Alvis is a young boy who has always been different from others and has always been bullied from elementary school.
He wasn't very smart but he was an instinctive thinker with a logical core even from a young age. He was also not attractive but was usually quiet — no one ever really knew what he was thinking, which made him unsettling to some. He also had three siblings before him.
Nobody liked Alvis — not his siblings, nor any other family member — except his mother. She was the only one who made him feel seen and accepted in society. She fought for him when no one else would, because she saw something in him that no one else did. And because of that, Alvis didn't care what others thought of him. As long as she was there, he could survive the cruelty of the world.
But everything changed when Alvis turned ten — that was when his mother died.
His dad never liked him. Alvis was never part of the plan. His father wanted only three children — and if there was going to be a fourth, he wanted a girl. Unfortunately for Alvis, he was born a boy. His father always saw him as a mistake, an extra mouth, a disappointment. He never even called him by name, only "boy" or "it." The only thing keeping his father from getting rid of him was his wife.
Now she was gone.
With nothing left to stop him, Alvis's father gave him away to an anonymous facility called "THE RECLAMATION SITE", which paid parents handsomely for unwanted male children between the ages of ten and thirteen — a category Alvis fell into.
On the day Alvis was being taken to the facility, he didn't know what was happening. His father simply told him they were going out — but didn't say where. Alvis felt hopeful, thinking maybe his father was finally showing interest in him. He still had doubts, but he was too overwhelmed to care.
They got into the car and drove. After almost three hours in silence, Alvis said quietly, "It's really far from home."
His father glanced at him, chuckled, and kept driving.
Along the way, his father bought him anything he asked for. This made Alvis even more convinced his father was finally interested in him.
Eventually, the car stopped in front of a big house. His father stepped out and told Alvis to come too.
At the door, Alvis looked up and asked hopefully, "Are we moving to a new house?"
His father didn't answer. He muttered something about forgetting something in the car and needing to get it. He said he'd be right back.
But he never returned.
After a few minutes, Alvis stepped outside to look for him — but the car was gone. So was his father. All that remained was a plastic bag of food and a bottle of water by the door.
Unlike other kids, Alvis didn't cry. He wasn't even surprised. He picked up the bag quietly and walked back into the house.
Unbeknownst to Alvis, he was being watched. The head of The Reclamation Site had been observing him. He found it fascinating that a ten-year-old boy didn't cry after being abandoned. From that moment, the man took a particular interest in Alvis.
Even though he wasn't surprised, Alvis was angry. Furious. He refused to eat at first, but as night came and hunger gnawed at him, he gave in and ate the food.
The entire place was pitch black, except for a blinking red light. He'd seen something like it in a movie before. He knew he was being watched — but didn't know who they were or what they wanted. There wasn't much he could do. So he waited… until he fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, three men came into the house. One wore a suit, the other two were in full-body suits.
Alvis woke when he heard two men arguing, but he was too drowsy to understand. Through half-closed eyes, he could see their bodies but not their faces.
The last thing he heard was:
"Look, he's waking up."
Then everything went dark.
They had injected him with something.
Alvis woke up to silence.
But it was not the silence of sleep or comfort—it was the sterile, mechanical quiet of a place designed to erase identity. He blinked up at a ceiling so white it hurt his eyes. The walls were the same—blank, cold, and without a single imperfection. Even the air felt artificial, like it had been filtered of every trace of warmth.
He sat up slowly, his head pounding with a dull ache. He was wearing something unfamiliar—a gown, thin and papery, like the ones they wore in hospitals. He looked around the room. No furniture. No clock. No window. Just walls, a door, and in the upper corner, a tiny red light blinking steadily.
Alvis squinted at the light. Then it came back in a rush—a memory, or the shadow of one. That same blinking red light had been in the house his father had taken him to. He had seen it before he fell asleep.
He clutched his head. A sharp pain shot through his skull like a needle. The harder he tried to remember what had happened after that moment, the worse the pain became. He felt like his thoughts were trapped behind a thick, impenetrable wall. Someone—or something—had taken the memory from him.
Then he heard it: footsteps.
Soft. Steady. Getting closer.
Panic surged through him. Instinctively, he slid off the bed and crawled underneath it. It wasn't much of a hiding place, but it was something. His breath slowed. He waited.
The door opened.
A man entered, dressed in a black suit. His posture was relaxed but deliberate. He stopped in front of the bed, then crouched slightly, peering underneath.
"You don't have to hide," the man said calmly. "Your father asked me to look after you. I'm the head of this facility. You can call me the Curator. And I promise, you can trust me."
There was something disarming in the way he spoke—almost too calm, too collected. But Alvis's instincts didn't scream danger. Not yet.
The Curator extended his hand.
Alvis hesitated.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
Their hands met.
The Curator helped him up, brushing invisible dust off Alvis's thin gown. "Come," he said. "There's much to see."