The world had shrunk to four walls.
No sky. No wind.
Just concrete, a metal bed bolted to the floor, a rusted sink... and the hum.
That constant, high-pitched hum, like dying electricity crawling inside your skull.
Even silence hurt here.
Riven moved.
Barefoot. Shirtless.
Each strike carved through the stale air, precise and fast.
Feint. Jab. Hook. Step.
Repeat. Again. Again.
His breath was steady, tight.
Muscles coiled under pale skin, glistening with sweat.
He wasn't training to get stronger.
He was fighting not to come apart.
A black wire hung from his waistband to his ear. The sonotaur buzzed quietly.
A broken voice spilled into his ear, barely alive through the static:
"Burn the walls, break the chains,
Even underground, I keep the rage…"
The lyrics didn't matter anymore.
The rhythm did.
They called him 17-B.
A number on his uniform. A number in their files.
But he remembered his name.
Riven.
And as long as that name stayed alive, so did he.
Click.
Not routine. Not the food signal.
Something else.
The door slid open, halfway. Two guards stood in the frame. Black masks. Rifles.
Not the usual ones.
— "17-B. With us."
Riven didn't speak.
He pulled on his gray shirt. Slipped on his shoes.
Then walked.
They led him upward.
Reinforced elevator. No windows. Clean light. Cold air.
Different floor.
Different world.
The room they entered was white. Big. Silent.
Not sterile — surgical.
Three people waited.
The man in the center wore a clean black suit. Late fifties. Broad shoulders. Cold eyes.
The Warden. He didn't need an introduction. He was the system.
To his left, a woman in a gray suit. Tablet in hand. Glasses lit with data streams.
She looked up and read in a dry, flat voice:
— "Subject: 17-B. Legal name: Riven.
Age: seventeen. Height: 189 centimeters. Weight: 86 kilograms.
Skin: pale. Eyes: red. Blood type: O negative. Build: athletic. Hormones: stable.
Reproductive data: viable. Penile length when erect: 19 centimeters.
Medical anomalies: none. Criminal record: homicide, riot instigation, escape attempt, assault on security personnel. Risk level: high."
She paused. Nothing in her face moved.
Riven raised one eyebrow.
— "Glad someone's keeping track."
No response.
Then the third figure stepped forward.
A woman. Taller than average. Dark uniform. No insignia.
She moved like someone who'd been in real combat — and made it out without a scratch.
Her gaze swept over him, sharp and quiet.
She wasn't curious. She was calculating.
— "He's perfect," she said.
It wasn't praise.
It was confirmation.
She handed him a file. Thick, sealed, blood-red stamp across the front.
— "Special assignment. No time limit. You serve. You survive. Maybe one day, you walk."
Riven took it. Read the front. Skimmed the fine print.
There were no details. No mission briefing. Just one offer:
Trade obedience for the chance of freedom.
— "And if I die?" he asked.
The woman tilted her head, slightly.
— "Then at least you were useful."
The legal officer handed him a sterile needle.
No pen.
They wanted blood.
Riven took the needle, pricked his finger. A drop slid down onto the signature line.
He wrote one word.
Riven.
The name that still mattered.
The commander closed the file without a word. She turned toward the door.
— "Follow me."
And walked out.
He stayed there for half a second.
Letting it sink in.
Then followed.
Not for them.
Not for promises.
But because he would not rot behind walls.