Dr. Aris sounded almost pleasant today, perhaps she watched a puppy get kicked in the head on her way to work, or maybe she spit in everyone's coffee this morning. I don't know, I don't care.

I didn't need to see her to know she was enjoying this. The subtle power she held over me was a drug to her, and I was the unwilling addict. I hear the door slide open. I lower my head, presenting my hands. The restraints click open. A light, almost silent set of footsteps enters, then a small, white box with colorful blocks is placed on the table in front of me. The footsteps retreat. The door closes. The restraints remain off. I could hear the faint whirring of the cameras as they zoomed in, the unseen eyes of Dr. Aris watching my every move, analyzing my every thought.

The blocks are nothing more than a child's toy. Bright primary colors. Red, blue, yellow. Different shapes. A square, a triangle, a circle. A pathetic attempt to gauge my cognitive function I bet. I look at them, and I feel everything but contempt. They want to see how I think? Fine. I'll show them. I ignore the blocks. Instead, I pick up the box they came in. It's a simple, cardboard cube. Flimsy. I tear a strip of cardboard from the top, long and thin. I fold it over, and over, and over again, until it's a small, dense, compressed shard. It's not sharp enough to cut, but it's solid. I place the shard on the floor. Then, I pick up the red square. I place it on one side of the shard. The yellow circle on the other. The blue triangle in front.

I look up at the one-way mirror with a smirk on my face. Interpret this, you bitch.

"Explain your arrangement," Dr. Aris's voice cuts through the silence. I can hear the undercurrent of frustration. She was expecting a neat pile, a color-coded tower, something predictable. Something she could label and file away.

"I am not asking for your opinion. I am asking for an explanation. Explain your arrangement, Six-eighty-two." Her voice is cold. This is the real Dr. Aris. The one who sees me as a collection of data points, not a person.

"It's art," I say. "You wouldn't understand."

"Is what?" I interrupt. "Stupid? Is that it? Go ahead, call me stupid because I tore one of your neat little boxes and sorted these fucking blocks in a way you didn't like."

"Of my what?" I'm on my feet now, my hands clenched into fists. I don't care about the threat of the shock. I don't care about the consequences. I just want her to see me. To see the raw, unfiltered rage burning inside me. "Spit it out, you coward. Say what you really think."

But the only response is the familiar, dreaded hum of the electrodes on the cuffs of my feet and the collar on my neck. It's a low-pitched whine, a predator's growl before the strike. I close my eyes, and wait for the searing pain, the convulsions, the loss of control. But it doesn't come. The humming stops. I open my eyes. I'm still standing. I'm still in control. I look down at the blocks on the floor. The red square, the yellow circle, the blue triangle. And the—

AAAAGH!!!

The pain comes quicker than I can think, faster than lightning, hotter than the floor. My muscles seize, my back arches, and my jaw clamps shut with an audible crack. I can't scream. I can't breathe. My world is a blinding, white-hot agony that consumes everything. I can feel my teeth grinding, my bones creaking, my blood boiling in my veins. The colors of the room begin bleeding into one another, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. The shapes melt, the edges soften, until all that's left is a swirling vortex of color and light. My mind is a chaotic mess of memories and emotions, a thousand different voices screaming at once. My dad's face, my mom's smile, the look on Varrick's stupid face when I hit him, the searing heat of the floor, the cold, sterile walls of my cell.

I'm on the floor, my body is... twitching uncontrollably, my lungs burning for air. My vision is blurry, my ears ringing. The world is a muffled, distorted mess. I can feel a warm, wetness spreading across my lap. I've soiled myself. Again. The shame is a cold, heavy weight in my gut, more crushing than the pain. I've lost control. Again. I've let them win. Again. A wave of nausea washes over me, and I turn my head to the side, a thin stream of bile and stomach acid spilling onto the floor. The acrid smell fills my nostrils, mixing with the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue. I try to push myself up, my arms shaking, my muscles screaming in protest. But I'm too weak. I collapse back onto the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold, damp concrete. I can feel the grit and grime sticking to my skin. The faint, lingering scent of my own vomit. I close my eyes, and all I can see is the swirling vortex of color and light. The red square, the yellow circle, the blue triangle. They're gone now, replaced by a single, overwhelming thought. I am broken. I am nothing. I am—

"You were given a simple task, Six-eighty-two. And you failed." Dr. Aris's voice cuts through the fog in my mind. "You failed to follow instructions. You failed to control your emotions. You failed to demonstrate even a modicum of cognitive function. You have failed on every conceivable level."

I can hear the faint tapping of her claws on a desk. Its a sharp, rhythmic sound that echoes in my head like a drumbeat. "The test was not to see if you could sort blocks. The test was to see if you could follow a simple, direct command. And you couldn't even do that without arguing with me." I want to snap back, but I am too tired. All I can do is breathe. The shock did more than just hurt me, I think I may have broken something.

Oh shut the fuck up. I want to tell her she's wrong, that she doesn't know me, that she doesn't know anything about what I've been through. But the words won't come. They're caught in my throat.

"I want to go home. I want to see my family. I want to..." My mind flashes to the picture on Kaius's tablet, and I can feel the hot tears welling up in my eyes.

"No." She says. "Stand to your feet." The command is crisp, cold, and final. "Do not make me repeat myself."

I try. I really do. I push against the floor with my hands, my arms trembling with the effort. I manage to get to my knees, my head hanging, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spins around me. I can feel the bile rising in my throat again, and I have to swallow it down, the acidic burn is a new torment.

"I can't." I gasp. My words are barely a whisper. "You can, and you will." Her voice is devoid of any sympathy, any hint of compassion. "You have ten seconds."

"Ten, nine..."

I push again. I can feel a sharp, stabbing pain in my side, but I ignore it. I have to. I have to get up.

"...eight, seven..."

My vision starts to tunnel again, the edges of my sight blurring and darkening. I can feel myself starting to fade, to slip away into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness. I fight it, I claw at the edges of my awareness, desperate to stay in the world of the living.

"...six, five..."

I'm on my feet. I don't know how, but I am. I'm swaying, and my legs are shaking like a newborn foal's, but I'm standing. I'm looking at the one-way mirror.

"Four, three, two..." The counting stops. "Good. See? You are capable of following instructions. You just need the right motivation."

Focus... Stay upright... Don't you dare fall. You will not give her the satisfaction. My knuckles are white where I am clenching my fists. "Now, pick up the blocks and put them back in the box. Or what's left of it. One by one. Red. Square. First."

I take a shaky step towards my arrangement, my burned feet screaming with every movement. I reach down and close my hand around the red square. It feels heavy, solid. I hold it for a moment, my thumb tracing the smooth, plastic edges.

"Put it in the box, Six-eighty-two."

I try to lift my arm, to place the block in the box, but its too heavy. Everything feels too heavy. My arm drops, the block clattering to the floor, then my knees, then me. I am on the floor again. I can hear her voice, saying something, probably threatening me again with another shock, but it's just a muffled drone, a distant buzz. The world is fading away, the light dimming, the sounds receding. I can feel a strange sense of peace from the pain and the shame. I'm tired. So tired.

I'm met with a splash of water to the face. The shock pulls me back from the brink. I sputter, my eyes flying open. A figure stands over me, empty bucket in hand.

"Get up."

I hear Dr. Aris's voice again, but its not coming from the speakers, its far too clear for those. She's in the room with me. I look up at her, my vision still blurry, my mind still foggy. I can't make out her features, just a dark silhouette against the harsh, white light. She's tall, her frame slender, but there's an undeniable aura of power, of control, that radiates from her. She's a predator, and I am her prey.

"I said, get up. You have wasted enough of my time today. You will complete this test. You will put the blocks in the box. Or I will drag you to the medical bay and have them pump you so full of stimulants your heart will explode in your chest, then drag your corpse back here so you can finish. The fucking. Test. Do you understand me?"

Its her. This is her, the face behind the voice. The same bitch that has been shocking me half to death, the same one that has been monitoring my every thought, my every move. I've built up this image of her in my head, a monstrous, twisted creature, but she's just a Taijekan. A fox, judging by the pointed snout and the bushy tail I can just make out behind her.

A fucking fox. I've been tormented by a fox. I push myself up. I'm on my knees, my head hanging, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Its really her, its really fucking her, and I could kill her, I could break her neck, I could—

"Get. Up."

I look at the bucket she dropped. It's metal, I could grab it, I could smash her, I could...

"Do it." Her voice is a venomous whisper. "I fucking dare you. Give me a reason."

My hands tremble. I look at the bucket, then back at her. She wants me to do it. She's baiting me, testing me, pushing me to my breaking point. If I make a move, I'm dead. Or worse. I slowly, deliberately, push myself to my feet. I'm swaying, my legs shaking, but I'm standing. I'm looking her in the eyes with a defiant glare on my face.

"You do know you're not the only one in this facility that has to be tested, yes?" she says, walking over to my arrangement, she kicks the blocks, scattering them across the floor. "That means I see individuals by the hundreds each day, and the only ones nearly as defiant as you are the ones who are clinically insane, or the ones who are far, far dumber than you." she says. "So when you waste my time being as defiant as you are, you bleed into the time I must allocate for others. You waste my lunch hour, my breaks, my chance to get a lick of sleep at night, because I have to push people around on schedules so that you can sit in here and piss yourself!" She says. Her voice rises with each word. "You are a selfish, petty, little man, and you are making my life hell!"

She then walks over to me, her face so close to mine I can feel her warm breath on my skin, I can see the fury in her dark, beady eyes, the faint, almost invisible scars on her snout. "I am going to give you a gift, Six-eighty-two. A gift you do not deserve. I am going to show you what happens to those who waste my time."

She takes a step back, and with a flick of her wrist, she taps a series of commands into a small, discreet control panel on her wrist. The mirror turns black, and lights up like a display. A new face appears on the screen. A young Mënskan, maybe twenty, with a shock of bright red hair and a freckled face. He's sitting in a chair, just like mine, but he's smiling, a vacant, dopey grin on his face. He looks happy, almost blissful.

"This is Subject Four-three-seven." Dr. Aris says. "He came to us six months ago. Convicted of homicide and like you, showed no signs of rehabilitation during his stay in the program. So he was sent here instead. He was defiant, just like you. He refused to cooperate, just like you. He was a waste of my time, just like you." She taps another command, and the image on the screen changes. The young man is still in the chair, but the smile is gone. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. His eyes are wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. His body is convulsing, a violent, spasmodic dance of agony.

"What you are seeing is a level nine shock. Twice the voltage of what you experienced." She says. "It is administered in five-second bursts, with a ten-second interval in between. We repeat this process until the subject's brain activity ceases." The screen flickers again. The young man is still now, his body slumped in the chair, a thin trickle of drool running down his chin. His eyes are open, but they're empty, vacant. A glassy, lifeless stare. "Subject Four-three-seven is now, for all intents and purposes, a vegetable. He can still breathe, his heart still beats, but he is no longer there. The 'he' is gone. We keep him on life support to monitor his brain function, to see if there's any residual activity, any sign of the person he once was." She says.

"There never is."

Great stones...

"The only reason we have not administered a level nine shock to you is because we have not been given the authorization from the high court to do so. Do you want to know why?" She leans in again, her face so close to mine I could feel the static in her fur. "Because of him." She says pointing a long, delicate finger at my face. "Your advocate, Kaius, has been stalling, he has been filing appeal after appeal, he has been fighting for your pathetic life, and you know why? Because he sees something in you. A spark of intelligence, a flicker of potential. Something worth saving. I, on the other hand, see a waste of skin. A useless, hateful, little man who is taking up valuable space and resources."

"So you have a choice, Six-eighty-two. You can continue to defy me, to waste my time, to test my patience, and I will find a way to get that authorization. I will break you, I will hollow you out, and I will leave you as a empty shell, just like Subject Four-three-seven. Or..."

"...you can pick up the fucking blocks, put them in the fucking box, and you can live to see another day. The choice is yours."

I reach for the blocks, but my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip them. The red square. The blue triangle. The yellow circle. One by one, I place them in the box. My movements are so slow, so weak. When I am done, I close the lid and push the box towards her. I don't look up. I don't say a word. I just sit there, on my knees, my head bowed.

"Good." She says, her voice a little softer now, the anger replaced by a cold, clinical satisfaction. "See? We can be civilized." She picks up the box and turns to leave, but then she stops. "Kaius will be visiting you later this afternoon. I will see to it that you get a shower and fresh set of clothes before he arrives. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Do not disappoint me." She walks out, the door swinging shut behind her, the locks clicking into place with a final, deafening thud.

I am alone again. But the silence is different now. It's not a heavy blanket, but a cold, empty void. I am not at peace. I am not calm. I am just... numb. I feel something building in my chest. It's not anger. It's not fear. It's... sadness. A profound, soul-crushing sadness for the boy on the screen, for my own pathetic existence, for the world that has reduced me to this.

And then the tears come.

Hot, silent tears that stream down my face, mixing with the grime and the sweat and the blood. I am not crying for myself, not for my own pain and suffering. I am crying for the boy on the screen, for the life that was stolen from him, for the person he might have been. I am crying for the world, for the endless cycle of violence and hatred that has brought us to this point. I am crying for everything.

I am not a monster.

The water is unsurprisingly cold. It bites at my skin and chases away the lingering numbness, leaving behind a sharp, stinging awareness. I'm standing in a small, tiled cubicle, the water cascading down from a nozzle above. My clothes are a pile of filth on the floor, and I'm scrubbing my skin with a coarse, abrasive brush, trying to wash away the shame, the degradation, the memory of my own waste. The water runs in gray, dirty rivulets down my legs, swirling around my feet before disappearing into a drain in the center of the floor. My hands are raw, my skin is red and inflamed, but I don't stop. I scrub and I scrub, as if I can somehow erase the last few hours, as if I can somehow wash away the memory of her face, the sound of her voice, the image of the boy on the screen. But it's no use. The memories are etched into my mind. No amount of scrubbing can remove that. I can still see the vacant, lifeless stare in the boy's eyes, the cruel, sadistic smile on Dr. Aris's face. I can still feel the searing pain of the shock, the cold, hard concrete of the floor. I can still taste the bile in my throat, the coppery tang of blood in my mouth.

I turn off the water and step out of the shower, my body shivering, my teeth chattering. I wrap myself in a thin, coarse towel. The fabric is rough against my raw, sensitive skin. I'm given a fresh set of clothes. A simple, gray jumpsuit, identical to the one I was wearing before, but clean. The fabric is soft at least. I feel... civil again.

Almost.

I'm led back to my cell, the guards silent and impassive as always. I sit on the slab of foam that serves as a bed and rest my head in my hands. I'm tired. So tired. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. I'm tired of the pain, the fear, the constant, gnawing uncertainty. I'm tired of being a puppet, a plaything for Aris. I'm tired of being me.

I close my eyes, and I try to think of something else. Anything else. My family. My friends. My life before all this. But the memories are hazy, distorted, like a dream half-remembered. I can see my father's face, but it's blurry, the features indistinct. I can hear my mother's voice, but it's a faint, distant echo. My friends... their faces are just a blur of smiling, laughing strangers. The past is a foreign colony, and I am no longer a citizen. I am a refugee in my own mind, a wanderer in a land of ghosts.

I must have dozed off, because I'm startled awake by the grinding screech of the door. I sit up, my heart pounding in my chest, my body tensing for another round of torment. But it's not the guards. It's Kaius. He's standing in the doorway with a small, sad smile on his face, wearing a simple, black suit like the last time I saw him. Its rather well-fitted. He's holding a metallic case in his hands. He looks... tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, his fur is dull and matted in places. He looks like he's been through hell. And for some strange, inexplicable reason, that makes me feel a little bit better.

"You look like shit," I say. He lets out a small, humorless laugh. "You're one to talk. I heard you had a... rough morning."

"You could say that."

I'm looking at the case in his hands.

"What's that?"

"A peace offering." He walks into the cell, the door sliding shut behind him. He grabs the chair and sits opposite me. He opens the case, and inside are two steaming cups of a dark, aromatic liquid. Coffee. Real coffee.

"It's from my personal stash," he says, handing one of the cups to me. "It's a special blend from the mountains of the Elderbloom Provinces. Very expensive. Very rare."

I take a cup and take a sip. The rich, bold flavor explodes on my tongue. It's the best thing I've tasted in a long while. "It's good."

"I'm glad you like it." He takes a sip from his own cup, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm sorry about what happened, Six-eighty-two. I tried to get here sooner, but I was... Well I've been all over the place. I hope you can excuse my rather messy appearance for the occasion."

I don't say anything. I just take another sip of my coffee, the warmth spreading through my chest. I'm not sure how to respond. I'm not used to people being nice to me. Not in here. Not anywhere, really.

"I know what you're thinking," he says. "And I want you to know that not all of us are like her. Dr. Aris, I mean. She's... a special case. A product of her environment, of the system. She's not a bad person, she's just... broken. Just like you."

"I'm not broken."

"You've lost your family, your friends, your freedom. You've been subjected to unspeakable horrors, you're sitting in a concrete box, drinking coffee with the one person who's trying to save your life. And you still believe that you're not broken?"

"I'm not a monster."

"I know you're not, but you are a product of your environment, of the system. You were raised on a diet of hate and fear, and it's a hard habit to break. But it's not impossible."

"You don't know anything about me. About my life. About what I've been through."

"You're right," he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I don't. But I want to. I want to understand. I want to help you."

"Why? Why would you want to help me? After everything I've done. After everything I've said. Why?"

"If you want the harsh truth, its because its my job." He says. "I was assigned to you after your last... incident. My superiors saw your file, and honestly I can't do any justice to explain the expressions on their faces. I was supposed to be a glorified messenger boy, a clean-up crew for when your inevitable execution came. A way to make sure all the legalities were in order." He takes another sip of coffee, the steam curling up around his face. "But when I met you for the first time, I saw something else. Something in your eyes. A flicker of... I don't know what. A spark of intelligence, a hint of curiosity, a sliver of sapience. I saw a person who was lost, who was confused, who was fighting a battle he didn't even understand."

"Aren't you the poet." I mutter.

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a fool who sees the good in everyone, even when it's buried under layers of hate and fear."

"So I'm a charity case. That's it."

"You're an investment. I'm investing in your potential. In your ability to change. And I believe it will pay off."

"Why?"

"Aren't you full of questions?" He jeers back. I narrow my eyes.

"Because I want to. Its the Taijekan way." He sets down his coffee cup and leans back against the wall, a thoughtful expression on his face. "We believe that every life has value. That every being, no matter how lost or broken, has the capacity for redemption. It's a core tenet of our faith, of our culture. It's what separates us from the... others." He says, gesturing vaguely towards the world outside.

"People have forgotten what life is about after the war, all they see is that all of us could die at any second to air raids or some form of chemical warfare, so now everybody just wants to live life to their own fullest, so they think "I'm not the one who's going to be attacked, its always the other guy." This leads them down a dark path, Six-eighty-two. A path of selfishness, of greed, of indifference."

"And you're the only one who's different?"

"I'm not the only one. There are others. But we are a dying breed." He says. "A flicker of light in a world of darkness. And we are fighting a losing battle."

"You sound like one of those religious fanatics on the street corners, preaching about the end of the world."

"Maybe, but I do it in a way that won't get me arrested for Sa'kraan propaganda. That is, I'm not as crazy." He winks, but I can see the weariness in his eyes, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Don't you have other cases that are more lucrative than this? Why bother?"

"Well, I do have some clients that will probably pay off my home loans a couple of times over, but those are just... well, they're boring. Corporate law is just a bunch of rich old men arguing over money. You? you're interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"You're unique. I think I have seen a case like this only twice in my career, once Mënskan, another Taijekan, but even they were not as bad as this, they had some combinations of offenses that rehabilitation could not fix." He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're a 'lost cause'. A 'hopeless case'. A 'terminal patient'. That's what they call you in the hallowed halls of the justice department. And I am your 'hospice advocate'."

"Hospice advocate? What the fuck is that?"

"It means I'm the one who's supposed to make your last days as comfortable as possible. To ensure that your rights are respected, that you're treated with dignity, that your... transition is as smooth as possible. A final send off, if you will." He says. "But I don't see it that way. I see it as an opportunity. A chance to prove them wrong."

"By making me drink coffee and listening to me bitch about my life?"

"By showing them that you're more than just a 'lost cause'. That you're a person. That you have a story. That you have a reason to live."

"And how are you going to do that? By holding my hand and telling me everything's going to be okay?"

"No. By giving you a choice."

I freeze, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. A choice? In here? In this sterile, white hellhole? What a joke. What a cruel, sadistic joke. I want to throw the coffee in his face, to tell him to get the fuck out of my cell and leave me to my misery. But I don't. I just sit there, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing.

"What kind of choice?"

"A choice between life and death." He says, his gaze unwavering. "The court has ordered your execution. The date is set. It's in two weeks. But... I may be able to work some legal magic to get you off of the grave train." He places the empty coffee cup on the floor and looks at me with an earnest, almost pleading look in his yellow eyes. "Under Etrilian law, you are an asset of the Supercolony, but assets have a monetary value to a degree, I can get a judge to sign off on you being 'sold' to a private entity, given the money is good enough. That would spare your life, but you would be bound to them for however long they want to keep you, which in technicality is slavery. There's a catch, though."

"Of course there is." I take a final, long sip of my coffee, savoring the rich, bold flavor. It's a small comfort, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

"The private entity in question is a medical research facility. They're conducting a... rather classified study. I tried my hand to get as much information as possible, but all I know is that they need test subjects, live ones for that matter, and their volunteer list is a whopping zero. Not many people want to sign up for something they don't know anything about." He says, scratching behind one of his ears. "The money is very good, and its a government-funded program, so the colony has a stake in its success. That means I have a good chance of getting you transferred there instead of being executed. But you have to agree to it. Voluntarily."

A medical research facility... "What exactly would I be doing?"

"I don't know the specifics. But if I had to guess, you would probably be testing out unstable drugs or being subject to various diseases to figure out their symptoms and cures. That's at least all I can think of when the term 'medical research' pops into my head. I'm sorry that I can't be more clear."

"What would this do for me? I take pills until I die or if I live long enough they tell the court I've paid back my wrongdoings?" I ask.

"It would spare your life. For now. The High Court's decisions on revoking citizenship are final, hand picked, and deliberate choices. You wouldn't be a citizen of the Etril Supercolony, but you would still be alive." He says. "You wouldn't be in this... facility. You'd be in a different one, a much more comfortable one, I imagine. You would have some semblance of freedom, some form of life. And I would still be your advocate. I would still be fighting for you."

"And what if this new place even worse than this one? Here all I do is pick up toys and count to four. There? I could be injected with who knows what and my eyes will pop out of my sockets. My skin will curl upside down, my bones will break in every possible fucking way! And you're telling me that's a better option than just ending it all right here and now? At least this way, I get to choose. I get to have some control over my own destiny. I can die with some dignity."

"Is that what you want, Six-eighty-two? To die? Here? In this cell? On a cold, concrete slab? With no one to mourn you, no one to remember you?" He asks. "Or do you want to live? Even if it's a life of uncertainty, a life of pain, a life of... whatever they have in store for you. Do you want to take that chance? To see what happens? To find out if there's something more to this existence than this... this?"

"I don't know. I just... I don't know."

"It's a lot to take in, I know. But you don't have the time. Today is your last day to decide, I have to snail mail paperwork and any day after today will take too long." He says. "So your decision has to be here, and it has to be now. If you decided you want to go through, I have some things I need you to sign, otherwise, this will be a goodbye." He says. "Whatever you pick, I will stand by it."

I close my eyes, and I try to think, to reason, to make a logical decision. But my mind is a mess, a chaotic swirl of conflicting emotions. The fear of the unknown is a cold, heavy weight in my gut, but the thought of a quiet, dignified death is a cold, lonely void. I want to live. I want to die. I want to fight. I want to give up. I'm a ship in a storm, tossed and turned by the waves of my own indecision. I open my eyes, and I look at Kaius, at the earnest, pleading look in his yellow eyes, at the small, sad smile on his face. He's the only person in this whole stonesforsaken world who is going to stand up for me.

"..."

"I'll take the chance." My words are barely a whisper, but they are clear and firm. "I'll... I'll go to the research facility."

A wave of relief washes over me, followed by a sudden, unexpected lightness in my chest. I've made a decision. I've taken control. I've chosen my own path. It's a terrifying, uncertain path, but it's my path. And for the first time in a long, long time, that feels like a victory.

"Good." Kaius says. "That's... that's good. I'll make the arrangements. You'll be transferred within the week. In the meantime, I'll... I'll do my best to make sure you're treated with some semblance of decency. I'll talk to Dr. Aris, I'll pull some strings, I'll..." He trails off, his expression a mixture of relief and trepidation.

"It's okay, I can handle her."

"I know you can." He reaches into the case and pulls out a small tablet, and a stack of papers. "I just need you to place your thumb on this scanner, and then your signature on the lines of these forms." I take the tablet, the metal cool and smooth against my skin. I press my thumb against the small, glowing square, and a green light flashes as it scans my print. I can feel my fate being sealed. Then I pick up the pen Kaius hands to me, my hand is shaking slightly.

"Can I put my name?"

"No." he says. "Just 'Six-eighty-two'." The words are a bitter pill to swallow, but I swallow it, my pride a small price to pay for a chance at life. I scrawl the numbers on the line

A signature of a ghost. A signature of a man who is no longer a man.

"That's it." Kaius says, taking the forms from me, a look of relief on his face. He slips them into the case, the metallic click of the latch a final, resounding echo in the quiet cell. "It's done. You're... you're safe. For now."

He stands up, stretching his arms above his head, a series of loud, satisfying cracks echoing in the small space. "I have to go. I have a lot of work to do. But I'll be back. I'll see you before you're transferred."

"Okay."

He walks to the door, and then he stops, turning back to me. "Six-eighty-two?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to die before I'm done with you."