Morning came with no sunrise.
We woke not to the warmth of light through curtains or the song of birds, but to the metallic groan of the lock sliding open. The sound ripped through the silence like a blade. Every boy in the room jerked upright in his bed. Some blinked against the dark, disoriented; others froze instantly, knowing exactly what it meant.
The door swung wide.
They came in wearing white.
Coats, gloves, masks. Their faces were pale and smooth under the harsh light spilling from the hallway. They looked less like people than instruments—polished and sharp, designed for one purpose only. The air shifted with their arrival, the stale damp of the barracks replaced by a sterile chemical tang that stung my nose.
No one spoke. No one dared.
One of them stepped forward, the sound of rubber soles tapping against the concrete floor. He scanned us, eyes moving down the row of beds, flat and clinical. When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped bare of humanity.
"Up. Everyone up. Line against the wall."
Nobody moved at first. Then the first boy slid from his bunk, bare feet slapping against the cold floor. Another followed. And another. Fear propelled us where willpower couldn't.
I forced myself upright, my legs trembling beneath me. The mattress sighed with relief as I left it behind, but my body felt heavier than ever, weighed down by dread.
Alexei rose too, slower than the rest. His face looked hollow, like everything inside him had been scooped out during the night. He clutched his blanket in one hand, knuckles white, as if he thought cloth could protect him.
We shuffled to the wall, a crooked line of shaking bodies. The men in white walked past us, counting, checking. Some of the younger boys began to whimper. One started to cry outright, shoulders heaving, snot running down his lip.
The man nearest him turned, eyes narrowing. "Quiet."
The boy bit down on his sobs, but they came anyway, spilling out in broken gasps.
"Quiet," the man repeated, harder this time. He raised his hand as if to strike, and the boy shrank back against the wall, trembling so violently his knees knocked together. But the man didn't hit him. He just lowered his hand and turned away, as if the boy wasn't even worth the effort.
That was somehow worse.
A sharp chemical scent drifted in then—alcohol, antiseptic, the stench of hospitals and things you can't wash off. It coated my throat, made me gag.
That was when the first boy wet himself.
It started with a hiss, soft and humiliating, and then the smell hit us—ammonia, sharp and sour. His blanket slipped from his grip as his pants darkened, the stain spreading down his legs. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
Another followed. And another. The sound of dripping reached my ears, mingling with the muffled crying.
The men in white didn't react. They didn't flinch, didn't comfort, didn't scold. They just kept moving, efficient and mechanical, herding us like livestock.
And then Alexei broke.
It wasn't like the night before, when his voice trembled and cracked under the weight of memory. This was something raw, unrestrained.
"No—no, no, please—!" His voice rose into a shriek, hands clawing at the wall as though he could dig his way out. His blanket hit the floor. "I don't want to! Don't make me! Please, please, please!"
He tried to run, but two of them caught him instantly. Their gloved hands locked around his arms like vices, dragging him forward as his feet skidded helplessly against the floor.
He kicked. He thrashed. His scream pierced my skull.
"Please! Please! Don't—don't let them—!" His voice broke into garbled sobs. He threw his head back, his eyes wild, looking at us, at me. Begging. "Help me! Please!"
But no one moved.
We couldn't.
We were frozen against the wall, paralyzed by the inevitability of it all. If we tried, we'd be next. Or maybe worse.
They hauled Alexei out the door, his screams echoing down the corridor until the heavy clang of another door swallowed him whole.
My stomach turned. I wanted to vomit, to claw my own skin off just to feel something that wasn't this suffocating terror.
"Next," one of them said.
The line shifted.
One by one, they peeled us away from the wall, guiding us into the hallway. The building seemed to breathe with us, walls groaning, pipes rattling faintly overhead. The smell grew sharper, more clinical, until it was all I could taste.
My turn came.
A hand on my shoulder. Cold. Unyielding.
I tried to dig my heels into the floor, but the man pushed me forward with ease. My resistance was nothing against his steady grip. I stumbled into the corridor, my bare feet slipping against smooth concrete.
The hallway was endless. Door after door, each identical, each promising nothing good. Somewhere down its length, I heard muffled cries, the sound of something metal scraping, then a dull thud.
They brought me to a door. A number stenciled on the frame: 17.
The handle turned.
The room inside was small, white, too bright. Fluorescent lights glared from the ceiling, buzzing like insects. A metal chair sat bolted to the floor in the center, straps hanging loose like waiting snakes. Beside it stood a tray, instruments gleaming: needles, vials, clamps. My chest locked tight.
"No," I whispered. The word slipped out before I could stop it.
The man didn't respond. He shoved me forward.
I stumbled, nearly tripping, but they caught me, forcing me down into the chair. The straps came alive, buckling over my wrists, my chest, my ankles. Cold metal bit against my skin.
My heart thundered. Sweat rolled down my spine.
Heroes.
The thought of heroes coming to save came again , I thought they will show up any minute now and stop them.
They'd save me.
They had to.
I stared at the door, waiting for it to burst open. For light to flood in, for someone to shout, "Stop!"
But the door stayed shut.
No heroes came.
Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!
Why aren't they hear!!.
A man in white approached, syringe in hand. The liquid inside shimmered faintly under the light, thick and golden, wrong.
"No, wait—please—" My voice cracked. I twisted against the straps, wrists burning, but they didn't give an inch. "Please don't—I don't want this—I don't want—"
He didn't hear me. Or maybe he just didn't care.
The needle touched my arm.
"Stop!" My scream tore from my throat, raw and useless.
It slid in.
Pain bloomed instantly, sharp, searing. The liquid burned as it entered me, like fire rushing through my veins.
It hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts!, it hurts! —
The words screamed in my head, endless, louder than my own heartbeat.
I don't want to die! , I don't want to die!, I don't want to die!, I don't want to die!, I don't want to die!, I don't want to die!, I don't want to die! —
The burning spread, up my arm, through my chest, into my skull. My vision blurred. My body convulsed against the restraints, muscles jerking uncontrollably.
It hurts!
It hurts!
It hurts!
The words became rhythm, a drumbeat of agony.
And then—blackness.
Like a switch flipped.
The pain vanished, the light gone. I fell into nothing, swallowed whole by silence.