Bwang!
Bwang!
The sound was sharp and metallic, echoing through the concrete room.
"Alright workers, get up! Get up! Let's get moving!"
A man in a grey uniform shouted from the doorway, hitting a long steel rod against the floor as he walked. Around him, rows of metal bunk beds lined the large, windowless hall. The walls were bare concrete, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant.
A hundred boys between the ages of fifteen and eighteen scrambled from their bunks. They wore identical white overalls marked with numbers on the chest.
They pushed and shoved toward the narrow corridor leading to the bathroom. The floor was cold, the lights never turned off, and the air was heavy with the sound of footsteps and running water.
When it was time for roll call, everyone assembled in lines of ten. The officer in charge held a tablet and began reading aloud.
"Thirty!"
"Present!"
"Thirty-one!"
"Present!"
The list went on until—
"Forty-four!"
"Present!"
"Forty-five!"
"Present!"
"Forty-six!"
"Present!"
Number 46 — Damian Veyron — raised his hand mechanically and stood straight. His hair was cropped short, his skin pale from lack of sunlight. He looked like the others, but his eyes carried a strange focus.
After roll call, the workers marched single file into a wide, dome-shaped hall. At the center of it stood hundreds of computer terminals arranged in neat rows. Massive screens covered the walls, showing live data streams, performance charts, and corporate slogans that flashed every few seconds.
"Work is Purpose."
"Purpose is Life."
"NeuroDyne Watches You."
Everyone sat at their stations and placed a small metal band around their necks — a monitoring collar. When connected, it pulsed faintly blue.
The hall came alive with the clattering of keyboards.
After two hours of quiet work, the lights dimmed. The massive front screen turned black. A few seconds later, the image of a woman appeared.
She was tall, elegant, with pale hair tied in a bun and a black suit that looked more military than corporate. Her eyes were sharp, and when she spoke, her tone was calm but commanding.
> "Good morning, White Workers."
Her voice echoed through the hall.
> "As always, it brings me great pride to speak to the backbone of NeuroDyne Industries. You are the unseen hands that keep this company running. Each of you plays a part in shaping humanity's next step."
The workers watched silently.
> "NeuroDyne's growth has been astronomical in recent years," she continued. "We have surpassed all competitors and revolutionized global defense technology. And that is thanks to you. Your diligence, your focus, and your sacrifice."
Her lips curved slightly.
> "Remember this — as you do your due diligence, rest assured that the company watches you."
The screen faded to black, replaced by the company's logo — a silver N inside a blue hexagon.
Damian smiled. His grin spread slowly across his face. He loved this woman.
Marcelline Voss, CEO of NeuroDyne Industries. To him, she was perfection — disciplined, brilliant, unstoppable. He watched the empty screen for a few seconds longer before turning back to his terminal.
No one in the hall worked faster than 46.
While others typed with tired fingers, he moved like a machine — swift and precise. His monitor flashed green frequently, marking each completed data task.
Supervisors often stopped behind him, nodding in approval.
"Good work, 46. Keep that up and you'll earn your bonus meal credit this quarter," one said.
"Yes, sir," Damian replied automatically.
He didn't eat for the taste. He didn't rest for the comfort. He worked because the work made sense. It filled the empty space inside him. He was happy. Happy to obey.
At least, that's what he believed.
It happened during lunch break. The canteen was crowded, noisy, and smelled faintly of synthetic protein. The workers sat in rows, eating identical gray meal packs.
46 ate fast, barely chewing. He wanted to get back to his terminal early.
"Slow down, 46," one boy beside him said. "You'll choke."
He ignored the warning and gulped the last bite. Then he stood up quickly and started moving toward the exit. His shoes slipped on a wet patch of the floor.
Bang!
He fell hard, hitting the back of his head on the concrete. For a moment, everything went white.
"Hey! You alright?" a guard shouted, rushing over.
Several workers gathered around.
46 blinked rapidly. His vision blurred, then cleared. "I'm okay," he said quickly, forcing himself up. "I'm fine."
He brushed off his clothes and walked away before anyone could stop him.
By the end of the seventeen-hour shift, the pain had grown worse. It wasn't a normal headache. It was sharp, rhythmic, almost electric — focused entirely on the left side of his head.
Inside his mind, it felt as if hundreds of small fuses were bursting one after another. He pressed his hand to his temple, trying not to draw attention.
When he looked up at the large NeuroDyne logo on the screen, something strange happened.
The blue hexagon began to distort. The word NEURODYNE blurred and reshaped into another word — ZAHOX.
He blinked. The letters shifted again. For a moment, he saw a stage, bright lights, and applause. He saw his own face — older, confident, smiling. Then the image was gone.
46 stood up suddenly.
The hall looked different — screens, people, walls — all shifting like static on an old TV. He could see flashes of another place entirely.
He shut his eyes hard.
"Are you okay, 46?" a voice asked.
He opened his eyes. A guard stood in front of him, staring suspiciously.
"Yes," Damian said quickly. "I'm fine."
The guard nodded and moved on. 46 sat down, pretending to type while the pain throbbed behind his eye.
---
### Night Routine
After the work cycle ended, the workers were escorted back to the hostel for roll call.
"Forty-four."
"Present."
"Forty-five."
"Present."
"Forty-six."
"Present."
After the check, they lined up for dinner — another identical gray meal — then a quick shower before lights-out.
The metal bunks creaked as boys settled in. 46 lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He felt tired, but not from the work. It was something deeper — like his mind was carrying too many voices at once.
When he finally closed his eyes, the darkness wasn't empty.
A voice echoed faintly in the distance.
> "With this, I'm going to be rich."
Then another.
> "How can the U.S. military, the supposed superpower, be so vulnerable to cyberattacks?"
Another voice — calm, familiar.
> "The government is at my door."
Then came one more, clear and close.
> "Damian Veyron."
He sat up in bed, breathing hard.
The name hit him like electricity. His mind flashed with images — machines, blueprints, awards, flashing lights, a burning cockpit.
He whispered the words before he could stop himself.
> "What am I doing here?"
If any guard had heard him, he would have been dragged away immediately.
But no one stirred. The others were asleep.
46 sat still in the dim light of the dorm, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The voices in his head faded, but something remained — a strange certainty.
He didn't belong here.
And for the first time since his "life" began at NeuroDyne, he wanted to know why.