They didn't let him see her.
06/50 didn't yell. He didn't demand. He just asked. Quietly.
> "Where's my sister?"
That's all he said.
The overseer didn't answer with words.
He answered with a baton.
The first hit came from the side — hard and fast. It caught 06/50 across the cheekbone and knocked him straight to the ground.
Gravel tore at his palms when he tried to break his fall. Before he could lift his head, a heavy boot pressed down on his back, pinning him in the dirt.
"You think you get to ask?" the overseer spat.
His voice was low and venomous — the kind you didn't argue with.
"You're not a person. You're a curse with legs. You don't ask."
Another kick. Right in the ribs.
Someone nearby flinched at the sound, but no one stepped forward. No one said a word.
Even the ones who had eaten with her. Slept beside her. Laughed with her.
They just kept moving.
06/50 curled into himself until the blows stopped. The overseer walked off like nothing had happened.
That was how things worked in Sanctem.
He dragged himself back to the dorm block before curfew.
His face was already swelling. His ribs ached every time he breathed. He tasted blood in his mouth and swallowed it down.
The room was dim — thirty bodies lying on slabs of cracked concrete, thin gray sheets, and silence. Most were already asleep or pretending to be.
He sat down in the far corner. His spot. Hers had been two rows away. She used to wave to him when she thought no one was watching.
He stared at the empty space for a long time.
That's when a whisper came, barely audible.
"They took her to the east pits," someone muttered behind him. A boy. Maybe twelve. "She didn't die quick."
06/50 didn't turn around. He didn't ask what the boy meant.
He didn't want to know.
But his mind went there anyway — and it painted the worst.
No one cried for her.
Not even the ones who liked her.
Not the girl she'd braided hair for two nights ago.
Not the boy she'd shared stolen fruit with last month.
They didn't forget. They just… swallowed it.
Because grief wasn't safe here.
If they saw you mourning, they punished you. If you broke down, they labeled you unstable. If you tried to speak her name, someone would report you.
The rules were simple.
You were born marked. You lived marked. You died forgotten.
That night, 06/50 lay flat on the floor. His body throbbed with pain, but that wasn't what kept him awake.
He wasn't angry yet. He wasn't sad either. He was just… cold.
There was no name to whisper goodbye to. No grave to kneel by.
Not even a scrap of her blanket left behind.
He didn't cry.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because there was nothing left inside him that knew how.