— The Empty Child by Terobero
I was born in a place that had no name on any map. Officially, it was Facility-07, Sub-Level 4, Sector White. Everyone else just called it the White Room.
There were twenty-three of us in Generation 4. By the time I turned nine, only seven remained.
That morning, the daily announcement came at 05:58, exactly two minutes before the lights reached full brightness.
"Subject R-03, R-07, R-12, R-19. Report to Classroom C for interpersonal evaluation. Tardiness will be recorded."
I stood up from the bed, folded the single sheet with the required forty-five-degree corners, and walked to the door before it finished sliding open. The corridor was already smelled of disinfectant and warm plastic.
R-07 was waiting outside my cell. A girl with short black hair and eyes that never quite focused on anything for more than a second.
"Morning, Ryuji," she said.
"Morning, Yuna."
We walked side by side. No one told us we were allowed to talk in the hallway, but no one told us we weren't, so we did.
"You sleep?" she asked.
"Four hours and twelve minutes."
"Same. They lowered the temperature again. I counted the cycles on the vent."
I nodded. Small talk was inefficient, but silence was worse. Silence let the instructors hear your thoughts.
Classroom C was a perfect cube. Twenty meters on every side. White floor, white ceiling, one-way mirror on the north wall. Four chairs. One table. No decorations. Decorations were distractions.
R-12 and R-19 were already seated. R-12 (Kai) gave me a tiny tilt of his head. The closest thing to a greeting he ever offered. R-19 (Mira) just stared at the table like it owed her money.
The speaker crackled.
"Today's exercise: Cooperative betrayal. Objective: Extract information from the designated target using only through conversation. Physical coercion is prohibited. Time limit: forty minutes. Begin."
A fifth chair slid out from the wall. A new face sat down: a boy I had never seen before. Brown hair, nervous eyes, civilian clothes two sizes too big. The tag on his chest read: T-01 (Transfer).
The instructor's voice continued, calm and flat.
"T-01 possesses knowledge of an upcoming schedule change that affects survival rations for the entire generation. Your task is to make him reveal it. You may promise anything. You may lie. You may cooperate or compete. Only one rule: he must speak willingly."
Forty minutes.
I looked at the others.
Yuna spoke first, soft and polite. "Hi. I'm Yuna. What's your name?"
The boy blinked. "Haruto…"
"Nice to meet you, Haruto," she smiled. It looked almost real. "Are you hungry? They didn't feed us yet."
He nodded slowly.
"If you tell us what you know," Yuna continued, "we can make sure you get double portions today. We have ways."
Haruto's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Kai leaned forward. "Or we can make it triple. But only if you talk now. The instructors reward speed."
Mira stayed silent, watching.
I said nothing yet. I was calculating angles.
Haruto swallowed. "They're… they're cutting protein by thirty percent starting next week. Because of budget reallocation."
Yuna's eyes widened theatrically. "Really? That's awful. You poor thing."
She reached across the table and touched his hand. Gentle. Reassuring.
Haruto smiled, grateful.
Then I spoke for the first time.
"Haruto."
He turned to me.
"That information is incorrect," I said quietly. "The real change is a forty-percent cut, and it starts tomorrow, not next week. You just reduced the urgency so we would feel grateful and stop pressing."
The room went still.
Haruto's face drained of color.
Yuna withdrew her hand like she'd touched something hot.
Kai exhaled through his nose. "Classic misdirection. Amateur."
Mira finally spoke, voice flat. "He failed the test. That means he's getting removed tonight."
Haruto's breathing turned shallow. "Wait—I—I didn't mean—"
I looked at him without emotion. "You should have led with the full truth. Partial truth is the same as a lie here. You know that."
He started shaking.
The speaker clicked.
"Exercise concluded. R-03 identified the deception in four minutes and twelve seconds. New record. T-01 will be reassigned to Generation 5 observation pool."
The wall opened. Two attendants in white coats entered and took Haruto by the arms. He didn't resist. He just looked back at us once, eyes wide, before the door closed.
Silence.
Then Yuna laughed, short and sharp. "Four minutes. You're scary, Ryuji."
"It was obvious," I answered.
Kai leaned back. "Still. You didn't even blink."
Mira stood up. "I'm going back to my cell."
She left without another word.
After the door closed behind her, Yuna looked at me.
"Do you ever feel bad?" she asked.
"No," I said.
It was the truth.
But inside my head, a different voice answered for me, calm and amused.
Liar.
I ignored it. I had practice.
Later that day, during individual evaluation, the head instructor, Dr. Ayanami, reviewed the recording with me.
"You showed excellent pattern recognition," she said, tapping her tablet. "But your affect remains flat. That concerns us."
"I completed the objective."
"Yes. But empathy is a tool. You use it like a foreign language, not a native one. We need fluency."
I didn't reply.
She studied me for a long moment.
"Ryuji. Do you understand why we do this?"
"To create the perfect human asset," I recited.
"Correct. And do you know what the perfect human asset requires above all else?"
"Adaptability."
"No." She leaned forward. "Loyalty. Absolute, unquestioning loyalty to the mission. Everything else is negotiable."
She paused the recording on Haruto's terrified face.
"Tell me honestly. When you exposed his lie, did any part of you hesitate?"
I met her eyes.
"No."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Good."
That night, lying on the bed, I stared at the ceiling.
The voice spoke again, conversational, almost friendly.
You hesitated for 0.8 seconds before answering her.
I closed my eyes.
It was 0.7.
Close enough. You're improving.
I turned on my side.
Why do you keep count?
Because someone has to remember you're still human, Ryuji. Even if you pretend you're not.
I didn't answer.
Outside the cell, the corridor lights dimmed to 12 % brightness, the signal for sleep cycle.
Tomorrow there would be new tests. New transfers. New lies.
I closed my eyes.
In the dark, the voice whispered one last thing before I drifted off.
One day, Ryuji… we're going to burn this place down.
I didn't reply.
But I didn't disagree either.
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