The door to the room was opened from the outside.
There was no warning sound. No knock. Just a clean, mechanical slide, as if the room itself had decided it was time.
A man stepped in.
He was dressed in a formal suit, tailored so precisely it looked less like clothing and more like a second layer of skin. The fabric sat perfectly on his shoulders. The tie was centered, tightened to a faultless angle. His shoes were polished to the point that the overhead lights reflected faintly on their surface.
Everything about him was correct.
Too correct.
A professional smile rested on his face—not warm, not distant. Carefully measured. The kind of expression designed to put people at ease without ever becoming personal.
"Hello, Mr. Jim. My name is Danny. I'll be arranging today's schedule."
His voice was smooth, practiced. Not stiff like a soldier's, not casual like a civilian's. The tone of someone who had said similar words countless times, always with the same calm cadence.
Like he was welcoming an ordinary client.
That was what unsettled me.
It wasn't that he looked at me coldly.
It was that he didn't seem to judge me at all.
No curiosity.
No suspicion.
No fear.
Just neutrality.
That unjudging gaze made my skin prickle. Not because it felt hostile, but because it felt normal. As if there were nothing strange about me being here. As if this situation itself were routine.
I didn't reply. I only nodded once, acknowledging that I had heard him.
Danny didn't react to my silence. He neither urged nor questioned me. He simply turned around and made a small, polite gesture with his hand, indicating that I should follow.
I did.
Outside, a light sedan was already waiting. The door opened automatically as we approached. The interior was immaculate—no decorations, no personal touches. The seats were spotless, the surfaces smooth and unmarked, as though no one had ever truly used the car.
When the vehicle started moving, there was almost no sound. No engine roar, no vibration. The motion was so smooth that my body tensed on instinct, bracing for something that never came.
Silence like that always felt unnatural.
We drove for about ten minutes.
I counted them without realizing I was doing it.
When the car finally stopped, I looked up and saw a high-rise building looming in front of us.
In Freetown, structures like this were rare.
It wasn't built for living. It didn't invite people in the way a mall did. Its surface was clean, rigid, functional—like a spine rising straight out of the ground.
An administrative center.
Above the entrance, several neatly arranged characters were displayed.
Ability Development Bureau.
My chest tightened.
So it really was here.
I had known it the moment we left. I had known it when the car turned onto this road. But seeing the words in front of me made it real in a way thought alone never could.
Danny didn't seem to notice my reaction. Or perhaps he did, and simply chose not to acknowledge it. He walked ahead at an unhurried pace and led me into the lobby.
The interior was spacious, almost excessively so. The ceiling was high, the lighting evenly distributed. Everything was bright, orderly, and painfully clean.
Near the entrance stood an information counter.
Several receptionists lifted their heads at the same time.
Their smiles appeared almost simultaneously, as if triggered by the same invisible signal.
"Hello! Welcome to the Ability Development Bureau! How may we help you?"
The voices were clear and cheerful. Too synchronized. Too practiced.
Danny spoke before I could. "I'm bringing in a new partner today for identity registration."
"Oh—so that's the case."
One of the receptionists leaned forward slightly. Her voice softened by just a fraction, adjusted with professional precision.
"Please proceed to Room 203 on the second floor."
They bowed together.
The movement was flawless.
As I turned my gaze away, one of them caught my eye and winked.
Just for a second.
…Why?
The question surfaced before I could stop it.
I frowned instinctively.
That tiny deviation—so small it might have been imagined—sent a ripple of unease through me.
No.
Don't be fooled.
That was how places like this worked. They distracted you with surface warmth, with harmless gestures, so you'd forget what kind of building you were standing in.
Danny led me toward the escalator.
It moved slowly, deliberately. The sound it made was faint, a low mechanical hum that filled the otherwise empty space. The silence here wasn't peaceful—it was controlled.
The second-floor corridor was wide and brightly lit. The floor was polished to a dull shine, clean enough that even our footsteps seemed to vanish the moment they touched it.
Room 203 waited at the end.
The automatic door opened without a sound.
Inside, the space was minimal. Several chairs were fixed directly into the floor, their positions carefully spaced. An operation console stood to one side, its surface dark and inactive.
And beyond them—
A glass chamber.
It stood slightly deeper within the room, its transparent walls catching the light.
The moment I saw it, my breathing faltered.
For an instant, time folded in on itself.
I was thirteen again.
Standing in a room just like this one.
The same transparent isolation.
The same artificial quiet.
The memory didn't surge violently. It didn't overwhelm me. It was subtler than that—like something brushing against the back of my mind, gently but persistently.
"Good morning."
The voice snapped me out of it.
A woman entered from the side door.
She had brown hair tied neatly back and wore a standard nurse's uniform. She looked young, maybe in her early twenties. Her features were plain, unremarkable—someone you'd forget moments after passing on the street.
And yet.
The moment I looked at her, I knew.
She wasn't ordinary.
Not because of her expression. Not because of her posture. It was something less visible, something instinctive.
"Hey, Uncle Danny. So it's you today."
Her tone was light, familiar.
"Mm. Morning, Alma."
Their exchange was casual. Comfortable. The kind of conversation shared by people who saw each other every day and had long since stopped pretending otherwise.
Alma's eyes shifted to me.
They paused.
Just briefly.
"A newcomer?"
"That's right," Danny replied. "Today's guest."
She smiled. Not a professional smile like the receptionists'. This one was brighter, more natural. She stepped forward and extended her hand.
"Hi. My name's Alma. Starting today, I'll be your assigned nurse."
I didn't take her hand.
I didn't say anything.
I simply stood there, feeling the distance between us remain unbroken.
Alma didn't seem bothered. She withdrew her hand easily, as if this outcome were already within her expectations.
"Well then," she said, her tone unchanged, "let's begin the test."
The door to the glass chamber slid open.
I walked inside.
The space was colder than the room outside. The air felt thinner somehow, sharper against my skin.
The door closed behind me.
With it, all outside sounds disappeared.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Only my own breathing remained, faint and uneven.
Alma's voice came through the microphone above.
"Relax, Jim. If anything happens, I'll treat you immediately."
I let out a short, humorless breath.
Treat me.
That was a gentle word for what this really was.
I opened my mouth and shouted.
The sound crashed into the glass walls. There was no echo—no rebound. Instead, a layer of azure light rippled across the surface, spreading instantly into a complete barrier.
The energy hummed low and steady.
My voice was sealed inside.
I shouted again.
And again.
Each time, the vibration tore through my chest. My throat heated, raw and burning. The air inside the chamber trembled faintly with every sound I forced out.
The world narrowed.
My vision blurred at the edges, whitening slowly as if someone were turning down the contrast on reality itself.
—
Images flickered through my mind.
Fragments.
I saw Seven.
The way he stood in battle—never reckless, never wasteful. Every movement restrained, deliberate, as if he were always holding something back.
I remembered the days we spent together. Short, ordinary moments that now felt distant.
—
"I want to become stronger."
The words didn't feel like sound anymore.
They felt like pressure.
"I really want to become stronger."
If I were strong enough, I wouldn't be standing here.
If I were strong enough, Grandpa wouldn't have been dragged into this.
If I were strong enough—
Something snapped.
There was no pain. No fear.
Just a sudden, complete absence.
The noise vanished.
The light faded.
And the world went silent.