The smell of dried blood hung in the air.
I was strapped to the bed; everything hurt. A man stood beside me—I could feel the weight of his gaze. With the back of his hand, he brushed my cheek, almost gently, and murmured, "How could they… how could they do this…"
I couldn't make sense of his words. I hadn't seen anyone in that lab for a long time except that hateful woman and the doctors. Well—there was the boy on the bed next to mine. He'd been there two days, and he looked blind. His hair was completely white…
I fought to pull myself together and lifted my eyes to the man in front of me. His sad eyes were fixed on me. He held a tiny Barbie doll, placed it softly beside my bed, and said, "It'll be over soon… I'm getting you out of here."
My shaky, tired gaze drifted to the boy. He lay bound to the bed, the bandage over his eyes tinged yellow. White hair framed his face… Was he an angel? Why was his hair white?
Suddenly, sirens wailed. The room lights began to pulse red and the door banged open. A young man whose face I couldn't place shouted to the man, "Tailor—there's been a breach! The wing's under attack; they've taken one of the kids."
The Tailor, stunned, whipped off his glasses, stepped back from my bed, and sprinted to the doorway. "Who? Who did they take?"
Voices smeared together. Dizzy and fogged, I tried to sit up, but the straps held me down.
By the entrance, the Tailor argued with a young man in a lab coat.
"An infant… No. 93."
The folder in the Tailor's hand slipped and hit the floor. He bolted out of the room.
A soft, chilling laugh rippled through the noise. I turned my blurred, feverish gaze to the next bed. The boy with the white blindfold—bound like me—was laughing with his eyes still closed. His quiet, eerie laughter threaded through the sirens, and between the laughs, he whispered, "Now… it's getting interesting…"
⸻
I shot upright, gasping, and clutched my chest. Sweat beaded on my temples and slicked my back. I flung the blanket off, stumbled out of bed, and pressed my fingers hard to my throbbing temples. My whole body burned.
I shoved through the junk scattered across the floor, kicking pizza boxes and empty cans out of the way. My wheezing echoed around the room. Off-balance, I lurched into the tiny kitchen, yanked open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, drank deeply—and dumped the rest over my head, breathing hard.
My chest still heaved. The cold made me shiver; my eyes flew wide. I slammed the fridge door and raked a hand through my hair.
I turned—and through the gap in the heavy curtain, I caught sight of a black motorbike parked directly beneath the window. A man in leathers, a red helmet. My heart slammed against my ribs. The bike didn't move; it sat there in the dark. Then the man turned his head towards me. I stared through the curtain, frozen. He broke the stare, fired up the engine, and pulled away.
I blinked, stunned. Scared, I turned to the suitcases and the clothes strewn over the sofa and floor.
It looked like… I'd have to move again.
For the third time this month.