The boy woke to nothing.
No voices.
No footsteps.
No screaming echoing down the hall like the nights before.
Just silence.
The room was pale and still, washed in early morning light that slipped through the narrow window bars and landed softly on the white walls.
The sheets were tucked too neatly around him, the air faintly scented with disinfectant and something bitter he could never quite name.
A knock broke the quiet.
Soft. Polite.
Before he could react, the door opened.
A nurse stepped inside.
She had long brown hair tied back neatly, a few loose strands framing her face.
Beneath her right eye sat a small birthmark—easy to miss if you weren't looking closely. Her smile was warm, practiced, the kind people learned after years of telling strangers that everything would be okay.
She wore her uniform properly, creases pressed, flat black shoes barely making a sound as she crossed the floor.
She didn't speak right away.
She placed a tray on the small table: food untouched by warmth, a plastic cup of water, a small paper packet of pills. Beside it, she laid down a folded note.
"Good morning," she said gently, finally meeting his eyes.
He didn't answer.
The nurse didn't seem surprised. She gave him one last look—something unreadable flickering behind her eyes—then turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence returned.
The boy sat there for a long time, unmoving.
Then his gaze drifted to the note.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded it.
He read it once.
Then again.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he folded it back—not neatly, not carelessly. Just enough to crease it. He set it beside the tray and picked up his fork.
He ate mechanically.
No taste.
No hunger.
Halfway through, his hands stopped.
A sound slipped out of him before he could stop it.
A sob.
His shoulders shook once. Twice. He covered his mouth as tears fell freely now, silently splashing against the metal tray. No screaming. No rage. Just grief pouring out in a quiet room no one was watching.
Then—nothing.
The crying stopped as abruptly as it began.
He stood, walked back to his bed, and lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The rest of the food sat untouched, cooling beside the folded note.
The room stayed quiet.
Seven years passed.
By the time the boy stood at the hospital exit again, he was no longer a boy.
Nineteen now. Taller. Thinner. Composed.
His hair fell just past his ears, black at the roots with blue-dyed tips that caught the light when he moved.
His posture was straight, his expression calm, his smile soft and practiced—convincing enough to fool anyone who didn't know where to look.
"There have been no major incidents," the doctor said, flipping through the file in his hands. "Minor emotional outbursts, nothing violent. He's been… cooperative."
The man standing beside him listened closely.
He looked to be in his forties—lines around his eyes, a tiredness that came from years of restraint rather than age. His suit was dark and immaculate, his presence controlled. This was the same man who had stood at the funeral years ago, silent and watchful. The boy's new guardian. His father's old friend.
"All the paperwork has been finalized," the doctor continued. "Custody approved. You'll need to maintain monthly check-ins for the first year."
The man nodded. "Of course."
The boy said nothing.
The veteran hadn't come today.
He had stopped visiting years ago—first occasionally, then not at all.
The doors slid open.
Sunlight spilled inside.
The man stepped forward, and the boy followed.
For the first time in seven years, the hospital doors closed behind him.
And the quiet…
The car door shut with a dull, final thud.
For a moment, the smile stayed on the boy's face—polite, practiced, automatic. Then it slipped away as if it had never belonged to him in the first place. His expression settled into something empty, unreadable. He leaned back into the seat and stared forward, eyes unfocused.
The man didn't comment on it.
Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a thin, unmarked file. No logos. No official seals. Just paper held together by a simple clip. He handed it over without a word.
The boy took it slowly.
Inside were documents arranged with obsessive care.
A new ID card.
A new birth certificate.
Medical clearance papers.
Education records—clean, minimal, almost suspiciously perfect.
A life condensed into ink and plastic.
His fingers paused on the ID.
He swallowed.
"Thank you," he said.
The words came out flat, but they were real.
The man smiled, just slightly. Then he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a low laugh, brief and tired, like something he hadn't done in a long time. It faded quickly, leaving the car filled with silence again.
The engine hummed.
Then the man spoke.
His voice was calm, deep, steady—the kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard.
"Elias," he said, testing the name.
"Don't go down without a fight."
The boy stiffened.
Elias?
He looked back down at the card.
Name: Elias Crowe
Age: 19
Status: Civilian
Notes: None
No past. No stains.
For a second, confusion flickered across his face—real confusion, raw and unfiltered. It vanished just as quickly. He closed the file and rested it on his lap.
"…I just need to grab a few things," he said.
The man nodded.
They drove in silence.
They stopped in front of the house, Elias's old house.
Or what was left of it.
Police tape still clung weakly to the front gate, fluttering in the wind like something that had been forgotten. The windows were dark. The place looked smaller than Elias remembered—shrunk by time, by distance, by everything that had happened inside it.
He got out of the car.
Without hesitation, he cut through the tape and stepped inside.
The man stayed where he was.
Nearly an hour passed.
When Elias returned, he was different.
Not just dressed differently—constructed differently.
Brown contact lenses replaced his natural eyes. His hair, once untouched, was now dyed a dull, ordinary brown and cut shorter, cleaner. He wore a black dress shirt, buttoned all the way up, black trousers pressed sharply, black shoes polished to a quiet shine.
No personality. No excess.
Perfectly average.
He carried a small box.
It was a cube—plain, matte, with no markings. No seams. No hinges. No visible way to open or close it without breaking it entirely.
He handed it to the man.
The man studied it for a moment, then looked back at him.
"What's inside?" he asked.
Elias smiled.
Not the old smile.
This one was lighter. Warmer. Almost convincing.
"Nothing important," he said cheerfully, his voice slightly altered—still familiar, but dulled, reshaped.
"For now. I just need you to help me deliver it to the hospital."
The man hesitated, then nodded. He placed the box carefully into the glove compartment.
"I'll take care of it," he said.
Elias sat back down.
The car pulled away from the house.
And for the first time since the hospital doors had opened, Elias Crowe looked out the window and felt absolutely nothing at all.