Michael shifted his gaze from the ceiling and fixed it on Albert, who was still trying to process the magnitude of the revelation about Sergeant Miller. The giant's face was pale, contrasting with the flush of the hands that had struck Michael moments earlier.
— Thank you, Albert — Michael said, his voice maintaining that smooth, mechanical cadence. — Your information has been cataloged. You proved useful for the initial phase.
Without waiting for a reply, Michael lay back down. He closed his eyes, but not to sleep. The environment of cell 47 vanished, instantly replaced by the white, cold walls of the Institute.
Flashback: The Institute:
Ten-year-old Michael was sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair. In front of him, a Chess Grandmaster, brought in under a strict confidentiality contract, was sweating cold. The man stared at the board as if he were facing an abyss.
Michael moved the knight. A seemingly simple, almost banal move.
— Checkmate in four moves — the child announced, without any trace of arrogance. Just the record of a fact.
The professional toppled his king, defeated. He looked at Michael with a mixture of admiration and fear.
— You don't play like a human... — the man whispered. — It's like you predict every possibility, every branch of what could go right or wrong before I even touch the piece. How?
— Yes — Michael replied, his childish voice already carrying that absolute neutrality. — Thank you for the game.
The game ended, but rest did not come. Two nurses in gray uniforms led Michael down the sterile corridor to Room 3: The Mental Games and Psychological Testing Wing.
There, the atmosphere was charged with acute suffering. Other children, remnants of the original three hundred, were connected to terminals. Some screamed, others wept quietly, their hands pressed against their temples as waves of sound frequency and paradoxical visual stimuli bombarded their brains. The pain was designed to fragment the ego, forcing the mind to choose between madness or pure logical reconstruction.
Michael sat before his terminal. Stroboscopic lights and complex mathematical patterns began to flash at a speed that would cause seizures in an ordinary adult. While the others beside him imploded emotionally under the pressure, Michael remained motionless. His eyes processed the algorithms, solving the enigmas in milliseconds. To him, pain was just an electrical signal he had learned to isolate in a mental folder labeled "Irrelevant".
Minutes later, Michael's screen glowed green: 100% Completion.
Beside him, a boy the same age, with red eyes and a tear-streaked face, reached out a trembling hand toward him.
— Michael... please... help me... it hurts so much... I can't stop the sound...
Michael turned his head slightly. He observed his peer's suffering with the distant curiosity of someone watching a chemical reaction in a test tube. There was no hatred, no pleasure, no compassion. Only the realization that this unit was flawed and would not withstand the processing.
Without saying a word, Michael looked away, ignoring the plea for help, and remained in absolute silence until the guards came to get him. In that moment, he was no longer a child; he was the system that had learned to observe itself.
The strident sound of an electromagnetic signal reverberated through the titanium walls, shattering the sterile memories of the Institute. Michael opened his eyes, the transition from past to present occurring in a nanosecond, without the slightest sign of disorientation.
— Michael... wake up — Albert called, keeping a cautious distance from the bunk. — It's lunchtime.
The giant pointed to the ballistic glass door, which slid smoothly to the side with a pneumatic click. The corridor began to fill with the metallic sound of hundreds of doors opening simultaneously and the growing murmur of the mass of inmates.
— This is it — Albert murmured, his voice heavy with an anxiety he couldn't hide. — The yard is where everything happens.
Michael stood up, adjusting the inmate uniform with surgical precision. He didn't see just a cafeteria or a crowd; he saw the beginning of his logical sequence. Without saying a word, he walked toward the exit, integrating into the flow of orange uniforms like a piece finally finding its place in the engine.