They came for me before dawn
Two guards. No familiar faces. No greetings.
Just a sealed scroll and silence.
The shift officer glanced at the paper, barely even pretending to read it.
Behind him stood Deputy Enforcer Rone Talvek, arms folded, lips tight with smugness.
"Transfer to Prosola 4," the officer muttered.
"Prosola?" I asked. "That's an Abominable facility—"
Talvek stepped forward.
"Paperwork says 06/60," he said casually. "Looks like you left out ten generations somewhere."
"That's a lie," I snapped. "I'm 06/50 — that's documented. It's even on my Back, Check My..."
"The Divine Order doesn't make mistakes," he interrupted.
"And I don't argue with it , the person that branded you made a mistake
This is the correct paperwork."
He smiled, but not with his eyes.
They didn't let me explain.
Didn't let me speak to the head enforcer.
Didn't let me see my file.
They shackled me at the wrists like I was a convict.
I glanced back at the quarry gate, hoping someone — anyone — would protest.
But no one said a word.
Even those who cared knew the rules.
If you're reclassified, you're already gone.
The transport was silent. The kind of silence that breathes on your neck.
There were no windows. No air. Just the occasional whirring of something electrical overhead — something watching.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time didn't work the same when your future had already been decided without you.
When we finally stopped, the guard unlocked the back.
Grey morning light hit me, flat and dusty.
A tall iron sign stood overhead:
PROSOLA 4
Facility for Advanced Cleansing and Containment
The kind of name that's meant to sound clean.
Safe. Scientific.
I stepped down and smelled blood.
But not fresh blood.
Old blood. Soaked-in blood. Covered-in-bleach-but-still-there blood.
And then I saw him.
A boy — maybe sixteen, maybe less — being wheeled across the path on a stretcher.
Two white-gloved guards pushed him without care, like he weighed nothing.
His eyes were barely open. His face pale, sick.
But what stopped me was the stitching.
Crude, uneven black thread along the side of his stomach — right where the kidneys are.
No bandage. No painkiller. Just a stitched-up child too weak to even groan.
One of the guards muttered to the other:
"He survived the first pull. Let's see if he makes the second."
They wheeled him through a rusted gate marked WARD C and vanished inside.
No one stopped them.
No one checked vitals.
No priest. No law.
Just… in.
The Prosola guard behind me grunted.
"You're lucky. Could've been you yesterday."
He shoved me forward.
They stripped me of everything — my badge, my generation band, even my file number.
I wasn't 06/50 anymore.
Wasn't even 06/60, technically.
I was nothing.
No name. No lineage. No protection.
They dumped me in a concrete cell with one drain, no bed, no window.
The door closed behind me with a hiss, like a sigh.
And I sat.
In the dark, I repeated what I knew — like a mantra trying to hold onto meaning:
"Class I… Light Marks. 1–9. Street duty. Cleaning."
"Class II… Heavy Marks. 10–50. Quarry. Waste. Like me."
"Class III… Abominables. 60 and up. Experiments. Disposal. Forgotten."
And now they've made me one of them.
With a lie.
With a number.
Rone Talvek had sold me off with a forged paper and ten fake generations.
They wanted me erased. Quietly.
No trial. No brand change. Just… reassigned until I disappeared.
But I saw that boy's stitches.
I saw what Prosola 4 really was.
Not a prison.
Not a punishment.
A butcher's ward.
And I knew, as sure as I was still breathing:
If I don't escape, they'll carve me apart.
And no one will even ask why