Silence.
A boy sits in a white room.
No windows. No shadows. No warmth.
Just a cold floor, patient clothes, and fluorescent lights that don't even flicker — as if the room itself is too disciplined to allow imperfection.
He doesn't know how long he's been here. He doesn't even remember how he got here.
Just the voice.
"What… where am I?!"
He stands.
ZAAAP.
"AGHHH!"
Agony rips through his leg. A metal cuff, red-hot, pulses against his ankle. He collapses, gasping.
A voice crackles from above. Flat. Surgical.
"Silence."
He screams again, but the room swallows it. Nothing echoes here.
---
One week.
That's all it takes.
Sanity, once a birthright, becomes a luxury.
The White Room wasn't built for growth. It was built to erase.
To strip down children to obedient ghosts — efficient, controlled, hollow.
---
4:30 AM.
No sunlight. No alarm.
Just a metallic siren, slicing into the skull like a blade.
Five seconds to stand — or bleed.
5:00.
Physical training.
Pushups until you vomit. Gas mask sprints. Collapse isn't failure — it's a crime.
7:00.
Sanitation.
Freezing showers. No towels. Scrub your wounds clean — or let infection do the job.
8:00.
The worst part.
Psychological drills.
Strapped to chairs. Eyes pried open.
War. Screams. Burning homes.
"Your friend or five strangers — who dies?"
There are no right answers. Only shocks.
Only pain.
---
10:00.
Combat training.
Real blades. Real blood.
You don't make friends. You make survivors.
12:00.
Nutrition.
Cold paste. Cold trays. Cold room.
Food isn't given. It is earned.
13:00.
Academics.
Languages. Logic. Drills.
Get it wrong? Feel it.
15:00.
The schedule stops mattering.
Experiments. Needles. Wires.
Some come back changed. Others don't come back.
17:00.
Tactical sims.
VR hostage rescues. Stealth kills.
Fail? Suffer. Succeed? Suffer less.
19:00.
Debrief. Rankings.
A-rank? Bread. Three minutes of rest.
F-rank? Beatings. Black box. Isolation.
20:00.
Indoctrination.
Kids repeat mantras until they forget their names.
"Obedience is survival. Pain is proof of strength. I am not a person. I am a purpose."
21:00.
Lights out.
No one really sleeps.
Doors creak. Cameras blink.
Even in dreams, they train to be ready.
---
Some scream.
Most don't anymore.
---
Noir wakes.
He's cuffed to a chair. Blood crusts his lip. His head throbs.
A screen turns on.
His family.
Tied. Screaming. Tortured.
His little sister — begging.
"NO! STOP! PLEASE— AHHHHH!"
He thrashes. The cuffs slice deeper.
The screen shuts off.
"Emotional instability: 97%."
"Progressing faster than expected."
"Designation updated: Subject Noir."
He gasps.
"W-were they… really—?"
A pause.
Then—
"OH YES THEY WERE."
A male voice. Sharp. Mocking.
Laughter, above him.
SPLASH.
Water. Or blood. He can't tell anymore.
"THEY WERE SCREAMING LIKE RATS!"
SPLASH.
His head snaps sideways. Something cracks.
"AND YOU KNOW WHA—"
THUNK.
A tile — jagged, bloodied — smashes into the speaker.
Silence.
Noir stands trembling, blood dripping from his hand.
The shard has cut him deep.
He doesn't feel it.
---
They shock him again.
Again.
And again.
They want screams.
He gives them stares.
Hours later, when they finally leave —
He kneels. Faces the camera.
The boy who once had a name no longer claims it.
That child is dead.
He is Noir now.
---
His reward?
A room. A boy. A scalpel.
The boy — tied, crying. Terrified.
A voice from above:
"Because of him, you were denied food for three days."
Noir takes the scalpel.
Walks forward.
"Are you scared?" he asks.
The boy sobs, can't speak.
Noir turns — and stabs the guard in the throat.
Blood sprays.
The second guard reaches for his gun. Shaking.
CRACK.
Noir snaps his own wrist into place.
Grabs the gun.
BANG.
Guard down.
Noir turns to the boy.
Silence.
---
Memory.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
"Yes, ######?"
"Look, I drew something!"
"It's beautiful. Let's go get ice cream."
"Yay—!"
Laughter. A warm hand. Soft footsteps.
SLAP.
He hits his own hand.
Wakes up.
"…"
"What do you want from me?"
A scientist, through the intercom:
"You killed two guards."
Noir blinks.
Then says:
"You wanted me to kill a child."
---
A pause.
"Your family is alive, Noir."
"…What?"
"The video you saw was an AI simulation.
We'll let you see them — if you complete a task for us."
He stands. Trembling.
Eyes hollow.
"…I'll do what you want."
---
President Ryuzaki's Office.
Ryuzaki sips his tea as a storm rages behind the glass.
Rain hammers against the glass, a relentless rhythm in the backdrop of power.
President Ryuzaki sits behind his desk, porcelain teacup in hand. Steam curls lazily into the air as he takes a slow sip, gaze never leaving the storm outside.
Nila stands across from him, her coat soaked at the edges from the field.
"The boy killed two guards," she says, her voice level.
Ryuzaki raises an eyebrow. "Scalpel and firearm?"
She nods. "No hesitation. Quick. Clean."
He pauses, then places the cup down with a soft clink.
"Is he compromised?"
"They offered him his family."
A beat of silence passes. The only sound is the rain.
"Would you take it?" she asks.
Ryuzaki turns to her, eyes unreadable. "Would you?"
She doesn't answer.
He smiles faintly, almost wistfully. "No," he says at last.
"Why not?"
His fingers drum the desk once, then stop.
"Because I have other plans."
He leans back in his chair, the storm reflected in his glasses.
"Tell them no," he says. "But don't tell him… not yet."