The silence after his last word stretched thin, like a rope pulled taut.
Doctor Veyren let it linger, as if savoring it, then gave a small, deliberate sigh.
"I suppose I should tell you what you already know," he said, pacing once more, his polished steps echoing against the scuffed gymnasium floor. "Since 2048, the world has… shifted. People. Animals. Even plants. All sprouting abilities that once belonged only to fairy tales. Flames spilling from the skin. Voices that break walls. Creatures that walk on roots instead of legs. By the time the first century of change had ended, ten percent of humanity carried these… peculiarities."
He paused, lifting a finger as though lecturing in some forgotten university hall.
"But today—" His voice sharpened, his pale eyes glinting. "—in 2106, nearly half the population bears them. Forty-five percent. Almost a coin toss whether a child is born ordinary or extraordinary."
His smile thinned into something more clinical than amused.
"And I, of course, found the reason why."
The children did not move, but I felt the air tighten as if they were all holding their breath at once.
Doctor Veyren leaned forward slightly, his voice softening, almost reverent.
"The gene. A string of letters curled in the heart of your blood. The spark of every so-called miracle. I named it the Nullex. Not for what it gives, but for what it withholds. For without it, there is nothing. With it, there is… everything."
His words dripped like ink into the stillness, heavy and staining.
"But you—" His pale eyes swept across us, pausing on me for a fraction too long. "You do not carry it. No Nullex. No spark. No miracle. Blank."
He let the word hang, sharp as glass.
"And yet," he continued, straightening again, "that is precisely what makes you interesting. The world is drunk on its own gifted. Predictable in their arrogance, predictable in their patterns. You, however…" He spread his hands slightly, palms open. "You are variables. Wild cards. And variables, when placed carefully in the right equation, can topple entire systems."
From the rows, one of the children shifted in their seat, the first movement in minutes. Doctor Veyren's head tilted sharply toward the sound, his smile returning with unnatural smoothness.
"Do you understand now?" he asked, though he gave no one time to answer. "You are not broken. You are not forgotten. You are raw material. And I…" He pressed one hand over his chest with mock sincerity. "I am the sculptor."
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed, flickering once.
Mira's hand tightened around the strap of her blue backpack.
Doctor Veyren's smile widened just enough to show teeth.
"Ah, but there's more," he said, almost as an afterthought. "The Nullex is not confined to humans, of course. It threads through animals. Through plants. Through anything the new world has seen fit to… improve."
He began pacing again, each step sharp, deliberate.
"And lucky for you, I have become rather skilled at extracting it. A seed here, a vein there, a filament hidden in muscle or leaf. A little piece of fire, or song, or stone. Bottled. Distilled. Refined."
He stopped. Turned. And his smile grew thin and sharp.
"Which means," he said, his pale eyes scanning us like scalpels over skin, "I can give it to you."
For a heartbeat, the words hung in the dusty gymnasium like a promise. Almost like a gift.
Then his voice lowered, savoring each syllable.
"Of course, the body does not always… accept it. Some of you will endure. And others—" His teeth flashed in a grin that wasn't meant to comfort. "—will die screaming."
The children stiffened as though a current of ice had rippled through the rows. Somewhere, a breath caught too loudly.
Doctor Veyren chuckled softly, shaking his head as if amused by our horror.
"But such is the price of progress, hm? Starting tomorrow morning, we begin injections. One by one. Carefully. Methodically. Like planting seeds in spring."
The sound of boots echoed as he clasped his hands behind his back again, strolling past the front row.
Beside me, Alexei's face drained of all color. His breathing quickened, shallow and sharp, and I thought for a second he might be sick right there on the floor.
Across the room, Mira's jaw tightened. I saw her teeth flash as she clenched them, her grip on the blue backpack now fierce enough to whiten her knuckles.
The children broke. The silence shattered into frantic whispers, gasps, choked cries. A girl two rows over began sobbing into her hands. Someone at the back pushed up to their feet before collapsing back down as if afraid the floor itself might swallow them.
My own chest tightened until it hurt. Breathing felt impossible. The room swam as the word repeated in my skull—die, die, die.
Doctor Veyren didn't flinch at the chaos. In fact, he spread his arms slightly, as if welcoming it.
"There, now," he said brightly over the noise. "That's the spirit. Fear sharpens the edges. Fear makes you pliable. And pliable things, my little blanks, can be shaped into anything."
The fluorescent light above flickered again, and for a split second, his shadow seemed too long, too sharp.
"Sleep well tonight," Doctor Veyren said with that same easy, evil smile. "It may be your last."