The air in the preparation corridor was so cold it froze the breath in our throats. I walked behind that massive guard, and my steps didn't tremble. It wasn't out of bravery, but because my heart had died back there, under the rubble of my home, alongside the corpses of my family. All that remained of me was an observing "machine," analyzing and waiting for the right moment to tear throats apart.
Right before my eyes walked the boy who was the reason silence had choked the place. The guards surrounded him with exaggerated caution, as if they were escorting a ticking time bomb. I heard one of them whisper to his comrade, wiping cold sweat from his forehead: 'He was hard to catch... This brat cost us injuries to three men before we could sedate him with a double dose.'
I looked at his back. He wasn't an ordinary child. He possessed a physical build that hinted at an innate bulk; his shoulders were broad, and his movements carried a savagery possessed only by creatures who had never known a cage. I noticed the guards' unease, but I remained silent. Silence was my most loyal companion; it was what taught me how to hunt my prey in the streets, and it was what would keep my head on my shoulders here.
They shoved us into a spacious room, its walls covered in glossy white ceramic that reflected the fluorescent lights to the point of blindness. We were ordered to strip. We were a group of terrified children, but the scene changed when we stood there in nothing but our underwear. I saw the bodies of the other children; some were frail, others bore the bruises of hunger and exhaustion... but when my eyes fell upon the body of the boy who had been leading us, I felt something tighten in my chest.
His body was a "map of pain." There wasn't a single inch of his skin that hadn't been crushed, burned, or stabbed. The scars overlapped one another; faded, old white scars lay beneath fresh purple bruises, and the marks of a thick whip had carved trenches into his back. It was a body "painful to the eye," as if life had amused itself by torturing him from the moment he left the womb. I looked at him; he didn't seem affected. His eyes were empty, save for a spark of malice that resembled mine, though his was far more ignited... and far more insane.
'Take this... You are 41, and you are 42,' the guard shouted as he threw the white clothes at us.
I put on the white shirt. The fabric was coarse, resembling the shrouds of the dead. On my chest and back, the number (41) was printed in bold black ink, and beside me, that little monster transformed into number (42). In that moment, we were no longer human... we had become "tools" in Hairo's warehouses.
They led us outside. I was struck by the sheer scale of the place. It was a colossal outer courtyard, surrounded by towering iron walls that looked like mountains of rusted steel. The walls were so smooth they were impossible to climb, and at their peaks, barbed wire glinted under the glare of the searchlights. We passed through the courtyard like ants amidst this terrifying monolith, until we reached the "Inner Factory."
An incredibly long corridor, with no clear end in sight. The floor let out a resonant metallic clank with every step. We passed by three giant iron doors, the distance between each door suggesting that every section behind them was a world of its own. The guard stopped in front of the final door in the sequence, door number 4.
'Go in... and don't cause trouble here, or you'll wish you had died before entering,' the guard said, glaring at Number 42.
Number 42 turned to him and laughed. It wasn't the laugh of a child, but a mocking hiss. He replied with a sarcastic remark that made the guard grip his stun baton: 'Trouble? I am the trouble your walls haven't been able to contain yet.'
We entered.
The room was entirely white. A whiteness that strained the nerves—no windows, no dark corners, no privacy. It was teeming with dead life; dozens of children and teenagers, their numbers ranging from 40 to 100. The scene reeked of madness: someone was banging his head against the wall with a terrifying rhythm, another was whispering his number in hysterical repetition, and someone else was weeping silently, wiping his tears with his white shirt.
Number 42 moved with cold indifference. He looked at no one, paying no mind to the terror his entrance had caused. He headed toward one of the iron beds in the center, sat on it, then lay back in a comfortable posture and closed his eyes, acting as if he owned the place. As for me, I went to a corner, sat on the floor with my back to the wall, and watched every "loophole" in this system.
'Hello... you're new here, right?'
It was a skinny boy sitting nearby. His face was so pale it looked like he hadn't seen the sun in eons, but what really caught my attention was his faded green hair, falling in messy strands over his forehead, and his green eyes that gleamed with a sharp intelligence and a conscious gaze I hadn't seen in the eyes of the other "human parts" here. He bore the number (45) printed in pitch black on his white shirt.
"Yes... first time," I answered coldly, my crimson eyes studying his features meticulously, searching for any hint of treachery.
He wasn't shaken by my dry tone; instead, he offered a small, faint smile that didn't reach his green eyes. He asked me in a whisper while keeping an eye on the door: "Have you faced the first test yet?"
I said with a curiosity I tried to suppress: "What is it?"
He replied, looking around cautiously: 'It's the "Purge." They bring in the new batches, throw you against each other or into deadly obstacle courses, and only the very few who survive earn the right to "climb" to the third level. It's a test that turns the weak into "fuel" for the factory.'
Suddenly, a body slammed into a bed violently. Everyone flinched. Number 42 had abruptly stood up, grabbing Number 64 by his shirt and lifting him off the ground with one hand. Number 64 was crying and shivering, but Number 42 snarled in his face: 'I told you... this is my bed! Get out of my sight before I gouge your eyes out!'
He tossed him aside like a worn-out rag. The terror-laced silence returned. Number 42 went back to lying down coldly, as if nothing had happened. Number 45 whispered to me in awe: 'He's strong... Number 42 has a savage spirit. With a build like that... he'll tear everyone apart in the first test.'
He fell silent for a moment, then extended his hand toward me with a faint smile: 'Oh, right... I haven't introduced myself. I'm Hugh. What's your name?' I looked at his hand, then at his eyes, and said in a low voice: "My name is Skyro."
'I hope we remember each other's names, Skyro... because here, they will do everything in their power to make you forget you are human... They'll turn you into nothing but a trivial number in their logs.'
We barely finished our conversation when the shriek of the locks echoed. The iron door swung open sharply, and a guard walked in holding an official paper, his eyes sweeping the room with lethal coldness. '72... 55... 89... 91...' He called out the numbers rapidly, then stopped, looking toward me and the boy lying down: '42... and 41. Everyone who heard their number... come to me right now!'
Hugh froze. He looked at me with a gaze that I felt carried pity and farewell: 'Good luck, Skyro... try to survive.'
I stood up slowly. I felt the adrenaline rushing through my veins. Beside me, Number 42 stood up, cracking his knuckles with a terrifying smile, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as if he had been waiting for this invitation for an eternity. We walked toward the door, toward that dark corridor that would determine whether I was a true "hunting hound," or just another number to be erased from Hairo's records.