The girl stood quietly for a long time, watching him write. Her hands were folded in front of her, her blue eyes fixed on the boy at the desk. The only sound was the steady scratch of the pen against paper.
Finally, she spoke.
"My name is Natasha."
The pen froze. His hand stiffened. For a moment, it was as if the whole room had gone still with him. Slowly, he raised his head, his gaze locking on her.
A name.
It was the first time he had ever heard a child speak one aloud. Not a number given by Father. Not a code painted on a uniform. A name. Something personal, something alive.
It struck him like a foreign word from a world he had never known. His lips parted, but no sound came. He dropped his eyes back to the paper, forcing the pen to move again. His face was calm, but his mind wasn't.
She had a name. He didn't. He never had.
The diary under his hand wasn't truly his either. Its leather cover was worn, the pages inside filled with writing that wasn't his. It had belonged to 043 before. 043 had guarded it like treasure, scribbling secrets no one else could see. Until the night his neck snapped in 013's grip. He hadn't cried out—his eyes had just widened, his lips trembling as the sound died in his throat. The diary had slipped from his hand and fallen to the floor.
The pen had once been 059's. He had carried it tucked in his sleeve, neat and careful, as if the thin piece of metal mattered more than food. In the end, he had clutched it like a weapon when 013 came for him. But the tip had broken skin instead of paper, stabbing into his throat when his hand slipped. His blood had coated the nib.
Now both diary and pen belonged to 013. Not because they had been given, but because he had survived when they hadn't. Each word he wrote reminded him of that. Every stroke of the pen was proof he was still alive. Proof he hadn't been erased like the others.
Natasha took a step closer, her voice softer.
"You don't have to be afraid. I just want to know your name."
The pen dug harder into the page. The lines grew darker, heavier, until the paper nearly tore.
"Don't come closer," 013 said, his voice flat but sharp, "if you want to breathe another second."
Natasha froze mid-step. The warning cut through her like a knife. Her lips parted, then closed again. Finally, she whispered,
"...Sorry."
She lowered her gaze and backed away, retreating to the farthest corner of the room.
With nowhere else to sit, she curled against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, arms folded around them. Her chin rested on the ridge of bone, blue eyes downcast, her body small in the dim gray light.
The room had little to offer, one bed, a mattress on the floor, the desk and chair where 013 sat, and the narrow doorway to the bathroom.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
013 wrote until the page filled. His strokes grew calmer, his breathing even. When he finally placed the pen down, there was a faint sense of release in his chest.
He closed the diary with care, slid it under the pillow of the bed, and rose from the chair.
When he turned, his gaze fell on her. 098
Natasha no 098. She had drifted to sleep against the wall, her head tipped forward, arms still wrapped around her knees. Her long hair slid down her shoulder in a dark wave, the pale skin of her face almost glowing in the half-light. Her lips parted faintly with the rhythm of shallow breaths.
013 gripped the pen and approached, step by step, until he stood over her. He lowered himself, the pen angled toward her throat, its metal nib a whisper away from piercing soft flesh.
"Don't worry... I won't hurt you. I only want to know your name."
The words came from her lips, low, fragile, spoken in sleep.
013 froze.
The creature before him—because that was what she was in his mind, a creature, not human like him, was strange. He had never seen something like this. Her skin was unmarked, smooth, as if she had never bled, never been cut.
Not like him. His own arms were a map of scars.
One jagged mark beneath his right eye still burned in memory, left by 017, who had driven the sharp end of a broken spring across his face.
Yet she slept peacefully, without fear. Without defense. Without care.
Why?
Why wasn't she afraid she might die in her sleep? Was she careless? Stupid? Or was she simply too naïve to know the danger?
013's grip tightened, then loosened. Slowly, he drew the pen back. Without another word, he stood and returned to his bed.
When food arrived later, both received a bar of meat. The same as always. Dense, flavorless, but filled with enough nutrients to keep them alive. It wasn't food; it was fuel.
They ate in silence.
Halfway through her portion, Natasha hesitated. Then, without looking at him, she pushed the remaining half toward 013.
"Here, take this. It's a gift," she said softly. "I'm only a guest here, staying in your room. It wouldn't feel right to come empty-handed. I'm sorry… I already ate half of it. It's embarrassing to give you what's left, but please, accept it."
013 stared at her. For a moment, he almost laughed.
The words echoed a memory. Years ago, he had spoken the same, offering food to another boy. 089.
He had smiled sweetly, pretended kindness, and 089 had lowered his guard.
The next night, 089's body lay cold on the floor.
Still, he reached forward and took the piece. Why refuse the free food. His voice was calm, almost polite.
"Thank you."
She smiled, relief softening her features.
"You're welcome."
013 chewed the tasteless bar, studying her carefully. Natasha's smile did not waver. It was not forced or calculated. It was genuine.
Yet his thoughts twisted with doubt. A strange creature. Is she truly this sincere? His jaw tightened as memory stirred. Kindness is never free. I will find out soon enough.