The darkness wasn't empty.
It had weight.
A thick, muffled kind of weight, as if the air itself had been packed with cloth.
For a few seconds—maybe longer—our breathing was the only sound. I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or shut.
Then—click.
A single strip of fluorescent light sputtered to life overhead. The sudden brightness stabbed my eyes, forcing me to squint.
The space was bigger than I expected—an old gymnasium, maybe. The floor was scuffed wood, faint court markings half-swallowed by dust. Rows of faces turned toward us. Children. Dozens of them.
They were our age—some younger, a few older—but none looked relieved to see us. They sat in uneven lines, backs straight, eyes forward. No one whispered. No one moved.
And there, in the middle of the room, stood a man.
His eyes were closed, chin tilted just slightly down as if listening to a voice only he could hear. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back. His coat—long, dark, and too clean for this place—brushed the tops of polished black shoes.
Grey hair fell in uneven strands across his forehead, catching the light, but something about him was wrong. His skin was smooth, unlined. His posture belonged to someone twenty-five at most. Twenty-five, with the hair of someone twice that.
Movement caught my eye off to the side.
A girl leaned against a beam, arms curled tightly around a blue backpack pressed to her chest. The straps were worn, fraying near the edges. It looked like she'd been holding it that way for a long time—not clutching in fear exactly, but with a quiet determination, like the bag was the only thing here she could trust.
It took me a moment to place her—Mira. Still holding her blue backpack tightly
The man in the center finally spoke.
"Ah," he said softly, as if tasting the sound. Then, with a little smile: "New arrivals. Always the best part of the week. Like unwrapping presents, only the wrapping usually screams."
He opened his eyes. They were pale—almost colorless—yet somehow piercing.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he continued, straightening without losing that faint, amused tone. "I am Doctor Veyren. Not the doctor, mind you. Just a doctor. My doctorate, before you ask, is in… well, in knowing things I shouldn't. And possibly dentistry, but I keep forgetting."
A small chuckle from somewhere in the rows, quickly silenced.
"You've all been brought here because you share something… unusual," he said, pacing slowly now, his boots clicking faintly on the floor. "Or rather, because of something you lack. No gifts. No special tricks. No powers. Nothing to make the world notice you."
He stopped, resting his hands lightly behind his back again.
"That makes you dangerous," he said. "Because the world cannot predict what it ignores. And that—my little blanks—is where I come in."
The light above hummed, casting quick shadows across his face.
"Some of you were told you were worthless," he said, tilting his head. "Some of you were invisible long before you learned the word for it. But here—ah, here—it means you are a canvas. Blank. Untouched. And I do love my art projects."
Doctor Veyren's mouth twitched in a smile that might have been meant to comfort, though it failed spectacularly.
"Think of me as a gardener," he said. "And you—" He gestured to all of us. "—as a very peculiar crop. I'll water you, feed you, trim back the parts that grow the wrong way. And eventually…" He gave a mock sigh, raising his brows. "…you'll be presentable."
From the side, I caught Mira's expression—calm, unreadable. Her grip on the backpack didn't loosen.
Doctor Veyren clasped his hands together with a sharp clap.
"Now," he said cheerfully, "shall we begin?"