Chapter 2
They Call Him Sixteen
He woke to restraints again.
That, more than anything else, told him time had passed.
The straps were different this time—wider, reinforced with something heavier than leather. They crossed his chest in an X, pinned his shoulders, his thighs, his ankles. The table beneath him vibrated faintly, a low mechanical thrum that traveled up through his bones.
The ceiling was different too.
Lower.
Closer.
The cracks were gone, replaced by a seamless metal surface broken only by recessed lighting and narrow vents that whispered softly. The air felt drier here, thinner somehow, and it carried the same antiseptic bite that clung to the back of his throat.
He blinked.
The motion sent a dull ache through his skull, but it was manageable—less sharp than before. His thoughts, however, were slower. Sluggish. Like wading through syrup.
Sedated, he thought.
The realization didn't alarm him as much as it should have.
That scared him.
"Subject Sixteen is conscious," a voice said.
Not the same voice as before. This one was closer, coming from somewhere to his right.
He turned his head.
A woman stood beside the table, tablet cradled in one arm. Her hair was pulled back tight, severe, and she wore the same white coat as the others, though hers was spotless in a way that felt deliberate. She didn't look at him when she spoke—her eyes were on the screen, fingers moving with quick, efficient taps.
"Heart rate elevated but stable," she continued. "Respiration within acceptable parameters."
Another figure loomed behind her, broader, older. He watched Sixteen with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
"Good," the man said. "Begin orientation."
The woman hesitated, just a fraction.
"Orientation?" she repeated.
The man's mouth twitched, something like impatience flickering across his face. "Routine verbal conditioning. We need baseline compliance."
She inclined her head and stepped closer to the table.
"Subject Sixteen," she said, finally looking at him.
Her eyes were sharp. Assessing.
"Do you remember the previous session?"
He searched himself.
There was a sense of after. Pain fading. Darkness. A scream—no, not his. Someone else's. Distant. Unclear.
"I remember… glass," he said slowly. "Falling."
The man behind her leaned forward.
"Do you remember preventing contact?"
Sixteen frowned.
"I remember wanting it to miss," he said. "I don't remember… how."
The woman made a note.
"That aligns with prior observations," she said. "Cognitive recall remains fragmented."
"Expected," the man replied. "Continue."
She nodded and turned back to Sixteen.
"You are in a controlled environment," she said. "You are not in danger unless you fail to follow instructions. Do you understand?"
His chest tightened.
"Yes," he said.
The word came easier this time.
"Good," she said. "You will be addressed as Subject Sixteen. That is your designation here. You will respond when called. You will follow instructions given by authorized personnel. Failure to comply will result in corrective measures."
She paused, watching his face for a reaction.
He felt something stir at the word corrective. A faint echo of fear, distant and unfocused, like a memory seen through fogged glass.
"What is my name?" he asked.
The question surprised him as much as it did them.
The woman's fingers stilled on the tablet.
"That is not relevant," she said after a moment.
"It feels relevant," he replied.
The man stepped forward then, his presence pressing in.
"Names are attachments," he said. "Attachments complicate progress. You are here to serve a function."
Sixteen swallowed.
"What function?"
The man smiled thinly.
"That," he said, "is what we're determining."
The woman glanced between them, then back to her tablet.
Chaptw muscles trembled, weak from disuse.
"Lift your right hand," the woman instructed.
He did.
The movement was slow, shaky, but his fingers obeyed.
"Left," she said.
Again, he complied.
The man circled the table as they worked, eyes never leaving Sixteen.
"Your previous sessions indicate an anomalous response to dynamic stimuli," he said. "Specifically, objects in motion."
Sixteen's pulse quickened.
"I don't understand," he said.
"That's acceptable," the man replied. "You don't need to."
A technician entered the room, wheeling in a metal frame about the height of Sixteen's chest. Suspended within it was a long, narrow rod, mounted horizontally on a pivot.
The woman gestured.
"Observe," she said.
The technician gave the rod a sharp push.
It swung like a pendulum, slicing through the air with a faint whistle as it passed over Sixteen's body. Too close. Close enough that he flinched instinctively, muscles tensing.
The rod swung back.
Again.
Again.
Each pass was a fraction closer.
His breath shortened.
It's not going to hit me, he told himself. He didn't know why he was sure. The certainty sat heavy in his gut, unexamined.
On the next pass, the rod dipped unexpectedly, its trajectory shifting just enough that the tip brushed his shoulder.
Pain flared—brief, sharp.
He gasped.
"Noted," the woman said. "Stress response present."
The rod swung back again.
Sixteen's heart hammered. He watched it, tracked its arc, felt something inside him lean toward it, like a compass needle drawn to north.
Don't, he thought. Or felt. The distinction blurred.
The rod's path wavered.
Just slightly.
Instead of grazing his collarbone, it passed harmlessly above him, the air it displaced stirring his hair.
The technician froze.
The woman's eyes flicked to the tablet, then to the rod, then back to Sixteen.
"Again," the man said quietly.
The technician complied, setting the rod swinging once more.
This time, Sixteen didn't flinch.
He watched.
Felt.
The rod's movement was… loud. Not in sound, but in presence. A vector, though he didn't have that word. A direction. A push.
As it approached, something inside him shifted.
The rod veered.
Not away. Not enough to be obvious.
But enough.
Enough that it missed him entirely.
Silence fell thick and heavy.
The woman exhaled slowly.
"Repeatable," she murmured.
The man's smile returned, sharper this time.
"Very good," he said. "End assessment."
The rod was locked in place. The frame wheeled away.
Sixteen sagged back against the table, exhaustion crashing over him in a wave. His head throbbed, pain spiking behind his eyes.
"What did I do?" he asked.
The woman looked at him for a long moment.
"You reacted," she said carefully. "That's all you need to know."
The man stepped closer, leaning down until his face was inches from Sixteen's.
"Every action has direction," he said softly. "Every movement has consequence. You are… sensitive to that."
Sixteen stared back, confusion and unease twisting together in his chest.
"Am I dangerous?" he asked.
The man's eyes gleamed.
"That," he said, "depends on how cooperative you are."
The restraints tightened again, locking his arms back into place.
A fresh needle slid into his arm.
"No," Sixteen protested weakly. "Wait—"
The sedative hit fast.
The room blurred, edges softening as darkness crept in.
As his consciousness slipped, he heard something new.
Not a voice.
A vibration.
Low. Distant. Like a hum carried through walls too thick to hear through properly.
It made his hands twitch.
Made his chest ache.
Someone else is here, a part of him realized.
Then the darkness swallowed him whole.
He dreamed.
Not in images, but in sensations.
Pressure. Resistance. Motion without sight.
He felt himself falling—not downward, but sideways, pulled by something unseen. The air around him bent, warped, pressing in from all directions.
And beneath it all, faint but insistent, there was a sound.
A scream.
Not distant this time.
Close.
Close enough that it hurt.
He woke with a gasp, chest heaving, restraints biting into his skin.
The hum was still there.
Stronger now.
He turned his head, heart racing.
The wall to his right wasn't solid.
It was glass.
And beyond it, in a room just like his, a small figure stood alone.
A girl.
Her head was shaved. A white gown hung loosely from her shoulders. She stood barefoot on the cold floor, hands clenched at her sides.
Her eyes were closed.
Blood streamed freely from her nose, staining her upper lip, her chin.
The air between their rooms vibrated.
Sixteen's breath caught.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know who she was.
But every part of him knew this:
Whatever they were doing to her—
Whatever she was—
It was connected to him.
The girl's head snapped up.
For a brief, terrible moment, her eyes met his through the glass.
And the hum spiked into something almost like pain.