The chaos eventually burned itself out. Doctor Veyren said nothing further, only gestured toward the far wall where heavy metal doors groaned open. From them poured a procession of silent adults in the same long white coats, each carrying thin, polished rods that gleamed under the humming fluorescent light. They didn't raise them. They didn't need to. The children rose without a word, as if some invisible thread pulled them from the floor.
I found myself rising too. My legs shook, though whether from fear or exhaustion I couldn't tell.
"Boys this way," one of the strangers said curtly, gesturing left. "Girls to the right."
Mira's eyes flicked toward me, brief, unreadable, before she was guided off with the others. The blue backpack never left her chest.
I wanted to call to her. To anyone. But the sound locked in my throat as we were herded down separate corridors.
The hallway was long, dim, lined with doors that all looked the same—thick iron frames with small square windows no larger than my palm. A strange smell clung to the air, like rust mixed with stale water. My shoes scuffed against the concrete floor as we passed cell after cell until finally, one of the coat-wearers swung open a door and motioned us inside.
The room was narrow, more barracks than bedroom. A row of thin metal-framed beds lined either wall, no sheets except for rough blankets folded at the ends. A single light bulb buzzed overhead, faintly yellow against the ceiling's peeling paint.
"In." The order cracked like a whip.
We obeyed.
The door clanged shut behind us, the sound of its lock sliding into place like the lid closing on a coffin.
No one spoke at first. A few of the younger boys climbed onto the bunks, curling under their blankets without a word. Others simply sat at the edge of their beds, staring at the floor, faces pale and still. Fear had drained the fight out of all of us.
I picked a bed halfway down the row and lowered myself onto it, the frame creaking softly under my weight. The mattress was thin and smelled faintly of mildew. I didn't care. I just wanted to close my eyes and forget this place for even a moment.
But forgetting was impossible. Every time I blinked, I saw Doctor Veyren's smile. Every flicker of the bulb overhead reminded me of his promise.
Sleep was going to be a stranger tonight.
---
It must have been hours later—though time in that room was impossible to measure—when a whisper cut through the silence.
"Hey," it said.
I opened my eyes. The room was dark now; the light had been switched off at some point, plunging us into shadows so thick I could barely make out the outlines of the beds.
"Hey," the voice came again, softer this time. "You awake?"
It was the boy in the bunk across from me. His pale face caught what little glow drifted through the narrow window high on the wall. Alexei.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
There was a pause. Then, "I'm Alexei Walter. From Brighton. England." He shifted slightly, his blanket rustling in the dark. "Sorry I didn't properly introduce myself earlier. In the van. Everything was… I don't know. Too much."
His voice cracked faintly on the last word.
I shook my head, though I doubted he could see it. "It's fine. I'm not bothered."
He let out a breath, quiet and uneven.
For a moment, I thought that was the end of it. But then his voice returned, lower this time, trembling at the edges.
"I should tell you something. My story. In case…" He trailed off, the silence finishing his thought for him. In case I don't make it.
I didn't answer, but he didn't need me to.
---
"My mum," he began, "was the kindest person you could ever meet. She worked in a little bakery on the corner of our street. Every morning the smell of bread filled the house—fresh, warm, soft enough to make you forget the world outside. I'd sit by the oven, and she'd sneak me rolls before customers arrived. Said it was our little secret."
He paused, and I heard the faint sound of him swallowing.
"She died when I was three . Just… gone. Fever, the doctors said. Too fast for medicine to matter. One week she was laughing in the kitchen, the next she couldn't even lift her head. I—I remember holding her hand at the hospital. It was so cold. Like she was already leaving before her heart even stopped."
His words cracked, and for a moment I thought he would stop. But after a shaky breath, he pushed on.
"My dad… he broke. She was everything to him. And when she went, he just—" Alexei's voice faltered. "He started drinking. At first, it was just at night. Then in the mornings. Then always. The house smelled of whiskey more than bread. He couldn't work. Couldn't even look at me without seeing her."
I lay frozen in my bed, the sound of his pain heavy in the dark.
"He started gambling too," Alexei whispered. "Cards, dice, anything. Said he was going to win big and make things better. But he never won. Not once. The debts piled up. People came knocking on our door. Shouting. Threatening."
The darkness felt heavier with each word.
"And then… then he sold me." His voice broke completely there. "He sold his own son. To pay them back. Like I was just another thing in the house he could pawn off."
For a moment, all I could hear was his breathing—uneven, shaky.
"They came for me at night," he said finally. "Dragged me out of bed before I could even shout. My dad just stood in the hallway. He didn't stop them. Didn't say a word. Just… watched. I screamed his name, but he didn't even flinch."
Tears caught in his throat, thickening his words.
"And then the van. That's where I met you."
The silence after that was unbearable. My chest felt tight, like the air itself had turned to stone.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. It was all I could say. It wasn't enough.
Alexei gave a broken laugh that wasn't a laugh at all. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault."
The room was silent again, but not empty. It was filled with the weight of his story, the echoes of everything he'd lost.
Then, softer than before: "I don't want to die tomorrow."
The words cracked open something raw. He began to sob, quietly at first, then harder, muffled against his blanket. His shoulders shook, his body curled in on itself as if trying to disappear.
I wanted to reach across the narrow aisle between our bunks, to put a hand on his arm, to say something that could make it better. But there was nothing to say. Nothing could take away the truth: tomorrow they would start the injections. Tomorrow he might not live.
His sobs filled the room, raw and unashamed. A sound of someone too young to be carrying this much pain, too human to hide it anymore.
"I don't want to die," he repeated, over and over, each time breaking a little more. "I don't want to die! . I don't want to die!! ."
The other boys shifted in their beds, but none spoke. None dared.
I lay in the dark, listening, my own eyes burning. I didn't cry. I wanted to . But my throat ached with the weight of it, and every word carved itself into me like a scar.
Somewhere above us, the light bulb buzzed faintly. Beyond the walls, the building groaned in the night. And beside me, Alexei Walter sobbed himself into silence.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, his breathing evening into something like sleep.
But I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I stared at the ceiling, at the cracks I couldn't see, and thought of his story, of Mira's clenched jaw, of Doctor Veyren's smile.
Morning was coming.
And with it, the injections.