They walked together down a long, white hallway. The walls glowed faintly from overhead lights, and each step echoed with quiet finality. Alvis passed rooms identical to his own. In some, other boys sat quietly, staring at the walls. In others, shouting and banging could be heard. Alvis noticed they were all boys. No girls. Not one.
Until they reached the pink door.
It stood out like a misplaced stroke of paint in a sea of white.
The Curator paused. "This is an exception," he said, and opened the door.
Inside, the room was similar in shape but warmer, more inviting. And sitting cross-legged on a pink rug was a girl, about Alvis's age. She had short black hair and wore a dress that matched the walls. She looked up and smiled.
"This is my daughter," the Curator said. "Her name is Nia."
Alvis didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. He simply stared, and Nia waved at him.
"You'll see her from time to time," the Curator added. "She's not part of the program. But she likes to make friends."
They didn't stay long.
From there, the Curator led Alvis to an office lined with bookshelves. There were no photos, no decorations—just cold efficiency and order. A chessboard sat at the center of the desk.
"Sit," the Curator said, gesturing to a chair. "Let's go over some rules."
Alvis sat.
"There are things you're expected to follow here," the Curator began. "No fighting unless in training. No talking back to instructors. No trying to escape. And no asking questions about what we do—until the time is right."
Alvis nodded.
The Curator's tone softened. "You'll be trained here. Mentally and physically. Everything you need to survive, and more. We don't waste potential here, Alvis. We refine it."
He leaned forward and tapped the chessboard.
"Do you know how to play?"
Alvis shook his head negatively and said "no"
"Finally, you talk," the Curator smiled faintly. "Good. I'll teach you how they move. But the moves you choose are up to you."
They began to play. First, the Curator explained each piece—the pawn, the rook, the knight, the bishop, the queen, and the king. He let Alvis try a few simple rounds, correcting his mistakes with patience.
Then came the fourth game.
Alvis had learned quickly. He made clever plays, ones that surprised the Curator. By the middle of the game, it looked like Alvis might actually win.
"You're not going to win this time," Alvis said confidently.
The Curator chuckled. "If you win, I'll give you a gift."
But just when Alvis was about to strike what he thought would be the final blow, the Curator made a sharp move—one Alvis hadn't anticipated.
Checkmate.
Alvis stared at the board, confused.
"You were close," the Curator said, smiling. "You learn fast. But chess is like life—it's not just about knowing how to move. It's about thinking five steps ahead."
Alvis didn't speak. But deep down, something had ignited. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Determination.
The Curator stood and motioned for Alvis to follow. "Time for lunch."
They descended into a wide cafeteria space. The walls were the same sterile white, but the sound here was louder—dishes clattering, footsteps echoing, and boys talking. Some were seated in silence. Others in groups. A few guards stood by the doors, watching closely.
Alvis noticed immediately that the seating was divided. Not just randomly, but by some kind of hierarchy.
There were five distinct groups:
Initiates – new arrivals like Alvis. Bottom rank.
Drills – basic trainees, starting to show potential.
Cores – intermediate performers, physically sharp and mentally capable.
Fangs – advanced, known for their aggression and discipline.
Elites – the highest rank. Feared. Revered. Untouchable.
Each group had its own section. The Elites had their own room entirely—a glass-encased dining area, soundproof, but visible to all.
Alvis picked up a tray and stood in line. A bland meal was slopped onto his plate: rice, grayish stew, and a piece of bread. He turned, scanning for a place to sit.
As he walked past a group from the Fangs, one of them stuck out his foot.
Alvis tripped.
The tray clattered to the ground, spilling food everywhere.
Laughter erupted.
The boy who tripped him stood tall—broad shoulders, a scar on his brow. His name, Alvis would later learn, was Crixus, the second-highest in the Fangs.
"Welcome to the Site, newbie," Crixus sneered. "Hope you like eating off the floor."
Alvis didn't move. He didn't cry. He just sat up slowly and stared at Crixus.
Then, the atmosphere changed.
The doors opened.
Silence fell across the cafeteria.
The Elites walked in.
Five of them, dressed in dark gray uniforms stitched with crimson stripes. They moved like a single shadow—calm, deadly, coordinated. Everyone turned to look. Even the guards straightened.
Alvis stared. And to his shock, he saw Nia among them.
But she wasn't the only girl.
Another girl walked beside her—taller, sharper-eyed, her black braid swinging like a whip. Her name was Kaelin, though Alvis didn't know it yet.
The other three were boys, older, more muscular. Leading them was one whose presence silenced the room entirely.
The Baki.
He was a legend, even among whispers. Said to be the strongest. The Curator's first success.
Rumors said the Elites were being trained for secret missions. They were ghosts in training. Deadly, silent, precise.
As the Elites passed, Crixus bent forward, his voice a hiss. "Stay down, kid."
But then Nia stepped away from the group.
She walked straight to Alvis and knelt, helping him gather his food.
Crixus's hand shot forward, ready to shove her aside. "What do you think you're—"
He never finished.
The Baki was already there.
With a single backhand, he sent Crixus crashing into a bench.
"Touch her," Baki said in a voice like cold steel, "and I break every bone in your body."
Crixus didn't move.
Nia looked up at Alvis and smiled again. "Ignore him. Come on. You can sit with me later."
Then she returned to the Elites' room.
Alvis sat alone. But this time, everyone gave him space.
After lunch, the boys were grouped by rank for training.
Initiates like Alvis had the most basic regimen: running, push-ups, drills. But even at this level, it was brutal. Every movement monitored. Every mistake noted.
He noticed something else—each rank trained harder. The average time to move to the next rank was four months. Some never moved. Some broke before they had the chance.
Alvis wasn't the strongest.
But he didn't stop. Not once.
At the end of the day, he returned to his room.
The red light still blinked.
But now he understood something.
He wasn't just being watched.
He was being evaluated.
And he had caught the eye of the most powerful people in the building.
The Elites.
And the Curator's daughter.
He would rise. But not just as a survivor.
As a contender.