Consciousness returned slowly, painfully. Elias's head throbbed with each heartbeat, his ribs screaming in protest when he tried to move. The surface beneath him vibrated rhythmically—a moving vehicle. His wrists were bound before him with coarse rope that had already rubbed his skin raw. Around him, the closed wooden space smelled of sweat, urine, and fear.
He wasn't alone. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through cracks in the wagon's construction, he made out other small forms. Children, like him, bound and silent. Some unconscious, others staring blankly ahead, hope already extinguished. He counted twelve besides himself.
"Where are they taking us?" he whispered to the boy next to him, who looked a few years older and bore the marks of a recent beating across his face.
The boy glanced at him, then away. "Depends. Mining camp, maybe. Factory. Maybe the labs."
"Labs?"
"You don't want the labs," was all the boy would say before lapsing back into silence.
The wagon traveled for what felt like hours. Occasionally it stopped, and gruff voices could be heard outside. Once, the back doors opened briefly as a trafficker checked his cargo, tossing in a waterskin that the older children fought over. Elias, still weak from the blow to his head, received none.
Night had fallen again when the wagon finally stopped for longer than a quick check. The doors swung open, revealing three traffickers—not the ones who had taken Elias, but similar types with hard eyes and harder fists.
"Out. Single file. Try running and we break your legs."
The children climbed down awkwardly, hampered by bound hands. Outside, Elias discovered they were no longer in the city. A vast complex of low buildings stretched before them, surrounded by a high wall topped with sharp metal spikes. Lights illuminated the compound with harsh white brilliance, and guards patrolled the perimeter with the disciplined movement of professional security rather than common thugs.
This was no mining camp or factory. The clinical precision of the place sent ice through Elias's veins. The labs. They'd brought him to the labs.
A tall man in a white coat approached, clipboard in hand. His face was unremarkable except for cold eyes that assessed each child with the detachment one might use when examining livestock.
"Thirteen this time," noted the trafficker leader. "All healthy, as requested. The small one there put up quite a fight." He nodded toward Elias.
The man in the coat barely glanced at the trafficker, focusing instead on the children. "Ages?"
"Between seven and nine, as specified."
"Good." The man made a notation on his clipboard. "The usual rate, then."
A leather pouch changed hands, coins clinking within. The transaction complete, the traffickers returned to their wagon without a backward glance at the children they'd delivered.
Guards moved forward, cutting the ropes binding the children's wrists only to replace them with metal cuffs connected by short chains. They were then herded through a set of double doors into the facility. The antiseptic smell hit Elias immediately—sharp and chemical, burning his nostrils and making his eyes water.
Inside, the building was a maze of white corridors. They passed rooms with glass walls where Elias glimpsed strange equipment and adults in identical white coats. In some rooms, he saw other children strapped to tables or confined in transparent chambers. None of the children were moving.
Fear, cold and absolute, gripped him. Whatever happened in this place, it wasn't survival. It was something worse.
Their group was separated, led down different hallways. Elias and three others were taken to a processing room where their filthy clothes were cut away, their bodies sprayed with icy water that stung like needles. Disinfectant, someone called it. It burned in cuts and scrapes Elias hadn't even realized he had.
Identical gray garments were provided—loose pants and a shirt with a number stamped on the chest. Elias became Subject 237. His name was not asked, nor any other information about him. In this place, he was a number, nothing more.
The processing complete, guards led him to a small room containing only a narrow bed and a toilet in the corner. No window, just a single light recessed into the ceiling behind a protective cover. The door, solid metal, closed behind him with a final-sounding click.
Alone for the first time since his capture, Elias sank onto the bed, its thin mattress offering little comfort to his battered body. The reality of his situation began to register fully. No one knew he was here. No one would look for him. Even if Mira or the others noticed his absence, what could they do? Street children disappeared every day in Ardenia.
He was truly alone, truly lost.
Exhaustion claimed him eventually, dragging him into uneasy sleep plagued by dreams of needles and cold eyes watching him struggle. He woke repeatedly, disoriented and terrified, before falling back into restless slumber.
Morning announced itself with harsh lights and a buzzing sound as his door unlocked automatically. A tray had been pushed through a slot near the floor—a bowl of gray porridge and a cup of water. Elias ate mechanically, his body demanding sustenance even as his mind recoiled from cooperating with his captors.
The door opened an hour later. Two guards entered, followed by the cold-eyed man from the previous night.
"Subject 237," the man said, consulting his clipboard. "You're scheduled for initial assessment." He looked at Elias properly for the first time, studying him with clinical interest. "Small for your age, but the physical resilience metrics from intake are promising. Resistance to sedation suggests natural immunities we can build upon."
Elias understood none of this, but the matter-of-fact tone chilled him more than threats would have. This man saw him not as a child to be hurt or helped, but as a thing to be used.
"Bring him to Lab Four," the man instructed the guards before walking away, already focused on his clipboard again.
Strong hands grasped Elias's arms, lifting him from the bed and half-carrying him into the corridor. He considered fighting but couldn't see the point. The facility was sealed, guarded, and he had nowhere to run to even if he could escape.
Lab Four proved to be a large room filled with equipment Elias couldn't identify. Tables with restraints dominated the center, while machines with blinking lights and displays lined the walls. Three white-coated figures looked up as he was brought in.
"This is the new subject?" asked a woman, approaching to examine him with the same detached interest as the man with the clipboard. "Let's start with baseline readings before the first trial."
Elias was strapped to a table, sensors attached to his chest, head, and limbs. Blood was drawn from his arm, the needle larger than necessary, causing him to wince. No one noticed or cared.
"Subject exhibits normal pain response," noted one technician.
"Heart rate elevated but within acceptable parameters for stress reaction," said another.
They spoke about him as if he weren't there, discussing "the subject" and "the specimen" while preparing various instruments. Elias tried to follow their conversation, to understand what they planned, but their terminology was beyond him.
Words like "genetic modification" and "accelerated Awakening" floated above him as a mask was placed over his face. Something cold hissed into his lungs, and the world began to blur.
The last thing Elias heard before consciousness faded was a cold, clinical voice:
"Begin Trial One. Standard immersion compound at twenty percent concentration. Note the time—we'll measure how long until the convulsions start."
Then darkness claimed him, the first day of what would become three years of living nightmare.
As unconsciousness took him, one thought remained: the streets had been cruel, but at least there he had been a person. Here, he was only Subject 237—a thing to be tested, broken, and discarded when no longer useful.
And no one would ever know he was gone.