There's no bell to wake us in Prosola.
Just the hiss of gas through the vents at 4 a.m.
It doesn't hurt, but it forces your lungs to move.
You wake up before the second breath — or you don't wake up at all.
The lights flashed on.
Flickering. Cold.
My cell door slid open with a whine — in sync with every other door in my row.
No footsteps.
No keys.
Just systems.
A voice crackled over the ceiling:
"Lines. Ward A to C. Head count in five. Late counts as lost."
That was it.
No prayer. No name list.
Just shuffle out and don't ask why.
I stepped into line with the others — maybe thirty of us.
All barefoot.
All thin.
All wearing the same gray cloth wrapped at the waist.
And no names.
Just numbers, inked black and permanent on the arms.
Mine said 06/60 — a lie that stuck like truth.
The man beside me had 03/95.
His number looked older than he did.
I glanced at it once… then again.
His grandfather must've committed the crime.
What crime lasts ninety-five generations?
I knew the rules — the sacred code of the Divine Order — but this? This was something else.
Maybe murder.
No.
Maybe worse.
A priest?
A religious figure?
A holy betrayal?
The man never looked at me.
Just walked.
He'd already died inside.
We passed Ward C again.
And this time… I saw.
They were dragging a girl toward the steel doors — kicking, sobbing, panicked beyond logic. She looked maybe sixteen, but small… sickly. Her skin was too pale, her arms too thin.
One of the straps around her ankle had blood on it.
She'd fought before they brought her out.
Her voice cracked as she screamed:
"Please! Please, I'm not even healthy! My body can't work as a match—please, I'm sick, I've always been sick!"
The guards grunted and dragged her faster.
"My sister—she'll be alone! Please don't let me die like this! Please, I'm not good for anything—just let me go—"
Her heel caught on the floor, and she twisted back, desperate.
She saw me.
Actually saw me.
"Tell her I didn't run," she begged.
"Tell her I didn't give up—"
Then the doors slammed.
The screaming stopped.
Five minutes later, smoke rose from the vents.
It smelled like cinnamon.
Like they wanted us to think it was sweet.
But I knew better.
We all did.
The rest of the day passed in smears of white walls and blood-scented bleach.
Scrubbing metal trays. Carrying tools I didn't understand.
Walking past rooms with windows covered in paper — but still hearing screams.
And the whispers.
In drains.
Through the vents.
Behind locked doors.
The numbers speak.
No names.
Just numbers.
That night, when I was dumped back in my cell, a piece of cloth had been tucked under the drain plate.
It wasn't written in ink. The letters had been scratched in — probably with a fingernail or a bone shard.
"You're not one of us. They'll come for you faster. Watch Ward D. Tonight."
I barely finished reading before I heard it:
Wheels.
Chains.
A voice — sobbing in a language I didn't understand.
A thud. A scream. A door closing.
Then… silence.
Some die fast.
Some die slowly.
Some die remembered only by the numbers they wore.
But me?
They branded the wrong number on the wrong boy.
And I'm going to make sure they remember that mistake.