Hiliana Inez's Point of View
We all knew something was wrong the moment the guards smiled.
Real smiles didn't exist here. They were too human. Too soft for steel boots and white-gloved hands that only ever grabbed, struck, or dragged.
But this morning, something had changed.
The cafeteria buzzed with whispers before the guards even announced it. The air was tight with nervous tension, spoons clinking against cracked metal trays, boots shuffling on cold concrete.
Then came the voice over the loudspeaker:
∆ "All inmates are to proceed to Corridor C. Today's integration event is mandatory. Attendance will be tracked. Infractions will result in immediate solitary confinement."
An integration event.
Ryena blinked. "Integration? What does that mean?"
Abby narrowed her eyes. "They're mixing cell blocks."
"With the men ?" I asked.
None of us moved.
The silence said everything.
We hadn't seen a male prisoner in months. The compound was divided by gender, structure, rank—God, maybe even blood type. And suddenly, the doors were open?
Too sudden.
Too suspicious.
We were herded like cattle into a large, open hall. It had probably been an old recreation center once, back when the prison pretended to be something else—a rehabilitation facility, maybe. Now, its white walls were faded and stained, its fluorescent lights buzzing too loudly, like a scream that didn't know how to end.
They'd decorated.
Colorful flags. Paper streamers. A few long metal tables with mismatched chairs. One wall even had a radio hooked up to a speaker playing lo-fi static they tried to pass as "music."
Fake joy. A manufactured social experiment.
There were guards on every side, rifles casually slung across shoulders. Watching us. Measuring us. I didn't know if we were supposed to dance, flirt, or riot.
"Smile," one of them muttered as we passed. "Make friends."
I almost gagged.
The male prisoners entered from the opposite end of the room.
Their eyes met ours. Some with hesitation. Some with hunger.
Some didn't look at us at all.
Abby crossed her arms. Ryena pressed into her side, clearly shaken.
I kept my expression blank. Unbothered. But my hands were clenched in my pockets.
I'd lived long enough on the streets to know how men looked when they thought a woman had no power. And a lot of the looks we got right now?
Predatory.
But then—
My gaze stopped on him.
He stood near the corner of the room, half in shadow, posture loose but not lazy. His skin was a mosaic of tones—vitiligo patches stretching across his throat, hands, and face. His jaw was sharp, his hair clipped short and uneven, like he'd cut it himself. And his eyes… They didn't drift like the others.
They analyzed.
He didn't look at the women like prey.
He looked at the guards.
Then the ceiling.
Then the exit doors.
I elbowed Abby subtly. "Doom. See him?"
"Vitiligo guy? Yeah," she muttered. "Doesn't blink much."
"He's watching the structure, not the people."
We drifted closer.
Not obvious.
But curious.
Eventually, the guards allowed us to "socialize." As if we were at a picnic instead of a prison.
A few inmates played cards. Others sat stiffly across from each other, trying to talk through walls of fear.
I found a seat near the corner, close enough to watch but not draw attention.
And of course, he sat down right across from me.
No introduction.
No "hello."
Just sharp eyes and a voice like low gravel.
"You're not afraid of this being a setup?"
I smirked. "Everything's a setup. Question is, what kind?"
He studied me.
"I've seen you," he said after a beat. "You're the one who hides food under the pipe in D-section. And you steal ration cards from the tray line."
I narrowed my eyes. "And you're the creep watching me?"
"I watch everyone."
"Pervert" Ryena muttered
Ryena joined us then, her body still tense, followed by Abby who gave the man a nod and folded her arms.
"You got a name?" Abby asked.
"People call me Tarn."
"Tarn what?"
"Just Tarn."
His eyes flicked to Abby. Then to Ryena.
"You're not like the others," he said. "You've seen something aren't you? miss heiress"
Ryena stiffened.
He lowered his voice. "They think we don't talk. That we don't pass messages. But word travels faster than cameras can catch."
"What do you know?" I asked quietly.
"Enough to know they call it 'OPUS.' Enough to know it's not research—it's preparation. You're not test subjects. You're the raw material."
Abby leaned forward. "So why the integration?"
Tarn glanced toward a ceiling vent. "A distraction. They're stalling. Whatever's coming next, they don't want the inmates organizing. It's harder to control people who bond. This event isn't kindness. It's division in disguise.
It made sense.
Too much sense.
This wasn't a gathering. It was a gas leak they were trying to smother with perfume.
"How do you know so much?" Ryena asked.
Tarn hesitated.
Then said softly, "I used to design weapons. Strategic ones. Ones meant to disrupt social environments. Like this one."
"You were military?" I asked.
"Worse," he said. "Corporate defense. And once they were done using my mind, they tried to erase me."
He pulled down his sleeve.
Barcoded.
But there were scars too. Precise. Almost surgical.
"They want people who can build systems. Or destroy them." He said shifting to cold tone of voice
We talked for another hour.
About the guards.
About the missing prisoners.
About Mira.
About the way they didn't just want to study us. They wanted to reshape us. Into something obedient. Something weaponized.
The fake music hummed in the background.
The lights flickered again.
And in the back of my mind, I felt it—the dread crawling up like mold on old bread.
They weren't bringing us together to calm us down.
They were measuring the chemistry.
Seeing who would break first.
And who would bond.
Abby bumped her knee against mine under the table.
"You good?" she whispered.
I nodded, but I didn't smile.
Because this wasn't just a meet-and-greet.
It was a test.
And tomorrow?
I had a feeling some of us wouldn't be here.