The walls were too white. Dead white. Not the holy kind, but the shade of formalin decay and expired promises.
The corridors of the Vigilant Entity Neutralization Task Headquarters—V.E.N.T.H.—were sterile by design, nearly soundless, as if the building swallowed noise and spat out silence. The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Rivea had wanted to vomit within the first five minutes.
Staff shoes clicked in uniform rhythm. Tight. Precise. Identical. Rivea dragged her feet on purpose, cutting through the tempo.
No one said a word.
Beside her, Kael grinned like a kid who knew too much. His silver hair was a mess, a sharp contrast to Solen—the fifth grader with a neat little suit, polished shoes, and the poise of a prince freshly dropped from heaven. His eyes observed. Every step. Every breath. Measured.
"They're all staring," Kael muttered, licking his lips, "and nothing's exploded yet."
"Yet," Rivea murmured. She glanced at the massive mirror ahead, catching her own reflection. Empty gaze. Tiny pupils. The faint pulse of the mark on her back throbbed like a whisper.
Solen looked at the two of them with a neutral face, but his chin lifted slightly.
"Act like you belong. This isn't a playground."
Kael chuckled. "Who shoved a ruler up your spine?" Their steps halted at a large, handleless door.
A man was already standing there. Old, but not frail. Calm face. Silver hair slicked back flawlessly. His black suit looked carved from the night itself. And his eyes—weren't human. No whites. Just endless black. Like ink wells that never dried.
Eidren Vaelmont. Someone whispered, "Warden Vaelmont," and bowed.
Even the FANG unit who earlier looked ready to drag Kael by the throat was now standing still, eyes locked forward, like soldiers awaiting judgment.
"Good morning," Eidren spoke gently. Too gently. Like a silk cloth in the hand of an executioner. "I hope your journey was comfortable. If not… I couldn't care less."
Rivea raised an eyebrow. Hmm. One star for customer service.
"Please, enter," Eidren said, opening the door without touching it.
The room behind it was wide. A round table. Three small chairs. Nothing more. On the far wall hung the V.E.N.T.H. insignia—a broken circle slashed through by five jagged lines.
The three entered.
Eidren walked slowly behind them, hands folded behind his back, not in a rush. "Let me introduce myself. I am Eidren Vaelmont. Warden of the Shadow Council Division. Starting today, I'll be observing you—to see if you're worthy." He stopped behind Rivea. His voice dipped low. Nearly a whisper. "Or dangerous."
Rivea turned her head slowly, lips curling.
"I'll go with dangerous. Sounds more fun."
Solen sighed quietly, disgust bleeding through. Kael raised both hands. "Then I pick sexy."
Eidren smiled, but his eyes stayed flat.
"Choices mean nothing here. Only results."
He turned, gaze sweeping the room.
"Tomorrow, you'll face the First Gate Test. Don't let the invitation swell your head. Many are called. Few return."
He glanced at Solen. "Even golden boys."
Then at Kael. "Even the sacrificial clowns."
And finally, Rivea.
His voice sharpened. Cold. "And especially the one who should've died thousands of years ago." Rivea said nothing. But her blood simmered. Just a little. Her smile never flinched.
Their chairs were uncomfortable. Too hard. Too straight. Designed, perhaps, to make sure your back never relaxed too long.
Or maybe no one was ever meant to feel comfortable in front of a warden.
Eidren Vaelmont sat across the round table.
A thin notebook lay before him. No pen. No screen. Maybe he remembered everything.
Or maybe... he didn't need to remember.
"Alright. Let's start with something simple."
His soft voice cut the air like a dining knife over fine porcelain.
His eyes—unyielding wells of black ink—turned right. Toward the white-haired boy, legs crossed, chin resting on one hand.
"Name?"
"Kael Veyne," the boy answered without hesitation. "But if Warden prefers, you can call me your problem soon."
Silence. Rivea let out a small sneeze. Could've been a stifled laugh—or a protest.
Solen exhaled like someone spotting a stain on his silk tie.
"Age?" Eidren asked, flatly.
"Twelve. But age is just a number, right? Unless I'm disguised as a piano teacher—that'd be very inappropriate."
Eidren tilted his head slightly. Studying Kael like he was dissecting him. "And where are you from, Kael?"
"Now or before?" Kael snapped his fingers. "Currently? Glyne District, block 3C. But back then… maybe a cave. Underground. Molded from flesh, not born."
No one laughed. But Eidren's eyes narrowed—for just a second.
"Next." His gaze slid to the center.
"Name?"
"Rivea Kaelith." Clear voice. No preamble.
"You can call me Rivea. Or don't call me at all—unless it's important."
Eidren nodded slowly. "Age?"
"Eleven. But like my neighbor here said, numbers mean nothing." Kael raised his small hand. "See? She gets it! Old soul club!" Rivea didn't respond.
"Origin?" Eidren asked, tone unchanged.
"You've got the file, right?" Rivea leaned her chin on her palm. "Glyne too. Block 2B. But... maybe I wandered here from somewhere deeper."
Eidren held her gaze for a long moment. But didn't press. Instead, he turned to the left.
The boy who sat with perfect posture, not a wrinkle out of place.
"Name?"
"Solen Vire," he replied crisply. "Fifth grade. Ten years old. Echo District, block 7. My parents work for the government. I have a flawless academic and medical record. My psych evals are above national standard, and—"
"That's enough." Eidren cut him off. "I don't need a brochure." Solen fell silent. Slightly vexed, but composed.
Eidren leaned back. His left hand brushed the table's surface. "Have any of you ever seen something... that couldn't be explained?"
Rivea stayed quiet. Solen lifted one shoulder with practiced caution. "Certainly. But I know how to differentiate hallucinations from abnormal manifestations."
Kael raised his hand.
"Seen one," he said. "When I was little. In the old house. Something whispered under the floorboards. One night I dug. Found a head. Old. Broken. But alive."
Eidren didn't blink. "And?"
"And it taught me how to play the piano," Kael said. "But only songs from hell. So I burned it."
Solen scoffed. "Ridiculous."
"Exactly. But you believed it for a second, didn't you?"
Eidren stared at Kael. Not angry. More like... catching the scent of poison beneath plastic flowers.
"Interesting," he said at last. "Many hide truth behind jokes. Few know how to bury traps inside them."
Kael smiled—quietly this time. Rivea glanced at him sideways. Guess his brain's not as broken as it looks.
Eidren stood. Calm steps. He circled the table, stopping behind them. His shoes barely made a sound on the stone floor.
"Last question. Are you willing to lose... a part of yourself to become stronger?" Solen answered immediately. "If it's for duty and national safety, I am."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Which part are we talking about? I've already lost a lot. But if I can choose, maybe... I'll give up my normal side first."
Rivea slowly turned her head toward Eidren, though he stood behind her. "I don't care what gets lost. As long as I get to eat first."
Silence. But not the empty kind. More like… a door somewhere had just creaked open. Eidren walked back around to the front of the table. He faced them.
"Tomorrow, all three of you will be tested. Not just physically. But your intent. Your mind."
He smiled faintly. "And you're allowed to regret it."
Then he sat again.
"You're dismissed. For now."
The moment the word left his mouth, no one moved.
Rivea stayed seated, legs swaying lazily.
Kael leaned so far back in his chair he nearly tipped over—would've hit the floor if not for his reflexes. Solen still upright, still composed. But his hands had drifted from their formal lock on his lap. He was... weighing something.
"Can we ask something now?" Kael spoke up. "Our turn." Eidren tilted his head slightly. "Go ahead."
"Why doesn't this room have any cameras or recording devices?" Kael pointed at the ceiling. "You using instinct? Or is your brain wired to the walls?"
Rivea glanced at him. Not a dumb question.
Well—not entirely. Eidren didn't answer right away. He rested both hands on his lap.
"Because truth doesn't show itself to lenses. It only lives where there's safety—or entrapment. This room provides both."
Kael grinned. "Damn. That was poetic, Sir." Solen nodded once, approving. "An efficient answer."
"My turn." Rivea cut in, voice half-lidded but gaze sharp. "Why us three? Out of hundreds out there... why only us?"
Eidren looked at her like she was a flame in a place meant to be frozen. He didn't answer right away—just raised a brow. "You already know the answer," he said quietly.
Rivea shrugged and licked her chapped lips. "Wanna hear your version."
"Most of them are just alive," Eidren replied. "But you three... exist. Kael snorted. "Mysterious. Cool. Still starving."
Solen raised his hand. Polite. Like a student in class.
"One question, Sir Eidren."
"Go ahead."
"Have you ever been wrong?"
The silence that followed wasn't tense. It was deep. Not because Solen sounded defiant—he didn't. But because the question was too clean for a ten-year-old. And not just any kid. Solen looked like a prototype of the elite.
Eidren tilted his head, eyes locking onto Solen's. "I'm human. Mistakes are inevitable. But I've never doubted." Solen recorded that mentally. Not for now. For later.
Kael shot his hand up like he was about to pee himself. Face lit up with excitement. "Final question!" he declared. "What's your favorite food?"
Eidren stared at him. Hard to tell if he was gauging a trap or just stunned by the stupidity. Then he answered. "Salted fish. With warm white rice."
Kael stared back, dead serious. "…Okay. You pass."
"Pass what?"
"The humanity test. I thought you ate baby brains or ancient leaves from alternate dimensions."
Rivea let out a laugh. Short, real. Solen wasn't sure whether to nod or be concerned. Eidren stood again—but not as stiffly this time. His steps toward the door were calm, unhurried.
"Save your other questions for tomorrow. You might lose your mouths during the test." Kael grinned. "If I lose my mouth, I'll insult you through writing. Or interpretive dance."
Eidren raised two fingers—a silent cue for the guards outside. "Up to you. Just don't dance at FANG headquarters. They're not known for humor."
As the heavy door creaked open, a gust of cold corridor air swept into the room—
and with it, the quiet certainty that from this moment on, they were no longer just kids.
The ceiling of V.E.N.T.H. headquarters was far too high for any regular human.
Steel-grey walls polished to a dull sheen. Every step echoed—like the sound of a body too small walking through a space too vast.
Rivea led the way, hands buried in the pockets of her worn-out school jacket.
Kael trailed behind, walking backward, rambling as usual. Solen followed, posture stiff and straight—like a height chart in human form.
"This place is huge," Kael whistled low. "Swear to God... if there's a secret hallway, I wouldn't even be surprised."
"If there is," Rivea muttered, "I'd find it first. You're way behind, silverhead."
They passed a corridor marked: FANG OPS: AUTHORIZED ONLY. Behind the clear glass, several FANG operatives were assembling weapons. One of them paused, glancing toward the kids—eyes sharp like a wolf catching a scent from the wrong direction.
Kael waved. "Hi there, scary uncle."
No response—just a blank stare. Then someone tapped the glass, soft and deliberate. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a code.
"Why does everyone here look like they wanna punt us into hell?" Kael muttered, voice lowering.
"Because we're nobodies," Solen replied, not bothering to look back. "And this place isn't a kindergarten."
"And you like being here?" Rivea asked, raising an eyebrow.
Solen paused for a beat. "No. But... I know it matters."
They passed an observation room, a long-range training bay, and one empty hall with scuffed floors—battle scars left behind by drills or... something worse.
Everyone they walked past stared. Some glanced. Some scoffed. And the rest... watched. Like they were waiting for the kids to slip up—just once.
Rivea caught sight of a FANG operative—a tall woman with a scar running down her cheek—mouthing something to her comrade: "Those are the special kids? Them? Seriously?"
Kael grinned. "I wanna suggest a training session where we fight over chairs like in preschool—except with chainsaws." Rivea smacked the back of his head. "Your brain's ninety percent air."
Solen didn't react. His gaze never wavered.
Eventually, they reached the living quarters—if they could be called that. Not rooms, exactly. More like semi-private cells. Each space held one bed, one desk, and a hanging light that couldn't be turned off.
The children who were "taken in" weren't allowed to live outside the HQ. They weren't "ripe" yet—untested, unmarked. Not hunters. Not yet. Just candidates. Ones that could easily be discarded if they failed.
"This our spot?" Kael asked, voice halfway between sarcasm and surrender.
"Looks like a luxury hamster cage," Rivea commented, flopping onto the thin mattress that groaned beneath her.
Solen inspected the small cabinet in the corner like he was running an audit.
"Hygienic. Minimal. Uncomfortable... but adequate."
"I could cook noodles on this ceiling lamp," Kael offered. Rivea laughed—short, dry, more at the absurdity than the humor.
Outside their quarters, the hallway returned to silence. A few staff members passed by from other divisions. None spoke. The only sounds were military boots on metal floors, and sometimes... the muffled voice of the world beyond the small window at the corridor's end.
The sky over Nythra was overcast, as always. And this headquarters—despite its size—felt like the belly of a beast that had just finished feeding.
That night, a light rain tapped against the metal roof of V.E.N.T.H. The corridors glistened with reflections from sterile, cold lighting. The air hung heavy, like a voice stuck in the back of a throat.
The three kids had been placed in the same residential block. Their rooms were side by side, separated only by transparent sliding doors—privacy in name, a thin illusion of space that wasn't truly theirs.
Kael was the first to step out, his silver hair a mess, hoodie sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Rivea sat just outside her door, legs folded, eyes cast down to the floor.
"I thought this place would at least have vending machines. Or snacks we could use to barter for survival," Kael muttered as he walked over and sat beside her.
"Well, you could barter. If you're offering a kidney first," Rivea replied calmly, twirling a rubber bracelet around her wrist.
The third door slid open. Solen emerged, still in perfectly unwrinkled sleepwear, holding a small book—no one knew from where—and paused to study the other two like sculptures in a poorly curated museum.
"Why are you sitting on the floor?" he asked flatly. "It's dirty."
"The floor's the one suffering, actually," Kael grinned. "Poor thing had to feel your feet first."
Solen ignored him. Sat down a few meters away, opened his book, and began reading like he was surrounded by sterile air instead of stale hallway air.
Rivea glanced sideways. "You're seriously reading? At this hour?"
"Maybe he's got an exam," Kael chimed in. "Or... writing his final letter home?"
"Maintaining routine keeps the brain from rotting in places like this," Solen answered without lifting his eyes.
"Damn," Kael chuckled. "Respect. Two days in, and you already sound like a professor in a monster-infested university."
Rivea leaned her head back against the wall. "So this is what being the golden child looks like?" Solen closed his book slowly. "I'm just... more disciplined than you."
"Nope. You're just stiff," Kael corrected casually. "If you ever laughed, the world might crack open."
"And if you two were a little more serious," Solen replied, voice still calm, "maybe we'd get out of here faster."
Three seconds of silence.
Then Kael let out a small laugh. "I like this guy. He's like a thermostat—cold, flat, but turns up the heat if you push the right buttons."
Rivea didn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She rested her chin on her knees.
"Hell trio," she muttered. "Annoying, sterile, and... halfway insane."
"I'm not sterile," Kael said instantly.
"Me neither," Rivea echoed.
They sat in silence after that. Only the rain outside and the quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space—like a sleeping creature breathing behind the walls.
They still didn't know when the test would begin. Didn't know who they'd be fighting. Didn't know who among them would break first.
But one thing was certain: For the first time since they'd arrived, this place... felt a little less quiet.