Her hand was still on his. The same hand that had grabbed his wrist just moments ago... when he nearly strangled the one he once thought was stronger than him.
Now, just a touch.
But it... felt heavy.
She sat beside him in silence, staring into the void ahead, her eyes half-closed... as if trying to shut down her thoughts by force.
He didn't speak either.
But he was listening.
There was a sound... barely noticeable... a quick, shallow breath repeating.
He turned slowly to see a boy sitting just two steps away, his face toward the wall, head slightly tilted... as if he were eavesdropping.
He wasn't asleep. Not even lying down. He sat as if waiting for something—or someone.
Without turning to him, the boy said:
> "If you'd done it… we might not have woken up tomorrow."
He didn't answer.
But his eyes remained on him. Thin. Hair curling over one eye, pale skin, a calm darkness in his gaze.
> "He's not like us..." he thought.
---
Near the iron door, a group of boys had gathered around the blonde boy—the same one who had laughed in the face of blood back in the tunnel.
One was cleaning his bandages, another laughing at a joke not worth laughing at. Even a slightly taller boy was tying his shoelaces.
> "They'd die just to be praised by someone..." the girl beside him muttered, barely audible.
He nodded toward them:
> "Those who follow power... break before the rest."
> "No. He builds his power on them. And they're happy to be broken."
On the opposite wall, a tilted bed like an old cradle. Sitting on it was an older girl… her back resting, legs crossed.
She was peeling an apple with a small knife, unnervingly calm.
She didn't look at anyone. Didn't speak.
But no one dared approach.
One of the younger kids stumbled and fell about a meter from her... he stayed on the ground, not even daring to get up toward her.
She glanced at him for a second, then continued peeling… as if she had sentenced him to eternal silence.
> "Her?" he asked.
> "No one knows her name. But everyone's quiet when she's near."
> "Why?"
> "Because she doesn't make noise... but whenever she speaks, pain follows."
---
Donfrey sat on the ground. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes scanning from one corner to another.
> "There are three types here..."
He looked up at the blonde boy and his laughter: "Type one: the ones who ride the wave... even if it's a wall of corpses."
Then to the boy near the wall: "Type two: the ones who see everything... and say nothing."
Then to the girl peeling quietly: "Type three: the ones who didn't just survive... they became the trauma."
> "And me? What am I?"
---
Before he could finish asking himself, a sound echoed.
A low electronic beep, gradually rising.
Then the door opened.
Everyone who was seated stood up—slowly, cautiously.
A new person entered.
Short. Slightly overweight. A gray rabbit mask. But what was strange… his mouth was half open, as if saying something no one could hear.
In his hand was a short baton, which he tapped against the ground every two seconds.
> "Time for the next lesson, little rabbits."
His voice was soft... yet icy cold.
> "No fights this time. No shocks. No deaths."
A pause.
Then he smiled:
> "But… there is something else you'll wish you died to avoid."
Dara—the quiet girl—gently lowered her knife.
The blonde boy stood slowly, his grin fading just a little.
The boy by the wall didn't move… but he closed his eyes once.
As for Donfrey… he gripped Freya's hand from the floor.
> "Get up. Don't fall again."
She looked up at him.
> "I didn't fall. I... I'm still standing… but my heart sat down."
He smiled, despite everything.
Then stood.
He was ready.
What is the next test? Who will break first? And who will change? And among all of them… who should never be trusted?