"Are you absolutely certain this… *plan*… will work?" No. 7 eyed the flurry of activity, his unease palpable.
No. 4 stood sentinel at the dormitory door, a thin, rigid lookout. His injured hand, though mostly mended, still moved with a slight awkwardness. His gaze, laser-focused through the narrow door crack, scanned for any hint of approaching trouble.
On the floor, No. 6 diligently soaked No. 3's shoes in the developer solution. After a thorough drenching, she wiped off the excess and hung them to dry. Beside her, No. 5, lean and wiry as a feral cat, and No. 8 furiously fanned the shoes, a desperate race against time to prevent tell-tale footprints come morning. No. 3, meanwhile, stood with hands on hips, a cocksure grin plastered across his face, already savoring their imagined triumph.
"Piece of cake!" No. 3 thumped his chest. "Everywhere I go, I leave a trail. You follow the breadcrumbs, and bingo! You'll find that Holy Covenant Platform, the one that lets us talk to our families."
No. 7 frowned, fingers restlessly plucking at his cuffs. His gaze fixed on the developer solution in No. 6's hands. His throat tightened. "The stakes are too high," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "If you're caught… do you even grasp the consequences? And how can you be so sure this Platform is even close by? What if it's miles away? They'll take a carriage; what good are shoe prints then?"
"It won't be. It has to be near the Sanctum, maybe even *inside* it." No. 6 looked up, her eyes blazing with a near-fanatical conviction. "Of course, we know the risks," she stated, chin jutting defiantly. "And yes, we know it could all be for nothing."
"And you're doing it anyway? No. 3, you're off to the Most Holy Sanctum tomorrow! Why throw it all away on this gamble?"
No. 3's bravado wavered for a heartbeat, then returned full force. "Exactly! Because I'm leaving, I *have* to help you guys now, more than ever! Besides… what if I get to the Sanctum and… and I never see any of you again?"
No. 7 opened his mouth, but no rebuttal came. No. 6's eyelashes fluttered, veiling a maelstrom of emotion.
"No. 7, you just don't get it," she said, her voice raw. "Those of us who remember… every morning we wake up wondering: *Are they alive? Are they searching for me?* Even once. Even just to hear their voice. Even a single, whispered, 'Are you okay?' For that, I'd risk everything. I can't live with myself if I have a shot and don't take it because I'm too scared."
A vise clamped around No. 7's heart. He didn't understand, not really. But he understood the Church's ironclad rules with chilling clarity.
"But if this goes south, we're all toast. No. 3 loses his place, No. 6, you'll be rotting in the purification room, and I…"
"And you? You'll still be Silas's golden boy, won't you? Sailing through as the star student, as always."
No. 7 whirled. No. 8, fan now idle, leaned against the bed, arms crossed, a contemptuous sneer twisting his lips. He'd clearly been lying in wait.
No. 6 scrambled to her feet, a peacemaker. "We were just discussing—"
"Discussing? Discussing what? How peachy life is in this paradise?"
No. 8 yanked up his robe. In the flickering candlelight, his exposed skin was a horrifying tapestry of scars—some faded white, others an angry, puckered red, chillingly recent.
His voice vibrated with suppressed fury. "You, coddled and favored, have no *concept* of what we 'rejects' endure! Do you know what failing an exam *means*? What that hag Marina does if we put a single foot wrong in practice? You, with your private lessons from Silas—how could you possibly understand?"
No. 7 stared, poleaxed. He'd never seen No. 8's scars, never heard him utter a word about them of his own accord. Even when changing, No. 8 always found a shadowed corner. No. 7's throat worked, but any words of defense died, unspoken.
The scars were a silent, irrefutable indictment, more potent than any tirade. Suddenly, all his prattling about "risk" and "rules" felt shamefully hollow.
No. 8 let the robe fall. He wasn't angling for pity; his pride was a fortress.
"For three years, every waking moment, I've dreamed of escaping this hellhole, of returning to Yangcheng, my home. My mother… she's long gone. If I vanish too… what becomes of my father? My family? Can you even begin to comprehend that? *Can you?*"
He glared at No. 7, the question a raw accusation. He remembered their first meeting, how No. 7 had struggled, yet managed, to understand his native dialect. A fleeting hope—a kinsman?—had soured into bitter disappointment.
"I… I'll keep your secret," No. 7 finally choked out, his voice raspy. He couldn't meet their eyes. "But anything else… I'm out."
The words tasted like ash. An inexplicable shame burned through him. Silas *had* treated him differently. He remembered, with a clarity that pained him, arriving in this alien world, lost and terrified. It was Silas's patient guidance that had fanned the embers of his will to live. Even in the purification room, Silas had ensured he had a blanket. He often heard the others, the ones with memories, speak of their parents. Sometimes, he thought Silas was the closest thing to a father he had left in this forsaken world.
A shadow passed over No. 6's eyes, quickly replaced by a steely resolve, yet the disappointment lingered, an unspoken reproach.
"It's okay," she said softly. "That's… enough."
***
As dawn's first light fractured through the stained-glass windows, painting the corridor in bruised hues, No. 3 stood ready in the hall. Despite a sleepless night of frantic preparations, he was impeccably dressed.
His worldly possessions were meager: a change of clothes, the dried rations No. 6 had pressed upon him. The sunlight limned him in gold, an unwitting saint on a reluctant pilgrimage.
"Just act normal, follow their lead," No. 6 reiterated, her voice tight with urgency. "The Platform has to be close. They might blindfold you. Don't make any sudden moves. Just walk."
"I know, I know! My ears are about to fall off!" No. 3 playfully ruffled No. 6's hair, deliberately mussing her bangs into a state of charming disarray.
No. 4 stepped forward, pressing a hand-woven amulet into No. 3's hand. Rough knots secured a few colorful, river-smoothed stones that winked and shimmered in the nascent light. He'd collected them during his lookout vigils, a small, hoarded treasure. They clicked together softly, a miniature wind chime.
"Take this. For luck."
No. 3 squeezed his shoulder. No. 4's injured arm flinched almost imperceptibly. A pang of guilt shot through No. 3. "That won't happen again, I swear. I'll train like a maniac. Next time we meet, I won't be so clumsy."
Tears welled in No. 5's eyes, threatening to spill. He'd never been adept at emotional control, and farewells undid him completely.
No. 3 chuckled, patting No. 5's lean, surprisingly sinewy arm. "Hey, it's okay. Next time we meet, we'll race. See who's faster then, eh?"
No. 5 scrubbed at his eyes, nodding vigorously, his unruly chestnut curls bouncing.
No. 8 lurked in the deepest shadows, arms still crossed, a graven statue of indifference. He offered no words. But No. 3 strode towards him and, without preamble, pulled him into a fierce, unyielding hug.
No. 8 went rigid, every muscle tensed. Then, slowly, hesitantly, his own arms came up to pat No. 3's back.
When No. 3 turned to No. 7, an awkwardness descended. He scratched the back of his head, a tell-tale gesture that made him look like a guilty schoolboy.
"Hey, don't look so glum. It's not like I'm marching to my execution." His bravado was belied by the incessant fiddling with his belt buckle.
A faint ringing started in No. 7's ears. He wanted to say something—a warning, a plea—but the words wouldn't form. What was he even trying to warn him *about*?
A heavy, suffocating ache filled his chest, like a wad of sodden cotton lodged in his throat, choking off all utterance. Finally, only a hoarse, "Take care," escaped. The words hung between them, flimsy and powerless.
"Time to go." Silas's voice, from the doorway, was devoid of inflection.
No. 3 took one last, sweeping look at his friends. Then, he squared his shoulders, thumped his chest with a resounding thud. "We *will* meet again!"
As he turned, his cloak swirled, stirring a faint breeze laden with the damp scent of morning dew. It eddied around No. 7's nostrils, strangely, momentarily, easing the suffocating pressure in his chest.
"No. 3!" No. 7 suddenly yelled, the volume startling even himself.
No. 3 spun back, surprise etched on his face. The sun, at his back, created a halo of hazy gold, his form dissolving into the light.
No. 7's lips trembled. The ominous premonition intensified, a suffocating weight. *What is it? What am I missing?*
He saw the glint of the colored stones No. 3 wore, the surprisingly dense hairs in his slightly twitching nostrils, even the faint, almost-healed scar behind his ear… but the crucial word, the vital warning, remained maddeningly elusive.
"No. 7?" No. 3 looked concerned, a lock of brown hair tumbling onto his forehead. "What's wrong?"
"You…" The nascent thought, the urgent feeling, flickered and died, impossible to grasp. In the distance, the Cardinal Sin Bishop's impatient cough cut through the charged silence.
"Time's up. Let's move." An instructor took No. 3's arm, his touch surprisingly gentle.
No. 3 was pulled back a few steps, but his eyes never left No. 7. His expression morphed from confusion to a dawning comprehension, finally erupting into a brilliant, dazzling smile. "Don't worry! I'll be careful! I promise!"
No. 7 stood rooted, watching the retreating figure dwindle. No. 3's final wave seemed to play out in agonizing slow motion, each frame seared into his memory.
Only when the white robe had vanished completely beyond the doorway did he realize his fingernails had carved deep, bloody crescents into his palms.