He woke to white.
Not hospital white. Not daylight white.
A white so bright it felt like staring into frostbite.
"2224262830"
A child's voice—young, almost playful—counting even numbers like skipping stones across water.
Ken tried to sit up. Restraints bit into his wrists.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?"
The boy stepped into view—seventeen at most, skinny, smiling like he'd won a prize.
"HOLA! Still got your memories, boy?"
Ken stared.
This child had taken him.
Him.
Trained. Scarred. Supposedly dangerous.
The room itself mocked him: light woven into every seam of the tiles, no bulbs, no fixtures, just endless radiance that cost more than most people earned in a decade.
"Where is L?" the boy asked again, softer now, almost curious.
Months passed in that white room.
Interrogations.
Silence.
Eventually the world outside stopped asking after Ken Dokaku.
They marked his file: annihilated.
Information value: zero.