"Fiel, honey… Do you remember anything?"
A woman's voice reached me, soft and warm, like a blanket laid across a frozen night.
Do I remember anything?
My lashes fluttered, heavy, and the moment I forced my eyes open, the world stabbed back. The bright lights above seared into me like fire, making me squint, my vision swimming in white and blur. My chest tightened as if I'd woken from drowning.
And then I realized, this wasn't the body I knew. My arms were thin, my legs weak, trembling even against the weight of the sheets. Small hands clutched at the air. I had shrunk into myself, frail, five years old again.
Dream… or reality? I couldn't tell. Yet the air smelled too real, the sting in my eyes too sharp, the weight of the voice too heavy to dismiss. Everything was so real it pulled at my bones and refused to let go.
I shuffled forward, bare feet whispering against the cold floor, until I reached the wide pane of glass that walled me off from the hallway beyond. The hospital gown hanging from my shoulders was far too large for me, the sleeves falling past my hands as if I had stolen clothes meant for a giant. My body felt small, swallowed by the fabric, swallowed by the silence.
I pressed my palm flat against the glass. It was cold, so cold it bit into my skin, leaving a faint outline of my fingers fogged against the surface.
Through the blur of light and shadow outside, I peered down the corridor to my right. There two figures stood, their voices low, but their posture sharp against the gloom.
The first one stood, his back turned to me, even without seeing his face, I knew too well, he was Drewman. His stance was rigid, his shoulders squared, hands clasped neatly behind his back like the soldier he once was. Even turned away from me, I could feel the weight of authority rolling off him. He was the man who ran the White Unit facility, the one who controlled every breath I took inside these walls.
But it was the second figure that made my chest tighten.
They stood across from him, still as stone, swallowed in shadow. No light touched them. Their face, if there was one, remained hidden, as though the darkness itself refused to part for me.
It wasn't like any person I had ever seen. Its whole body was nothing but a blur of darkness, airy and insubstantial, as though no flesh or bone existed beneath the cloak it wore. The hood covered its face, yet inside there was only shadow; a shifting, formless mass where features should have been. The cloak itself seemed alive, rippling and swirling with dark energy, its edges fraying like smoke caught in a current, fading but never gone.
I squinted, and strained, even pressed my forehead against the glass until it hurt, but it made no difference. The harder I tried to focus, the more the figure dissolved, like oil poured into water.
A shiver ran through me, not from the cold of the glass, but from the way the corridor itself seemed to bend around their presence.
Then suddenly, the figure lifted its head.
Though it had no visible eyes, its gaze locked onto mine. I felt it – cold, and heavy, sinking straight into my chest with a weight that made the blood drain from my face. For a moment I forgot how to breathe.
The figure did nothing, and said nothing. They simply looked. And yet, in that silence, I felt my chest tighten like claws had closed around it. My small frame trembled, my hand slipping from the glass as if the cold had burned me.
Then just as sudden, they tilted their head, birdlike, and unnatural, as though measuring me. Their shape wavered, edges blurring like smoke stirred by wind, and in the next instant their body unraveled. Darkness spilled upward, folding them into nothing until the corridor stood empty.
Drewman spun at the shift of air, his coat whipping slightly with the sudden turn. His sharp gaze swept the hallway, then drifted toward my direction.
Panic jolted through me as I stumbled back from the window and pressed myself flat against the cold stone wall beside it, breath shallow, chest hammering. The gown's fabric swallowed me whole as I slid down low, hugging my knees, praying the shadows would hide me.
Drewman stood unmoving, his brow furrowed, his stare lingering on the glass. Confusion marked his features. It was as if he was trying to puzzle out what the vanished figure had been staring at… never realizing it had been me.
Then the sound of footsteps broke the silence.
Heavy boots, softer slippers. A shuffle of many feet echoing through the corridor.
I dared to peek again, my small fingers gripping the glass as my heart thudded against my ribs.
More children my age and older were being led out of their rooms. Each one wore the same oversized hospital gowns, fabric hanging loosely from their thin frames. But that was where the similarities ended.
Their skin was pale, so pale it looked as though all warmth had been drained from them. Their eyes caught the dim light of the corridor and some of those eyes glowed, red-stained irises burning with something unearthly.
A few had tiny horns breaking through the smoothness of their foreheads, raw and jagged, like bone forcing its way out. Others revealed sharp fangs glistening with fresh saliva, guttural groans rolling from their throats as if words had been stolen from them.
Their expressions twisted my stomach. Some glared at me with cold, unreadable stares that seemed to pierce straight through the glass. Others burned with naked anger, their lips curled back, jaws tight as if restraining the urge to lunge.
They were children, yet not children anymore.
And I stood frozen, too weak to move, as the hallway filled with the sound of their breathing.
One by one, they were marched down the corridor, their shuffling footsteps echoing against the cold walls, until their figures melted into the shadows of the far corner where my sight could no longer follow. The silence they left behind pressed heavily against the glass, as though the air itself remembered their presence.
I lowered my gaze to my own body, and a storm of thoughts rose inside me. I compared myself to them, to those pale children whose skin looked drained of life. Mine wasn't as pale, though the gown against my small frame made me look frailer than I wished to admit.
I lifted trembling fingers to my mouth, brushing across my teeth, but no fangs. My chest loosened with relief, if only for a heartbeat. Then I turned toward the faint reflection on the glass, straining to see my eyes.
The angle caught only glimpses, but what I saw was always the same, the strange white-bluish glow that had haunted me for as long as I could remember. Mine were different from the rest. No, I was different from the rest.
At that moment, I wondered what it felt like to be them.
Before I could sink further into the weight of those thoughts, the hiss of a lock turning snapped my head around.
The door to my room opened, and Drewman stood framed in the doorway, tall and unyielding. His shadow stretched long across the floor, cutting the room in two. Slowly, he extended his hand toward me, palm open, fingers steady, an invitation, or perhaps a command disguised as kindness.
I froze for a moment, my chest tight. The last time he held my hand, he snapped my wrist into two. I lifted my gaze to his face. His expression was unreadable, carved in stone. Yet something about his stare made it clear: resistance was not an option.
And so, without hesitation, I reached for his hand.
A scar carved across his face, running from the bridge of his nose to the edge of his ear, a harsh reminder of battles I could only imagine. His gray beard was trimmed with precision, each line sharp as if cut with a blade, and his short greyish-brown hair, though streaked with age, framed him with a discipline that refused to fade.
There was sharpness in him still, a presence that carried both command and restraint, as though youth had never fully loosened its grip on him.
I placed my tiny fingers into his large hand. His palm was rough, calloused, every line in it speaking of a life built on orders given and orders carried out. His grip swallowed mine completely, steady, unyielding, a reminder that I was small and he was not.
He led me out, and together we stepped into the corridor. The light flickered overhead, dim shadows crawling along the walls. My feet moved because his hand demanded they move, yet my gaze betrayed me.
I kept peeking back over my shoulder. The hallway stretched long and empty, but my eyes lingered on the spot where that figure of shadows had stood. The air still felt thick there, as though the darkness hadn't left, only folded itself deeper into the corners, waiting.
And I couldn't shake the thought that it was still watching.
Drewman's grip never loosened as he guided me into another room. The door opened with a metallic groan, and the air inside hit me stale, sharp with disinfectant, and tinged with the faint iron scent of blood.
Rows of beds lined the walls, each one occupied by children. Some lay still, their eyes open but blank, glassy orbs staring at nothing, as if their souls had been swept away. Others whimpered under their breaths, small sounds that cracked the silence like fragile glass, while their bodies twisted restlessly against the sheets.
A few were already past struggling – too weak to move, they collapsed onto their mattresses, their limbs slack, pulled down as though by some invisible weight pressing from above.
The sight made my chest tighten, but before I could take it in fully, rough hands pulled at me. My oversized gown slipped from my shoulders, leaving me stripped bare under the harsh light. The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls closing in as footsteps approached.
Doctors in white coats surrounded me, their faces hidden behind masks, their eyes as cold as the instruments they carried. The tray beside them gleamed, littered with needles so many I lost count.
I wanted to run, to scream, to hide, but my body was too small, and too frail.