The lights came on without warning, flooding the room with cold white clarity.
Ethan's eyes opened at once.
He hadn't been fully asleep. Not here. Not in a place where silence itself felt deliberate.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum inside the walls was still there, constant and unmoving. It had been there when he closed his eyes. It was there when he opened them again.
This place never truly rested.
He sat up slowly, his bare feet touching the cold concrete floor. The air carried no warmth. No comfort. Only control.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Outside his door.
Measured. Precise. Without hesitation.
They stopped directly in front of him.
A sharp click followed.
The lock disengaged.
Ethan was already standing when the door opened.
A man stood there, taller than the others he had seen. Older. His posture was straight, his expression empty of anything human. In one hand, he held a thin clipboard. His eyes moved over Ethan, not meeting his gaze, but studying everything else—his stance, his breathing, his stillness.
Measuring.
"Follow," the man said.
Ethan obeyed without a word.
The hallway was exactly as he remembered. Clean. Silent. Every surface maintained with unnatural precision. The overhead lights hummed faintly, filling the space with a lifeless glow.
Other doors were open now.
Other children stood in their frames.
Some looked lost.
Some looked afraid.
One boy's hands trembled at his sides, unable to stay still. A girl stared at the floor, her shoulders drawn inward as if trying to disappear. Another boy watched the guards too closely, his fear visible in every small movement.
Ethan observed them without turning his head.
Fear made people predictable.
Predictable made them weak.
They were led down the corridor together, their footsteps uneven against the concrete floor. No one spoke. No one asked questions.
The man stopped in front of a larger door at the end of the hall.
It opened.
Inside was an empty room.
No furniture. No windows. Nothing to soften the space.
Only smooth concrete walls.
And cameras in every corner.
Watching.
Recording.
Remembering.
The children stepped inside. Ethan followed last.
The man with the clipboard turned to face them.
"This is your evaluation," he said calmly.
His voice held no threat.
It didn't need to.
"You will remain here until instructed otherwise."
His eyes moved across the group, pausing briefly on each child. When they reached Ethan, they lingered for a fraction longer.
Then he stepped back.
The door closed behind him.
The lock engaged.
The sound echoed through the room like a verdict.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Time passed, though it was impossible to measure. No clocks. No windows. No change in light.
Only waiting.
One boy shifted his weight.
Another wiped his palms against his shirt.
Someone's breathing grew louder, faster.
Ethan remained still.
He watched.
He listened.
He waited.
Then, without warning, something fell from above.
A heavy bag dropped from an opening in the ceiling and struck the floor with a dull impact.
Every child stared at it.
No instructions came.
No explanation followed.
The silence remained.
Unbroken.
One of the boys moved first.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His fear pushed him forward more than courage ever could. His hand reached out, his fingers shaking as they made contact with the bag.
The buzzer sounded instantly.
Sharp. Violent.
The boy froze.
A voice followed, cold and mechanical.
"Observation failure."
The door opened immediately.
Two guards entered.
They didn't speak. They didn't explain. They simply took the boy by the arms and led him away.
He didn't resist.
He didn't speak.
He was gone.
The door closed again.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
No one moved now.
Fear had done its work.
Ethan looked at the bag, but he didn't approach it.
He understood.
This wasn't about curiosity.
It wasn't about courage.
It was about control.
He shifted his attention instead—to the cameras, to the guards' timing, to the reactions of the others. Every detail mattered.
Because this place wasn't testing strength.
It was testing patience.
Testing awareness.
Testing who could survive without being told how.
Ethan stood perfectly still.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he understood.
In a place like this, the first mistake wasn't acting too late.
It was acting without understanding why.