corridor, and behind us was a guard firing crossbow bolts at random. It wasn't just a test of speed; it was a test of focus amidst panic. I managed to pass because I watched the movement of the guard's fingers before he pulled the trigger... I knew where the bolt would land before it was even fired."
I looked at him with admiration; this boy possessed a mind that outweighed an army. Then Hugh asked me, "Skyro... do you know exactly where we are in this factory?"
"We're in the Fourth Section, right?" I answered intuitively.
Hugh shook his head slowly. "The factory, Skyro, isn't just white rooms. It is a kingdom divided into four sections, and we are at the very bottom... We are in the Fourth Section, the lowest tier assigned to new trainees and those of no value. Here, the numbers range from 41 to 100, and their order is random and meaningless. We are nothing but a 'rough draft' that hasn't been edited yet."
Sensing my confusion, Hugh continued with the tone of someone who knew the truth: "The Third Section is for the intermediates, numbers 21 to 40. That's where the real training in assassination and poisons begins. As for the Second Section, it is for the professionals, numbers 6 to 20. Those are the blades Hairo sends to execute covert missions across Draca. And the First Section..."
Hugh paused, swallowing hard. "The First Section is the elite tier. It consists of only five people, bearing the numbers 1 through 5. They never come down here except on very rare occasions. They aren't slaves like us; they are an extension of Hairo's own hand, working intimately close to him. It's said that each one of them possesses power equal to an entire army."
I stared at him in awe. "How do you know all these details? We're locked in here!"
Hugh let out a small, clever laugh. "I like to spy, Skyro. On the streets, I survived by watching what others didn't see. Here, the guards think we're stupid children; they speak freely in front of the cells and along the corridors. I overheard these details over the past few days and pieced the puzzle together in my mind."
"Past few days?" I asked, shocked. "How long have you been here in the factory?" "I've been here for a week," Hugh said simply. "I've seen a lot, and I've learned that time here is measured in blood, not hours."
Suddenly, the iron door flew open with a violence that shattered whatever calm we had left. A guard walked in holding a stun baton crackling with an eerie blue light. He struck the baton against the metal wall to grab our attention and bellowed in a booming voice:
"Listen up, you scum! Lord Hairo has issued a new order. You must divide yourselves into groups of three numbers. You have exactly twenty-four hours to form your groups, because tomorrow, the next test begins... The test that will determine who among you ascends to the Third Section, and who among you turns into rotting corpses at the bottom!"
The guard left, leaving a hurricane of terror in his wake. I felt a chill run through my veins; the next test would undoubtedly be a mass purge. The Third Section couldn't accommodate everyone, and escaping the bottom meant stepping on the heads of others.
The room began to devolve into a venomous beehive. Children scrambled toward one another. 'Join me, we're friends!' 'You're fast, come with us!' 'Let's stick together guys, we know each other from the streets!' Alliances were being forged with tears and false promises.
Hugh looked at me, fear flashing in his green eyes. "Skyro... there's two of us. Who do you want as our third?"
I looked toward the far bed, where that motionless entity rested. Number (42). "Let's wait..." I said with an eerie calm. "Let's observe the storm before we choose our ship."
At that moment, Number (42) rose from his spot. He moved slowly, like a tiger preparing to hunt. He walked toward a group of three children who were whispering. As soon as he approached, before he could even open his mouth, one of them screamed in his face: "Stay away! Stay away, you freak! You killed our friend 58... You will never join us!"
(42) looked at them with absolute coldness, not a single hair out of place. He didn't get angry, didn't threaten them; he simply turned his back and walked toward a second group. "We don't want murderers with us!" they yelled in his face, backing away. He went to a third group, and the answer was the same: outright rejection, disgust, and a fear that made their bodies tremble.
(42) roamed the room, as if offering his services to a world that had completely rejected him. He was an outcast among outcasts, alone within a crowd. He did nothing in response to their rejection; he didn't strike anyone, and he didn't shout. Instead, he simply returned to his spot, sat on the edge of his bed, stretched out, and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened.
Hugh was baffled by the scene and whispered to me in awe: "What's with him? Why didn't he ask us? Is his pride that great, or does he just not want us?"
I looked at Number (42), and in his stillness, I saw something Hugh didn't. I saw someone who knew that options would come to him sooner or later, and that power does not need to beg.
"Just give him some time, Hugh..." I said, feeling that my fate had been bound to this monster from the moment I saw him cut off 49's hands. "In this factory, it's the killers who build the groups, not the victims."
I closed my eyes, trying to sleep amidst the noise of the conspiracies being woven around us. Tomorrow, the gates of hell would open once more, and I would be forced to choose: Do I remain human with Hugh, or become a monster with 42? Or perhaps... I will learn how to be both.