"Fiel, my love, don't strain yourself," the woman's voice breathed into the room again, soft as a lullaby and fierce as a warning all at once. "I know you can't remember, but you have to. It's important. You must protect the future. Your father might not be there to help, honey."
Her words hung in the air, equal parts comfort and alarm. The warmth in them should have soothed me, but the urgency threaded through every syllable tightened something raw inside my chest. It felt like being held by a hand that trembled even as it tried to steady you.
"Yes," I mumbled, my voice thin and uncertain. "I will not strain myself." The promise sounded small and brittle, the sort you make while trying not to fall apart.
My memories arrived like fragments of a broken mirror; glints of faces, colors, a laugh half-heard, each piece reflecting something I could no longer fit together. "But what exactly do you want me to remember? My memories are coming back slowly and in pieces. I can't make out some of the images."
I wasn't sure whether I spoke aloud or only into the hollow of my own head. Around me echoed the soft hum of machines and the distant hollow creak of the facility settling.
The woman's voice returned, but this time another voice answered too; a low, deep sound that did not belong to the young me. It rolled up from somewhere buried under the memory, an old, gravel-rough undertone that felt like the echo of a man I'd later become.
If I had to name it, I would have said it was the grown up me: older, and steadier, a voice that had carried weight before pain took it. It spoke slow, like someone pulling words from deep water.
That contrast between her warmth and his old gravity made my heart lurch. I wanted to reach for one and hide from the other, to curl into the comfort and to brace for the command.
My fingers twitched against the air, trying to hold onto the fragments that drifted in and out: a face in rain, a hand I trusted, a laugh that might have been mine. Each memory burned briefly, bright and cruel, then vanished like smoke.
My breath shallowed, the space around me feeling small and big at once, like the inside of a shell that had been cracked open. The woman's voice softened, patient as a practiced song: "You don't have to remember everything at once, Fiel. Just hold on to what you can. We'll fill the rest back together."
And somewhere under that, the deeper voice murmured something I couldn't quite catch; half a plan, half a warning, leaving me with an ache that was equal parts fear and something like responsibility.
The woman's voice chuckled softly, almost like a mother easing a child to sleep. "Like I said, honey... Don't strain yourself. Take it easy, and take your time."
Her words faded, like a lull drifting out to sea, and when the silence pressed back in, I began to stir awake.
My body sagged against something hard and cold, the chill seeping into my skin – sharp enough to ground me in this strange reality. Noise swarmed around me, a jumble of whispers, shuffling feet, and the scrape of something against wood.
I opened my eyes slowly, the brightness stinging, a white glare that made my pupils shrink. For a moment, I wanted to shut them again, to retreat into the safe dim of half-sleep. But something refused to let me.
When my vision steadied, I realized what I was leaning on was something wooden; 'a desk.' Polished, and rigid, the kind found in classrooms. My small hand traced the edge of it, only smoothness brushing against my skin.
As I glanced around, I saw rows upon rows of them, each one occupied by the children. Dozens, maybe more. Every one of them was sitting as if waiting, as if they had been here far longer than I had. I was shocked by the number, I couldn't have imagined so many of them were in this place.
In front of us loomed a blackboard; spotless, and unnaturally new, catching the ceiling lights with a faint gleam. A black mirror, waiting for words that hadn't yet been written.
The noise swelled again, breaths, coughs, small movements, but then, as though someone had pulled a thread through them all, silence spread. It was not gentle. It was heavy, and suffocating.
I felt it before I saw it: the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward me.
Every child stared, their gazes locked on me, their expressions drained of warmth. Blank stares, hollow and unreadable, like masks carved too smooth. No curiosity, no anger. Not even recognition, just an emptiness that made my chest tighten.
For a heartbeat, I thought they weren't children at all but my own hallucinations.
I wondered for a moment where we were, my head turning slowly as I studied every corner of the room. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and something metallic beneath it, like dried blood hidden behind the walls.
Six tall columns rose from the floor, supporting the ceiling like watchful sentinels, and beyond them stretched row after row of desks.
I sat three desks back in the fourth column from the door on my right. From there, I could see almost everyone, yet I felt like a piece misplaced in someone else's order.
Dropping my gaze to my body, I realized the difference. We weren't wearing the hospital gowns anymore. Each child had been dressed deliberately in the same uniform that were no different from pajamas; grey long-sleeved shirts tucked into trousers.
On the chest pocket of every shirt, a bold number was stamped in black, as if we were products on a shelf. When my fingers brushed against my own pocket, the fabric felt coarse, and foreign, and the number stitched into it burned into my mind, but I couldn't read what number it was.
Behind every shirt, large faded letters were etched in a way no one could ignore: WHITE UNIT FACILITY. The words branded us, stripping away names, faces, and whatever little identity we still clung to. We weren't children here, we were property.
On my right, the door hissed open, breaking the silence like a blade.
A woman stepped inside, her movements deliberately calm. She didn't storm in like the doctors, nor did she carry the same sharp presence as Drewman, her heels clicking lightly against the floor. A warm smile stretched across her lips, carefully painted, but too polished to feel real.
"Hello, White Unit Facility," she greeted, her voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the room. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."
Her words brushed over us like silk, but the truth inside them was steel. She wasn't addressing us as children. She was addressing us as what they had turned us into – 'assets.'
She wore navy-green silk trousers that shimmered faintly under the bright lights, paired with a cream silk long-sleeved blouse.
The fabric was soft, flowing, but its neatness painted her more as a professor than anything else. Yet her face remained hidden, shadowed beneath the brim of a hat pulled so close it seemed to shield her from our stares.
Her pink hair, tied perfectly behind the hat, was so precise that not even a stray strand dared cross her face. She looked manufactured, and in every movement deliberate, like someone sculpted to appear approachable, but controlled down to the smallest detail.
Then, with one graceful motion, she lifted the hat. The brim tilted back, and for the first time, her face came into view.
"I am Seraphyne Ocult," she announced, her voice smooth, every syllable carried with measured confidence. "You can all just call me Seraphyne or Ocult, one that is easier for you. I'm an Onai, a first generation… master of ice. I'm sure you've heard of those things, right?"
A ripple passed through the room. Some children shifted in their seats, their gazes wary. Others stared blankly, unmoved, as if her words meant nothing.
Seraphyne's lips curved faintly into what might have been a smile, her tone calm but deliberate. "I will be staying here full time, so you might see me sometimes even when you don't expect it."
She paused, her eyes sweeping the rows, lingering long enough on each child to make them squirm in their seats. "But don't worry, I'm not spirit-bound… so I won't hurt you." She said with the faintest edge of humor curling at the end of her words
Her assurance was supposed to sound comforting, but the way her words clung to the air only made the silence heavier. None of us spoke, none dared.
But the moment she said her name, was the very moment it slipped from me, like water through cupped hands. I couldn't hold such a name that felt even hard to pronounce. It was gone, forgotten.
In appearance, she didn't look old at all. If I had to guess, she might have been in her early twenties, her features delicate yet arresting. But it wasn't her youth that unsettled me, it was her beauty, a beauty so precise it felt unnatural, as though it had been carved to perfection.
And then there was her smile; arm, and gentle. A kind of warmth I hadn't felt in so long that my chest ached with the reminder of it. I hadn't realized it yet, but that smile was the reason the room had fallen into silence.
One by one, every child around me sat dazed, almost enchanted, our stares locked on her as though her presence had stripped us of thought.
"So, you're probably wondering why I'm here… and why you're in this room." She continued, her tone soothing, her words weaving through the air like soft music,
The calm in her voice settled over us like a blanket, my small body easing against the desk without me meaning to.
Somethingin her voice felt familiar. Just for a heartbeat, it wasn't Seraphyne voice I heard but of that sweet woman. The one that keeps whispering to me, the one that calls me honey and begs me to remember anything.
"I will be your homeroom teacher. I'll teach you everything you need to know about the outside world… and everything necessary for you here." Her pink eyes swept across us like gentle flames, pausing on each face before she went on. "But first, how about you introduce yourselves?"