The man's finger—pale, gloved—hung in the air like a loaded gun.
It didn't waver. It didn't twitch. It simply pointed, and everything else collapsed.
The room didn't scream. It inhaled.
Ash didn't remember standing up, or walking, or whether his legs were shaking. One moment he was in bed, the next his feet were bare against the dorm's cold tile, and he was moving.
Someone—Caleb, maybe—reached toward him from under the covers. Just a tiny motion. Just a hand.
But he pulled it back.
The man in black turned without a word. The other followed. Ash followed them both.
They marched him through the east wing, past the cracked windows and half-lit hallways. The orphans called it the "ghost corridor"—where the insulation peeled like skin and the wind howled through broken vents.
At the end was a steel door Ash had only seen once.
Now it opened with a sound like a dying animal. Screeching metal. Rust flaking off like dry blood.
Beyond it was the night. And the car.
Sleek. Black. Not a single plate or marking.
The back door clicked open. A hand pushed his head gently—almost tenderly—then shoved him inside.
The door slammed shut. Locked.
The car was already full.
Four kids. Different faces. Different eyes. Same silence.
One of them—a girl with shaved hair and a thick scar down her cheek—stared out the window like she wasn't really here. Another boy had blood on his sleeve. Not fresh. Just there, like it had dried a long time ago and no one ever bothered to clean it.
No one spoke.
Ash didn't either.
The windows were tinted. The world outside vanished.
They drove.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had no shape anymore.
The car dipped lower. Roads became tunnels. Tunnels became concrete spirals. Eventually, the air changed.
It smelled like iron and antiseptic. Like cold hospitals and old knives.
A light flickered ahead.
The car stopped.
The doors didn't open until the hum of some unseen mechanism let out a metallic sigh.
A voice from above—genderless, mechanical—spoke:
"Welcome to The Nest. Exit in single file. No speaking. No resistance."
The locks clicked.
Ash stepped out.
He expected some kind of facility. A hallway. A room. Maybe guards with guns.
But instead...
A cavern.
That's what it looked like. An open, echoing chamber the size of a cathedral—but built of steel and shadow. Concrete pillars jutted out like ribs from the floor. Harsh white lights buzzed overhead in lines, illuminating walkways, vents, drone arms. Everything gleamed. Everything bled silence.
He wasn't the only one.
More kids were pouring in from other doors. At least fifty now. Some crying. Most not. A few didn't even look surprised.
Ash's throat tightened.
What was this place?
A low siren echoed. Lights blinked red.
"FORM LINES. FACE FORWARD. DO NOT MOVE."
Something inside Ash responded before his brain did. He moved to the line.
That was when he saw the man.
No—not a man. Something thinner. Tighter. Almost serpent-like.
He wore a black lab coat and silver glasses. Bald. Eyes so pale they were almost white. His hands moved behind his back in a rhythm too precise to be nervous.
He stepped up to a podium that rose from the floor like a steel tongue.
And then he smiled.
It was the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. It bypassed them completely and landed in some place deeper. Sharper.
"Children," he said. His voice carried with unnatural ease. "My name is Professor Halbrecht. I am not here to comfort you. I am not here to explain things slowly."
A pause.
"I am here to see who among you... is worth salvaging."
Murmurs. A soft sob. A foot scuffed concrete.
The Professor's head snapped toward the sound.
"You may think this is a school. You may think you were brought here for a second chance. But The Nest is neither a sanctuary nor a salvation. It is a crucible."
He paced slowly. Not looking at the children. Looking past them. Like they were paperwork.
"You are here because no one wants you. No family. No function. No future."
He turned, finally.
"So we will make one for you. Or unmake you entirely."
Ash didn't feel fear the way he used to. Not anymore.
It didn't rush up and drown him like it used to back in District 17. Now it pooled at his feet, cold and patient. Waiting.
Halbrecht's voice turned soft.
"Tonight, you will take part in what we call the Selection."
A murmur. A hand rose—timidly. A boy.
"What's... what's the test?"
Halbrecht smiled wider. "Ah. You want to understand. You want fairness. How quaint."
He tapped a small button on the podium.
With a low groan, a segment of the floor peeled open. Something like an industrial elevator rose from the depths. On it: glowing cylinders, red lights blinking at the top.
"Inside this maze," Halbrecht said, "are twenty red tokens."
He held up a small disc. It gleamed like blood under the lights.
"There are fifty-three of you."
He let the math hang in the air.
"Those who return with tokens will be retained. Trained. Perhaps even honored."
He folded his hands.
"Those who do not... will be cast out."
Someone whimpered. Someone else vomited. A few cried silently.
Ash said nothing.
Halbrecht tilted his head. "You have one hour. No weapons. No help. No excuses."
The far wall opened with a mechanical shriek. A black corridor yawned wide. Cold air poured out like breath.
"Begin," said the Professor.
And the children walked into the dark.
Ash didn't hesitate.
Not because he was brave.
Because the alternative... was worse.