He changed without turning on the light.Shoes first. He pulled his laces tight, then tighter. The old pair by the door still fit. He tested them with a few steps across the floor, rolling his ankles once, twice. No stiffness or hitch, thankfully, no scars to hide. He briefly thought back to the last run he did and barely remembered it.He shut his eyes tightly as the memories rushed through him, trying to dispel them. He hadn't learned how to yet.Figuring it was better to start moving, he tiptoed outside.Outside, the air bit at his lungs. He shut the door quietly and started jogging before the lock clicked behind him. Waving his arms to warm up and get the blood going, he sped up.The first mile was always the worst.His breathing settled into rhythm as the street slid past. Houses. Trees. Cracked sidewalks, he remembered avoiding without thinking. A hydrant leaked slowly at the curb. He ran because motion kept his hands busy and his thoughts from folding in on themselves. He needed exercise, and it was easier to sleep when his body was tired.It just never worked for long.The scars were gone. Physically, he was healed. His mind was in perfect condition. Even mentally, the worst of it had faded. The madness was mostly gone.But some things didn't leave. He still remembered.By the second mile, the memories crept in anyway. The beatings. The slow knife work. The pliers that were used on him. Potions were forced down his throat so they could heal him enough to do it again. Each refusal brought him pain and even more pain. When he failed, sometimes they bought him another stretch at the table. Thinking he was doing it on purpose.They'd taken him because he could craft. Because his work held its efficacy longer when others failed. They told him he was lucky. Told him he was too valuable to risk. He'd believed them, exhausted enough not to question the offer. So he went.The facility had been clean. Bright, with wall sconces and polished floors. The sound of other crafts echoed through the halls. They gave him tools and space and watched from behind glass.It was almost normal and infinitely safer than where he had been working before.Until a coworker asked for a night off."Just keep working," they'd said. "This helps everyone. You're doing important work." The potions he made at first were simple. Healed more than others. Cleansed poison more reliably. Improvements that stacked. They were used immediately. They brought him data and asked for more. He was happy to do it too; they gave him all the materials he needed, and he had gotten perks there he didn't think he would be able to.He ran past a stop sign, barely seeing it, and didn't slow down. He saw another runner but barely acknowledged the wave he gave him. When the orders changed, that's when he refused.They wanted quantity over care. Speed over reliability. They wanted him to skip steps that mattered if they wanted the best quality possible. It went against everything he wanted.He told them no. He would craft as he wanted. It was an artful science he loved. The care taken to measure out portions and prepare ingredients. How his mana had woven through his body and into the brew. How mixtures could have wildly different results just from mana control. It was exhilarating, but they didn't care.The first punishment wasn't painful. It just sucked. Less food and sleep, but longer hours. So…he kept refusing. By the third mile, his legs burned, and he welcomed it. The pain was familiar, and the burn in his chest was a welcome distraction. The restraints came next. A chair bolted to the floor. Tools were taken away, then returned just out of reach. The questions repeated until they stopped being questions. They wanted his recipes, then, when he refused, they tortured him until he couldn't say no. They made him work in front of other alchemists, hoping they could copy him.But…no one could copy how he controlled his mana.They hurt him longer when he tried to stay silent, and he did try, but it was so hard. He stumbled on a cracked stretch of pavement and corrected without breaking stride, his body moving more smoothly than it had any right to. Eventually…he broke, and the madness set in.That was the part people liked to pretend didn't matter or wouldn't happen to them. Everyone broke. It was only a matter of time. Bodies and minds weren't built for that kind of constant pain. Not when relief was so easy.So… he went back to work.He crafted with shaking hands and learned how to make them stop shaking. His mana flowed through him with more control than it had any right to. He focused on output and efficiency. On giving them what they wanted fast enough that they wouldn't come back. The potions improved, but so did the demands.By the fifth mile, sweat soaked through his shirt. His breathing was harsh now, steady but loud. The road curved toward the busy park. Fewer houses, but more families out enjoying the colder weather. He saw a family walking through the park, laughing and enjoying each other's company.They had no idea what was coming. When everyone is taken, the system was brutal; families were split unless they were lucky enough to be holding each other. But there was no protection for children. They got sent wherever the system deemed. The dichotomy of the system always confused him. That was when he figured out the improvement potions.It wasn't kindness or hope, sheer practicality, and a unique madness that had crept its way in—a way to keep the cutters out of the room.They wanted stronger soldiers. Faster reactions and more survivability. They didn't care how it happened, only that it worked. Some of the ingredients they brought him were vile. Organs and blood, refined magical materials that hadn't come from monsters. He barely even noticed and welcomed the ingredients.He stopped thinking like an artisan or even a person and started feeling like a system.That was how he kept what little sanity he had left.Concentrated solutions. Temporary effects that he was able to craft into becoming permanent. Something that could be administered quickly, without training or preparation. He used what he knew about the body and limits. About how far you could push before something broke. He thought he was doing well in those moments and working to save humanity and himself.When they brought him live test subjects, he didn't care. He only cared about not getting the cutters back. The first vial worked.Olympic-level strength. Speed that turned seconds into fractions. Reflexes that made veterans look slow.They were thrilled, and they ordered more.He made them. Hundreds. Then thousands. Each one another brick in a wall he couldn't see over.When one enhancement worked too well, and someone died, they didn't blame the vial. They blamed him. It was the result of a new perk he had earned; it increased the potency of his work. He was thankful for it at first…then he cursed it.They'd given it to the daughter of one of their captains.The torture was worse that time. The captain was brought in to watch. The next time, he joined.There was no structure to it. No schedule. Pain when he slept. Pain when he didn't. Pain that lingered just long enough to remind him who decided when it stopped. They probably only stopped because they needed him to continue crafting.He crumbled more slowly that time; the madness had truly set in. Sometimes he loved the pain, and others he hated it. His own mind couldn't decide.Eventually, he kept crafting anyway. Anything to keep them from coming back. The park path dipped and rose. He leaned into the slope, calves screaming, lungs burning. His pace slowed, but didn't stop. Trees blurred past. Other runners existed only as shapes. One family was throwing a football together, and he barely noticed their laughter.Escape came by accident.A lazy guard forgot to lock a door. Someone panicked during a shift change. The alarms lagged just long enough. He ran then, too.It wasn't fast and certainly not clean. He stumbled out of the cell, and for a time, the madness worked in his favor. He didn't care; he just moved. But his body wasn't whole enough for it. He ran anyway, and he didn't look back until the compound was gone. He didn't even remember how he got around the wall and gate. By the sixth mile, his vision tunneled. He slowed to a jog, then a walk, hands braced on his knees.The madness hadn't faded with freedom. That was the lie he'd believed.He'd kept running after the escape. Through streets and markets. Through crowds and alleys. Any direction that wasn't behind him. He knew they were chasing him, and panic drove his legs when thought would have stopped them.The cart came out of nowhere.Heavy wooden wheels. Loaded too high. Pulled by something spooked by a noise he never heard. He saw it just long enough to understand, then it was pure blissful silence.The pain flared once, then it was sharp and complete. He slowed as he neared home, chest heaving, sweat cooling too quickly now. His legs shook, but they held. The house came into view before his thoughts caught up.He stopped at the corner and bent forward, hands on his thighs.Not today. He straightened and headed inside. A plate waited on the counter beside his papers. It was still warm, and a sticky note clung to the edge.Went to class. Don't forget to eat. You owe me an explanation.The memories receded as quickly as they'd come. Family sometimes did have a healing effect. Or maybe it was just knowing someone cared.He picked up the plate. Whatever the cost, he wouldn't be losing her again.
