The door didn't open at the same time as before.
There was no pattern Ethan could rely on.
No warning.
Just the sound of the lock disengaging sometime later—long after the lights had remained on, long after silence had settled deep enough to feel permanent.
Ethan was already awake.
He had learned quickly that sleep here was never complete.
The door opened slowly.
A different man stood outside this time. Younger. Broader. His expression was harder, less neutral. He didn't carry a clipboard.
He carried nothing.
His eyes moved across Ethan once.
"Come," he said.
Not follow.
Come.
Ethan stood immediately and stepped into the hallway.
Other doors were open.
Other children stepped out.
Fewer than before.
He noticed that first.
He didn't count consciously. He didn't need to. Absence was something the mind understood faster than numbers.
Some were gone.
No explanation.
No trace.
They were led down a different corridor this time. Narrower. The lights dimmer. The air colder.
The guards walked behind them now, not ahead.
Controlling.
Directing.
They entered another room.
Larger.
Darker.
Not empty.
A long metal table stood at the center. Several objects rested on its surface.
A glass of water.
A piece of bread.
A small metal tool.
A folded cloth.
Simple things.
Meaningless things.
Or things made meaningful.
The children stopped several steps away.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The man who had brought them in stepped forward.
"This is selection," he said.
The word meant nothing.
And everything.
"You will approach the table. One at a time."
His voice remained calm.
"You will choose one object."
He paused.
"You will not be told why."
A boy was pushed forward first.
He hesitated.
His eyes moved across the table. The water. The bread. The tool. The cloth.
His hand trembled as he reached.
He chose the bread.
He stepped back.
No reaction came.
No approval.
No punishment.
He was taken out of the room.
Gone.
The next child was pushed forward.
She chose the water.
Removed.
Gone.
One by one, they approached.
One by one, they chose.
One by one, they disappeared.
No explanation.
No pattern.
Ethan watched carefully.
Not the objects.
The guards.
Their posture.
Their attention.
What they watched most closely.
When it was his turn, the room felt quieter.
He stepped forward.
The table stood still before him.
The objects waited.
Bread meant survival.
Water meant endurance.
Cloth meant healing.
Obvious meanings.
Expected meanings.
Which made them dangerous.
His eyes moved to the last object.
The metal tool.
Small.
Simple.
Precise.
Not survival.
Not comfort.
Control.
He reached for it.
His fingers closed around the cold surface.
He stepped back.
The guard watched him for a moment longer than the others.
No surprise.
No approval.
Recognition.
"Come," the guard said.
Ethan obeyed.
He didn't look back.
Because whatever this choice meant—
He had already made it.