Keiran walked forward. Step by step, his bare feet pressed against the cold, unfeeling stone floor, each movement sending dull waves of pain up his legs. His left hand still burned. The raw, searing mark of Series 16 was a constant reminder—etched into his flesh, into his existence.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
His body had long since given up on resisting pain.
The hallway before him stretched into darkness. Hollow. Dead.
Dim, flickering lights buzzed above, casting sickly yellow halos on the damp walls. The walls were old, corroded, covered in faint streaks of rust and grime. The scent was suffocating—iron, oil, and something foul lingering beneath, like rot. This was a space forgotten by time, by the world outside. A tunnel that swallowed those who entered.
No guards. No chains.
Yet no escape.
Keiran kept walking. The silence pressed against his ears, an unbearable weight, punctuated only by the distant echoes of something mechanical—machines breathing, hissing, exhaling steam. The lights above flickered again, casting his elongated shadow across the cracked floor.
Then, ahead—light.
The hallway ended. It spilled into something vast.
Keiran stepped forward.
A room—no, a factory floor, but not quite. A place between prison and industry, between hell and order.
The space was enormous, the ceiling so high it was swallowed in darkness. Rusted steel beams stretched across it like a ribcage, barely holding the decaying structure together. Massive, blackened pipes coiled along the walls, some leaking thin trails of steam, filling the air with a dense, humid heat. The ground was lined with old metal grates, hissing as something below churned and groaned.
Above, iron walkways crisscrossed, where shadowy figures moved—overseers, guards, untouchable figures watching from above. They were not part of this world. They merely controlled it.
And below—them.
The workers. The prisoners.
Bodies moved in mechanical unison, dressed in identical black, rough-textured garments that clung to their thin frames. Not quite uniforms, not quite rags. Just enough to cover, to separate flesh from steel, to remind them of their place. Some wore gloves—thick, stained leather, the kind used to handle machinery, but others had nothing.
Skin met rusted iron.
Hands were bandaged, fingers wrapped in makeshift cloth—injuries left untreated, ignored. Their faces were hollow, their eyes sunken. No one spoke. No one dared.
Keiran stood there, emotionless. Not because he wasn't affected, but because he refused to be.
His heart did not race. His breath did not quicken.
He simply existed.
Then—movement.
Three men entered from a side door. Two were workers, dressed in full black, like the others—though their clothes were slightly better kept. Their faces were hardened, not cruel but indifferent, as if they had long accepted this life. They had become part of the machine.
Between them, a younger man.
Mid-twenties, perhaps. He did not wear black. Instead, his attire was cleaner, structured—a well-pressed gray coat, buttoned up to the collar, a thin silver chain glinting beneath. His boots were polished, his hair neatly combed back. A man who wasn't suffering, but wasn't free either.
He stepped onto a small iron platform, slightly raised. A stage.
And then, he began to speak.
His voice was smooth, cold, laced with the practiced ease of someone who had done this speech countless times before. Not cruel, not angry—just indifferent. Bureaucratic.
"Welcome, newcomers. I am kennedy u may call me ken."
No warmth. No malice.
Just empty formality.
"You will now call this place home. From today until the day you die."
A pause. As if waiting for the weight of those words to settle.
Then, he continued.
"The factory you stand in is managed by Armon—a man whose generosity has given you a purpose. Some of you may have already seen him."
Keiran's mind flickered back. The man in brown. The rifle. The white-haired boy, twitching on the ground.
"You are expected to work. You are expected to obey. You will do both without question."
A hum of machinery filled the silence between his words.
"Each of you will be assigned a four-hour shift, once a day." His tone was flat, unfeeling, as if he were reciting numbers on a page. "Failure to attend will result in termination."
He let the word hang. It was deliberate. Not punishment. Not dismissal. Termination.
"You will be paid." A slight smirk. "If that matters to you."
A few chuckles from the upper walkways—guards, overseers, those watching from above.
"Your first year's wage, no matter how hard you work, will be one hundred cresis per month. If you do not work—" he shrugged, "you receive nothing."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So, work diligently. Who knows? Perhaps, if you're lucky, you might even get a promotion."
Silence.
Then, the man's expression shifted—just slightly. A cruel amusement.
"Any questions?"
A moment.
Then, a single hand went up.
Keiran's eyes flickered to him. A boy. Young. Hopeful, perhaps.
The man on stage tilted his head. "Ah."
Then—BANG.
A gunshot.
A sudden, sharp crack through the air.
Keiran didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The boy collapsed.
Blood pooled beneath him.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then, the speaker exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as if mildly disappointed.
"No questions," he corrected, his voice as calm as before.
Then, he turned, stepping down from the platform.
And the room returned to silence.
The man on the stage left. His polished boots clanked against the metal as he disappeared through an iron door, his presence fading like an afterthought.
But the two workers in black remained.
They said nothing—didn't need to. Their presence alone was command enough.
Then, in sharp, grating voices, they ordered the children forward.
Keiran moved with the others, his body acting without thought, his mind numb. The group shuffled through the massive room, their bare feet brushing against the cold iron floor. The industrial scent of oil, metal, and sweat clogged the air, mixing with something bitter and burnt—the ghosts of blood and suffering.
They stepped out.
And just like that, they were back where they started.
Keiran's breath hitched for the first time in what felt like hours.
Him.
The white-haired boy.
He stood there, alive.
His body was still, but Keiran noticed the faint movement in his fingers, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. He looked fine—for now. But something about him was off—as if a single wrong step might cause him to crumble.
Before Keiran could think further, a worker's voice cut through the air, sharp and impatient.
"Move!"
The children obeyed.
Keiran did too.
They walked in a line, moving toward a stairway leading upwards. With each step, the temperature seemed to shift. Not warmer, not colder—heavier.
A thick, unseen weight clung to the air.
They ascended into darkness.
Not pitch-black, but dim—as if the very light feared to exist here.
To the left, Keiran saw the machines. Huge, mechanical constructs that groaned and exhaled steam, their metallic limbs moving in rhythmic, ceaseless labor. Workers hunched over, covered in soot and sweat, their hands working with eerie precision. The smell of oil and burning metal thickened.
To the right—manual labor.
Bodies moved without machinery, carrying supplies, pushing carts, hauling weight meant for beasts, not men. Their faces were drawn, their backs bent from years of toil. Some had fresh bandages wrapped around their hands, others bore old scars, a testament to wounds that had long since become part of them.
The children—including Keiran—were headed in that direction.
As they moved, Keiran cast one last glance downward.
The white-haired boy looked back at him.
Their eyes met—just for a second.
Then, the group was pushed through a large iron doorway.
Inside, the air changed.
The scent of dirt and sweat was overwhelming, laced with something metallic—the unmistakable smell of rust, of blood.
The gates shut behind them.
They were inside.
Instructions began.
The workers—not guards, but men who had been here longer, survivors of the system—stood at the front. Their faces were weathered, lined with exhaustion that went deeper than the flesh. They spoke, their voices devoid of cruelty, but also of kindness.
"Your job for the next month is simple," one of them stated, his voice hoarse, as if he had been speaking these words for years.
"The boxes that arrive here will be moved by hand from room to room. Three rooms in total."
Keiran's mind blanked for a moment. Boxes? Manual transport?
The worker continued.
"Your group—Batch One—must move at least 2,000 boxes per day. If not, your pay will decrease."
He let the words settle.
Then, without ceremony, he turned and left.
No further explanation. No time for questions.
Just work.
The children stared—silent, processing.
Then, one by one, they began.
Keiran sighed.
For a brief moment, he wondered—if the factory's owner was so wealthy, so powerful, wouldn't it be more efficient to use some kind of automated system? Some conveyor, some pulley line?
But this wasn't about efficiency.
It was about control. About breaking people.
Keiran knew that.
So, without another thought, he stepped forward.
He reached for a box from Room One—wooden, heavy, edges rough against his fingers. He lifted it, feeling the strain in his arms, the weight settling into his bones.
Then, he carried it forward.
Into the next room, where workers sat, their hands moving with practiced speed—opening, checking, sealing. The contents remained a mystery to Keiran, but the process was mechanical, unchanging.
Then—another room.
The last inspection.
Then—the final room, where another worker took the box from him, carrying it toward the waiting trucks.
And then, it began again.
Keiran exhaled, gripping the next box.
And he worked.