(Skyro's Voice)
We crossed the threshold of the black gate—the one that had reeked so heavily of death, oxidized iron, and our own desperation—only to find ourselves thrust into a world that violently refused to acknowledge the blood caking our skin. Before us stood an elevator, but it was not like the rusted cages of the lower levels. It was entirely white. The metal was so polished and smooth that it radiated a biting cold, gleaming under a concealed, omnidirectional lighting system that left absolutely no shadows in its wake. We entered in a suffocating silence: me, Hugh, and Number (42). Standing there, we looked like filthy, jagged ink stains spilled across a pristine, unblemished bridal gown. The moment our boots, still wet with the gore of the trials, settled onto the marble floor, the doors glided shut with a nightmarish, whispering quiet. Immediately, we felt the crushing weight of gravity pressing deep into our chests as the descent began.
The elevator carried us downward. I had no idea to what depth we were plummeting, but the journey dragged on long enough for the echoing thuds of our own erratic heartbeats to become the loudest sound in existence. I watched our reflections on the highly polished walls. Hugh was methodically, almost clinically, wiping a streak of dried blood from his pale cheek, his green eyes devoid of their former innocence. Beside him, (42) stood rigid, staring up at the seamless white ceiling with hollow, empty eyes that seemed to be replaying the symphony of shattered bones we had just left behind. When the elevator finally ground to a halt, the doors parted to reveal a long, blindingly white corridor that stretched out so far it induced a sense of vertigo. At the end of that sterile abyss, a figure waited for us.
He was a guard, but he bore no resemblance to the masked butchers of the slaughterhouses above. He wore a sharply tailored, immaculate military uniform. His face was unmasked, bearing an automated, freezing smile that looked as though it had been violently chiseled into his features by a sculptor who had never felt joy.
"Welcome, surviving specimens," the guard announced, his tone devoid of even a microscopic trace of warmth. "Follow me. Time is the singular commodity here that we do not possess the luxury of wasting."
We walked behind him through that endless, maddening corridor. The sheer, unadulterated whiteness assaulted my crimson eyes, pressing against my optic nerves and making my skull thrum with a dull ache. The path was agonizingly long, intersected by other identical corridors that formed a labyrinth designed to induce madness. Finally, we reached a circular metallic room. The guard stopped, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the interior.
"Remove your filthy garments," he ordered with glacial detachment. "Here is where the 'Purification' phase begins. Take these new clothes. They are your true identities now."
The clothes were neatly folded upon a cold steel table: outfits dyed in a deep, absolute white, as if they had been cut from a starless night sky and inverted. The fabric was strange—cold to the touch yet remarkably flexible, designed to move like a second skin. And stitched onto the chest of each uniform in pitch-black thread was a new number.
I picked up my uniform. It bore the number (37). Hugh took his; it was stamped with the number (38). As for (42)... his hands froze mid-air as he stared down at his new attire. It bore the number (39).
"39?" (42) whispered. His voice carried the low, dangerous tremor of suppressed rage—the terrifying calm just before a volcanic eruption. He gripped the strange fabric so tightly that his knuckles turned a bone-white. "Even our numbers? Even the milestones we bled for, the digits we slaughtered to brand onto our skins... they strip them from us just like that?"
I didn't answer. I had no energy left to argue over the dignity of assigned digits. We were livestock; it didn't matter what tag they clipped to our ears. We stripped off our blood-soaked rags and donned the new white uniforms. I felt the fabric cling to my skin like a soft, inescapable shackle.
The guard called out to us again, leading us into yet another corridor. But this one was different. It housed ten distinct rooms lined up on both sides, bearing plaques numbered from (1) to (10). To our left, a massive set of double doors stood slightly ajar, wafting out the smell of sterilized, synthetic food—the cafeteria.
The guard halted in the center of the hallway and spoke in his monotonous drone: "Room number (2) is vacant. You may occupy it. As for Room number (6), it currently holds only one occupant. Go and distribute yourselves. The System detests overcrowding."
Before I could even utter a single syllable, Hugh moved. He was staring at the door of Room (6) with a deeply unsettling curiosity, as if an invisible, magnetic force was dragging him toward that unknown danger.
"I will go to Room number (6)," Hugh said, a cryptic, chilling smile spreading across his face—a smile that sent a sudden, icy shiver tracing down my spine. "You two go to Room number (2)."
I stepped toward him and clamped my hand firmly onto his shoulder. My crimson eyes bored into his, trying to find the frightened boy from the lower levels. "Hugh... are you absolutely sure? We have no idea who is inside that room. This person might slit your throat in your sleep, or use you as bait for whatever comes next. We do not trust anyone here. Haven't you learned that lesson yet?"
Hugh gently, yet with an undeniable, unyielding strength, removed my hand from his shoulder. His green eyes glinted with a sharp, lethal brilliance I had never seen before—a brilliance that completely shattered the facade of innocence he used to wear. "Don't worry about me, Skyro... No one will be able to touch me. I simply want to see what the other specimens on this level look like. You two go and rest."
Hugh turned and walked with confident, predator-like steps toward Room (6), leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in his wake. I looked at (39)—the monster formerly known as 42—and gave a brief nod. Together, we headed toward Room number (2).
The moment we pushed the door open and stepped inside, we felt a radical, almost jarring shift in the atmosphere. The oppressive, clinical whiteness did not invade this space. The room was entirely paneled in wood—a warm, rich-toned wood that exuded a bizarrely comforting scent. It was quiet, but it was an eerie, profound quiet. The kind of silence that forces you to hear the darkest echoes of your own thoughts.
The room contained a sturdy wooden bunk bed, a simple wooden desk nestled in the corner, a small adjoining bathroom, and a wide, panoramic glass window that overlooked a colossal outdoor courtyard far below. The view was nocturnal. The moon—or whatever artificial celestial body simulated it in this cursed world—cast long, pale shadows across the silent, sprawling yard. The lighting inside the room was a soft, golden yellow, radiating a phantom warmth into our bodies, bodies that had known nothing but the biting chill of steel and the slick warmth of spilled blood.
(39) climbed the wooden ladder to the top bunk with a deliberate slowness. He sat on the mattress, then stretched out on his back, staring blankly at the wooden ceiling, his hands laced behind his head. A long silence reigned, broken only by the rhythmic, steady sound of our breathing.
"So..." (39) finally spoke, his voice echoing in the warm room with a resonance born of deep, existential exhaustion. "What do we do now, Skyro? Do we just lie here and wait for the next massacre? Or do they genuinely intend to treat us like human beings simply because we wear clean clothes and sleep in wooden rooms?"
I was standing by the window, my eyes locked onto the sprawling courtyard below. My crimson vision couldn't detect any immediate threat, and paradoxically, that was what fueled my paranoia the most.
"I don't know..." I said, the bitter truth lacing my words. "This place only grants you comfort so it can take something far greater from you later. Don't close your eyes completely."
Silence descended once more, stretching over several long minutes. The artificial warmth of the room was actively trying to breach the fortified walls of my caution, but I fought it tooth and nail. Suddenly, I turned away from the window and looked up toward the top bunk. There was a question that had been gnawing at the edges of my sanity ever since we first crossed paths in the lower slaughterhouses. It was a trivial question in this world of numbers and survival, but it felt absolutely vital if I wanted to keep my grip on my own humanity.
"What is your name?" I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet with a stark coldness.
(39) went entirely still. He didn't move a muscle for several long moments. I felt as though the question had acted as an electrical shock, momentarily short-circuiting his brain. Then, with an agonizing slowness, he turned his head and looked down at me with sheer bewilderment, as if I had just asked him to explain the grand secret of creation itself. He remained silent for a beat, then returned his gaze to the wooden ceiling. From my angle, I saw a tragic, heartbreakingly sad smile ghost across his lips.
"My name?" he repeated the word softly, as if he were tasting a flavor he had forgotten centuries ago. "My name..."
He let out a deep, shuddering sigh. I felt as though the very wooden walls of the room were leaning in, holding their breath to listen to his answer.
"Dan..."