The first thing I notice is the smell.
Sterile bleach that wants to pretend it's clean, but underneath it's always copper—blood, fear, sweat. They call it the Civic Development Site, but I know better. They call it a "facility." I call it a cage.
And cages always have doors, locks, and eyes.
I'm carried through the intake hall before I even realize my legs aren't moving under me. Two guards—tall, gray-helmeted, gloves like steel sheaths—hold me by the shoulders.
Not roughly, but with the kind of precision that says: one wrong twitch and I'd hit the floor before thinking. My hands itch for something, anything, but all I can do is memorize every seam of the walls, every blinking panel, every footstep echoing across the high-polish tiles.
There's no one else in my group yet.
Just me, suspended between the faint hum of air filters and the quiet buzz of scanners overhead. I catch a reflection in the steel paneling: long black hair tangled at the ends, amber eyes wide, pupils pin-pricked with awareness. I'd call myself ready.
The system will test that.
They strip me down methodically. Not an insult, not a humiliation—they don't need to yell. It's cataloging, the same as you'd do with cargo. My clothes folded neatly, my hair bound with a single elastic.
They don't touch my scars, but the eyes that track me from the cameras above linger a fraction too long. I feel them counting my skeleton, estimating strength, timing reflexes.
I am already owned, I think. And that's fine. I can survive ownership. I just won't accept it as an identity.
A monitor flashes my intake ID: 7-113.
They stamp it somewhere in the digital ledger I'll never see. Somewhere else, they'll assign my echoes—my skills, my leash, my triggers. The number is clean. I can feel the system smiling through its metadata. One line in a database, one asset in motion.
I test the room with my eyes.
There are three other youths in the intake bay, sitting on low benches under the same harsh white lights. Their clothes are thin, eyes wide, postures folded inward. Not a single one meets mine. Not yet.
They all smell like they've been here longer than me, but that could be fear. I memorize their faces anyway—early advantage.
The room is almost silent except for the scanners and a low, metallic hum from the ceiling.
I hear the subtle whir of the biometric gates. Every movement I make, every breath I take, leaves a signature. One of the girls—short, dark hair, maybe fifteen—shifts. Eyes dart. Mouth opens. Closes again.
Fear's language: slow, careful, rehearsed. I know it because I speak it fluently.
"Step forward." A voice commands, neutral, almost bored.
I do.
Feet firm, shoulders back. I don't hesitate. Hesitation is a gift they can exploit. My eyes catch a flicker of the monitor beside the gate—a scanner reads my heartbeat, sweat levels, and cortisol.
They'll catalog it as baseline stress. I catalog it as data. I will remember it. Everything leaves a signature. Everything becomes leverage.
Stripped and numbered, they hand me a thin gray jumpsuit. Fabric smells like machinery and chemical disinfectant. I slip into it, careful not to make noise. The seams are itchy, restrictive. They don't want comfort.
Comfort breeds thought, thought breeds resistance. I adjust the suit anyway. If I have to be a tool, I'll make it a sharp one.
Then the branding. Not fire, not permanent ink—something subtler. They run a hand-held scanner over my left forearm. A flash of pain, sharp and shallow. A number beneath the surface, visible only to the devices.
The system doesn't just own me—they track me, tag me, anticipate my moves. They want the psychological kill before the physical one.
I bite my lip. Do not wince. Do not give them anything.
I am 7-113 now.
But I am still Seren Vale.
A tall boy across the room snorts. Not a laugh. More like disbelief. Brown hair, knuckles scarred, eyes sharp as knives. He looks my way, then away. That's all. Observation without commitment. Smart.
He survives longer than most. I take mental notes.
The intake officer—thin, gray-haired, hands trembling with bureaucratic precision—pushes a tablet in front of me. They want confirmation. Consent. Not really. Just the ritual of compliance.
I do not consent, I think, smiling behind my stoic mask. I just comply efficiently.
My signature is a blur. I could have written my name, my real name, but numbers want numbers. I give them what they want. Clean, controlled, predictable.
They move on to the next stage: biometrics, nerve mapping, and conditioning preview. They touch points on my neck, wrists, and temples. Electrodes, sensors, probes. I count every one, memorizing locations, angles, and response curves.
I can turn this against them later.
I notice how they underestimate me. And how they always underestimate. I smile inside. The overconfidence of a system that thinks it's flawless. I will enjoy teaching them about error margins.
The other youths are less careful.
A boy whimpers when the electrode on his temple flickers. A girl shivers, twisting her hands into fists. Their numbers are being logged the same way mine is, but fear has already painted their edges jagged. I note their weak points.
Observation is safety. Knowledge is leverage.
Then the final ritual: the echo trigger scan. They test reactions, responses to stimuli, and adrenaline spikes. They do not yet know what they are looking at in me. Fine. Let them wait.
A light blinks on the wall. A sound, barely above hum. My skin pricks. Heart accelerates.
Adrenaline blooms like fire through veins. Feral Grace, I think. Not yet. Not here. Not visible. But the memory is there. The thrill, the predator-state—waiting. The system thinks it's cataloging me.
I think about climbing the walls, vanishing into the ceiling tiles, leaving only a ghost signature behind.
Soon, I tell myself.
Rowan's face flashes in my mind—calm, assessing, hands steady. She'd tell me to save it. Use it only when necessary. I smile faintly. She does not yet know how badly I need to prove I am untouchable.
The officer moves to the next subject. I exhale slowly. Controlled. Calculated.
Across the room, a reflection in the panel catches me. The copper smell is stronger now, metallic and real. Someone—older, maybe a decade above us—walks past in a lab coat. Dr. Malven Rho.
I feel the familiar weight of their gaze even before I see the eyes. Calculating, sharp. The kind of gaze that wants to know what you're capable of before you know it yourself. I make a mental note:
Don't be clever too soon. Don't reveal leverage.
They finish with the last check. ID embedded, echoes mapped, metadata updated. They separate us, each asset to a holding bay.
My bay is small, bare. One cot, a sink, a panel with a speaker, a camera, and ta emperature sensor. The light is harsh, fluorescent, unflinching.
I sit on the cot. Feet on the floor. I let my hands rest on my knees, fingers twitching slightly. Tremors from the adrenaline spike, the sensors, the anticipation. I don't care. I catalog it anyway.
Muscles primed, heart still thrumming, senses sharp.
The other youths are placed in adjacent bays. Some cry quietly. Some stare at the walls. One hums a broken tune under their breath. I listen. Names, numbers, and responses: data for later.
Observation is safety. I am already planning escape routes in my mind.
I trace my arm where the scanner left its mark. 7-113. It doesn't hurt, not really. Just a reminder. Ownership is claimed—but identity is something they can't erase. Not yet.
I am 7-113. They think they have me.
I am still Seren Vale. And they are about to learn why that is dangerous.
The air vent hums above me. A faint vibration beneath the floor. Someone walks the corridor outside. Guard? Doctor? Another number? It doesn't matter. All I need is time, patience, and leverage. And patience is my favorite weapon.
I lie back on the cot, letting the harsh light wash over me. Eyes open. Mind racing. Muscles tensed.
Every instinct humming. I count everything—breaths, steps, the flicker of cameras, the timing of the guard's patrol.
Every detail is a note in the ledger I keep of the system.
Every weakness, every rhythm, every flaw.
Because I will move through this place like a ghost. I will leave my mark only on the system, on those who believe they own me. And when I do, the echoes of 7-113 will be a warning, not a record.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction. The hum of the air vent becomes a heartbeat. My heartbeat. Ready. Waiting. Predatory.
A footstep stops outside my door. The metal clicks—a lock? Or just routine? Doesn't matter.
I open my eyes.
Let's see what this cage thinks it's holding.