The van's windows were sealed behind dark metal panels, allowing only thin lines of light to slip through the edges when they passed beneath street lamps.
Ethan noticed immediately.
Not damaged. Not neglect.
Intentional.
He sat between two men in the back, his small hands resting quietly on his lap. The metal floor vibrated beneath his shoes with the steady rhythm of the engine. The air inside was stale, heavy with the faint scent of oil and worn fabric. No one spoke. No one needed to.
He counted the movement instead.
Every turn.
Every speed shift.
Every moment of stillness before motion returned.
He didn't know where they were taking him. But knowing how they got there might matter later.
Across from him, the man with the sharp eyes flipped through his notebook. Page after page, calm and precise, as if reviewing inventory rather than the aftermath of a massacre. His face never changed. His breathing stayed even.
"You didn't cry," the man said.
Ethan didn't respond.
"Most children do."
Ethan kept his eyes still, his breathing slow and controlled. Crying wouldn't bring them back. Crying wouldn't change where he was now.
The man watched him for another second, then closed the notebook with a quiet snap.
"That's good," he said.
Not comfort.
Approval.
The van slowed gradually. The vibration beneath Ethan softened until the engine settled into silence.
A moment later, the rear doors opened.
Cold air entered first.
Clean. Empty. Night air.
One of the men stepped aside, silently allowing Ethan to exit.
He stepped down onto solid pavement.
The building in front of him was tall and made of bare concrete. No markings. No welcoming lights. High fencing surrounded it, lined with metal wire that reflected faint light from above. Dim exterior lamps cast weak illumination, leaving most of the structure in shadow.
It didn't look abandoned.
It looked controlled.
The man with the sharp eyes walked past him toward the entrance without checking if Ethan would follow.
He did.
Inside, the temperature dropped. The air smelled sterile, filtered, unnatural. The hallway stretched forward in perfect alignment. Doors lined both sides, identical in size and color. Overhead lights hummed faintly, their pale glow exposing nothing unnecessary.
Everything here had purpose.
Everything here was watched.
Ethan's eyes moved without turning his head. Cameras in the corners. Reinforced hinges. Doors without visible handles. Footsteps echoed differently depending on the material beneath them.
He memorized it all.
They stopped at one of the doors.
The man turned and crouched slightly so his eyes met Ethan's.
"You have nothing left," he said calmly.
"No family. No protection."
Ethan didn't react.
He already knew.
The man paused.
"But here, you can become useful."
Useful.
Not safe.
Not cared for.
Useful.
The door opened behind him.
The room inside was small. A metal bed bolted to the floor. A desk. A chair. Bare walls. No windows. Nothing unnecessary.
Nothing comforting.
Ethan stepped inside.
He could feel the man still watching him, measuring him, before speaking one last time.
"Sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, you begin."
The door closed.
The lock engaged with a quiet, final click.
Ethan remained standing in the center of the room.
He listened to the footsteps fade beyond the door. To the silence that followed. To the faint hum hidden behind the walls.
This place was quieter than the warehouse.
Cleaner.
Colder.
He walked to the bed and sat down slowly, the metal frame firm beneath him.
He didn't lie down.
He watched.
He listened.
He learned.
They hadn't saved him.
They had taken him.
And whatever they expected him to become—
He would decide that himself.
They thought they had taken a broken child.
They were wrong.
They had taken a survivor.