The doors sealed behind him with a sound that did not echo.
It was not the heavy clang of metal on metal, nor the hiss of compressed air. It was a clean, efficient click—final, precise, indifferent. The kind of sound meant to reassure those outside that containment had been achieved.
The corridor beyond the threshold was narrower than the examination hall, its walls unfinished, the stone exposed and unpolished. Light strips ran along the ceiling in intermittent intervals, each one casting a dull, colorless glow that failed to reach the corners.
The air was colder here.
Not just in temperature, but in quality. It tasted recycled, filtered too many times through too many lungs. Beneath it lingered a faint chemical bitterness and something harder to place—iron, perhaps, or residue left behind by repeated failure.
He took two steps forward.
The floor registered his weight.
A soft tone sounded overhead.
SUBJECT CONFIRMED
TRANSFER IN PROGRESS
The escort released his shoulder without a word and stepped back. The doors behind them remained sealed.
"You'll follow the line," the attendant said, gesturing down the corridor. "Deviation will be logged."
"Logged where?" he asked.
The attendant did not answer.
She had already turned away.
He stood still for a moment longer, then moved.
The corridor opened into a larger chamber, circular in shape, its ceiling lost in shadow. Along the outer wall stood a series of recessed alcoves, each containing a figure—some standing, some seated, some restrained in ways that were difficult to define at a glance.
All of them wore the same neutral garments.
All of them had been processed.
A central platform occupied the middle of the chamber. Above it, a cluster of projection arrays hovered, their surfaces alive with flowing data. No faces appeared. No voice addressed the room.
Information was displayed because it needed to be, not because anyone cared to explain it.
He stepped onto the platform when the floor lights indicated his position.
A moment passed.
Then the projections shifted.
CORRECTION ASSET INITIALIZATION
UTILIZATION STATUS: PENDING
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 12.7%
The number appeared again.
Unchanged.
It did not flicker. It did not adjust based on his proximity or vital signs. It did not care that he was now closer to whatever calculation had produced it.
A mechanical arm extended from the ceiling, ending in a scanning array that swept down over his body in a slow, methodical arc.
BIOMETRIC BASELINE CAPTURED
PHYSIOLOGICAL DEVIATION: WITHIN ACCEPTABLE LOSS PARAMETERS
Acceptable loss.
That phrase lingered.
He glanced at the alcoves again.
The others did not look at him.
Some stared at the floor. Some stared at nothing. One man laughed quietly to himself, the sound breaking into short, dry coughs that never rose to hysteria. Another pressed his forehead against the wall, unmoving.
No one spoke.
No one asked questions.
That told him more than any explanation could have.
The scanning arm retracted.
A second projection appeared, this one simpler.
ASSIGNMENT PATHS AVAILABLE
Three columns of data unfolded beneath it.
The first was labeled MANUAL CORRECTION.
Beneath it scrolled a list of tasks—exposure cycles, tolerance testing, repetitive procedures with steadily increasing risk thresholds. The associated survival curve dropped sharply within the first several entries.
The second column read RESOURCE RECOVERY.
Extraction operations. Hazardous environments. Structural instability warnings. The curve here declined more gradually, but extended further.
The third column remained blank.
He waited for it to populate.
It did not.
"Selection will be automatic," a voice said at last.
It was not projected from any visible source. It did not echo. It carried no emotion, not even neutrality. It was simply present.
"Based on what?" he asked.
There was a pause.
Then: "Based on projected value."
"And if there is no value?"
"Then utilization will determine it."
The projections shifted again.
ANOMALY STATUS: ACTIVE
PRIORITY: OBSERVATION ENABLED
A thin band of light wrapped briefly around his left wrist, tightening just enough to register as pressure before fading into the skin.
He looked down.
There was no visible mark.
But the sensation remained—like something coiled just beneath the surface, waiting.
Around the chamber, movement began.
Two of the alcoves opened. Their occupants stepped out with practiced resignation and followed illuminated paths that branched off from the central platform. One of them stumbled. A mechanical brace caught him before he fell and guided him forward anyway.
No one protested.
The system did not require consent.
A new line appeared before him.
ASSIGNMENT: MANUAL CORRECTION
STAGE: INITIAL EXPOSURE
The third column remained empty.
He exhaled slowly.
"Where does this lead?" he asked.
"To the correction wing," the voice replied. "Further questions are unnecessary."
"Unnecessary for who?"
"For the system."
The platform beneath his feet shifted, aligning with a newly opened passage. The walls ahead were reinforced, layered with materials designed to contain failures rather than people.
As he stepped forward, he felt it again—the faint numbness in his arm, deeper now, spreading in subtle pulses that did not match his heartbeat.
The system had marked him.
Not as a success.
Not even as a failure.
As something to be used until the calculation ran out.
Behind him, the platform reset.
Another figure stepped into his place.
Another survival rate appeared.
12.7%.
The corridor sloped downward, the light dimming with each step.
At the far end, a set of reinforced doors waited, their surfaces scarred by repeated contact. Above them, a final line of text glowed faintly.
CORRECTION CYCLE 001
BEGIN WHEN READY
He stood before the doors.
For the first time since entering the facility, no one pushed him forward.
The system waited.