The door closed behind him without a sound.
The blue light vanished.
White swallowed him again.
This room was different.
He noticed it right away because it smelled wrong.
Not metal. Not water.
Something sharp. Something clean that shouldn't have been clean.
The floor was smooth like the last room, but warmer. The air felt heavier too, pressing against his skin in a way that made his shoulders hunch without him realizing it.
Tilo stood there, breathing through his nose, counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
His legs still shook from the cold. From the ice. From the way the pressure had crushed his chest until he thought his heart might burst out just to escape.
Correction.
The word replayed itself over and over.
He rubbed his wrists without thinking. The skin there still hurt sometimes, even when nothing was touching it. He hated that. Hated that his body remembered things before his mind caught up.
A thin line appeared on the wall in front of him.
Not red this time.
Black.
It stretched horizontally, then split into shapes. Numbers followed.
SUBJECT 118 — RESPONSE TIME: ACCEPTABLE
ERROR RATE: ELEVATED
CORRECTION NECESSARY
Tilo's throat tightened.
He didn't like numbers. Numbers meant he could be replaced.
"I didn't mean to get it wrong," he said quickly. "I tried. I really did."
The room didn't care.
The wall slid open again, revealing another chamber.
This one was wider.
Longer.
The floor dipped slightly in the center, like something heavy had rested there for a long time.
In the middle of the room stood a metal frame.
No.
Not a frame.
A chair.
Bolted to the floor.
Thick restraints hung open at the arms and legs. A curved brace rose behind the seat, ending in a smooth semicircle at head height.
Tilo stopped walking.
His breath caught halfway in.
Not the chair.
Not again.
He took a step back without thinking.
The wall behind him didn't move.
A sound echoed overhead.
A low hum, deep enough that he felt it in his ribs.
"Correction phase two initiated."
"No," he whispered.
The restraints twitched.
Just a little.
Inviting.
Threatening.
His heart hammered so hard it hurt. The edges of the room felt too sharp suddenly. Too close. He shook his head, hard, like he could dislodge the sight of the chair from his eyes.
"I passed," he said. "You said proceed. I proceeded."
Silence.
Then—
"Correction is not failure," the voice replied. "Correction is optimization."
Optimization.
The word slid into him and stayed there.
Tilo backed away until his shoulder blades hit the wall. Cold seeped through his shirt.
Think.
Think.
He scanned the room, eyes darting. No levers. No symbols. No obvious doors besides the one he'd come through.
Just the chair.
And the hum.
It was louder now.
His teeth clicked together again.
"Please," he said, hating the way the word came out thinner than before. "I'll do another test. I'll do it right this time."
The lights dimmed.
Not dark.
Never dark.
Just enough to cast shadows.
The chair's shadow stretched across the floor toward him.
The restraints snapped shut once.
Empty.
The sound made his stomach lurch.
His chest burned. Breathing felt wrong, like the air was thicker than it should be. His fingers tingled, numb at the tips.
He looked down.
His hands were clenched so tight his nails had bitten into his palms. Red crescents stared back at him.
Pain meant he was here.
Pain meant he hadn't disappeared.
The hum deepened.
The floor vibrated.
Tilo pressed his back harder against the wall, as if he could sink into it. His thoughts raced, colliding into each other.
There's always a way.
There's always a rule.
They don't waste resources.
He didn't know why that last one felt important.
Resources.
That was what they called food sometimes. And time. And people.
His gaze flicked back to the chair.
The restraints were sized for him.
Not too big. Not too small.
That meant this wasn't new.
This meant other kids had sat there.
The thought hit him harder than the cold ever had.
He swallowed hard.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I'll sit."
The hum paused.
Just for a second.
Then resumed.
He pushed himself off the wall and took one step forward.
The floor didn't shock him.
Didn't freeze.
Didn't drop.
Nothing happened.
Another step.
His legs felt like they didn't belong to him. Like he was watching someone else walk toward the chair.
He stopped an arm's length away.
Up close, he could see faint scratches on the metal. Shallow. Overlapping. Like fingernails dragged again and again.
His chest tightened until it hurt.
"Don't," he said softly. He didn't know who he was talking to. The room. Himself. Whoever had left those marks.
The restraints twitched again.
Tilo squeezed his eyes shut.
If he sat down, it would hurt.
If he didn't—
The hum spiked suddenly, a sharp vibration that made his vision blur. Pain bloomed behind his eyes. He cried out, dropping to one knee.
"Correction requires compliance."
Something inside him snapped.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, sudden certainty.
If he sat in that chair, he wouldn't get back up.
Not all of him.
He forced his eyes open, tears blurring the room.
His gaze fell to the base of the chair.
Bolts.
Four of them. Thick. Anchored deep into the floor.
Heavy.
Secure.
Too secure.
He crawled forward on shaking hands, ignoring the way his head pounded with every movement. The hum rattled his bones now, but he focused anyway.
Focused like he had in the last room.
Like he had when the ice crawled up his legs.
The bolts vibrated.
Not evenly.
One of them shook just a little more than the others.
Left side.
Always left.
He reached out.
The hum screamed in response, a pressure wave that slammed into him, flattening his chest against the floor. His vision went dark at the edges.
Don't pass out.
He grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
His fingers brushed the bolt.
It burned.
Not heat.
Something deeper.
He screamed, a raw sound torn straight from his chest, and wrapped both hands around it anyway.
The vibration surged.
The restraints snapped shut again.
The chair lurched.
Metal shrieked.
The bolt twisted.
Just a fraction.
The room went silent.
No hum.
No voice.
Nothing.
Tilo lay there, gasping, his hands numb and burning at the same time. He didn't move. Didn't dare.
A new sound echoed.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Applause.
Not hands.
Something mechanical.
The voice returned, quieter now.
"Unexpected response."
The wall behind the chair began to slide open.
Tilo lifted his head, vision swimming.
Behind it waited another corridor.
Darker.
Narrower.
The air spilling out of it felt colder than anything he'd faced yet.
The voice spoke one last time.
"Proceed."
The door behind him slid open again.
The chair remained bolted to the floor.
For now.
Tilo dragged himself upright and stared into the dark corridor, his hands still shaking, his chest still burning.
He took a step forward anyway.