CHAPTER TWO — REDUCTION

  12:30 PM

  The trays were collected not long after.

  The door slid open again, slower this time. Not a doctor. Not a Researcher. And not a guard aswell.

  It was a Cleanup personnel.

  They wore dull uniforms, fabric worn thin and stained in places that never seemed to wash clean. One of them sighed the moment they took in the room—the crumbs scattered across the floor, the tray Keil had turned sideways, smears of food where it didn’t belong.

  “Disgusting,” one muttered under their breath.

  They didn’t look at the children. Not really. Their eyes skimmed past faces and settled only on the mess.

  The white-haired girl stiffened immediately, shoulders drawing inward. Her fingers curled tight into her sleeves as her gaze flicked from the worker’s hands to their face, searching—waiting—for something she recognized. Anger. Permission. Pain.

  Nothing came.

  The worker crouched, movements quick and irritated, wiping the floor clean with rough strokes. When their hand came too close to her knee, the white-haired girl flinched.

  The motion stopped.

  Just in time.

  There was a brief pause—sharp, deliberate—before the hand withdrew.

  No hitting.

  No shouting.

  No correction.

  They weren’t allowed to.

  Keil watched every movement, jaw set tight. Leaf’s body tensed, ready for something that never happened. Rin stayed still, eyes lowered, breath shallow and controlled.

  The worker straightened, stacked the trays, and left without another word.

  The door sealed shut behind them.

  Only then did the room seem to breathe again.

  The white-haired girl loosened—just a little—leaning closer to Rin without realizing she’d done it. Keil noticed. He always did.

  “They can’t,” he said quietly. Not explaining. Just stating a fact. “They’re not allowed to.”

  She didn’t understand the words.

  But she understood the tone.

  …..

  The door opened without warning.

  Not the soft hiss they were used to—but a sharper sound, deliberate, final.

  Keil was on his feet immediately.

  Rin followed a second later, heart already pounding. Leaf straightened so fast that his shoulder clipped the wall, posture snapping into place as if muscle memory had been carved into him.

  They stood beside their beds. Hands at their sides. Eyes lowered.

  Too late to pretend they hadn’t been sitting together.

  Heelsteps clicking echoed against the floor as she entered.

  Her name was Dr. Althea Morvane, one of the Overseers. Primarily focuses on Biology. She did not wear a uniform like the others. Her coat was pristine—white, pressed, untouched by the stains that marked the facility’s lower staff. Her gloves were pale, her movements unhurried, as though time bent slightly to accommodate her presence.

  She stopped just inside the room.

  Looked around.

  Her gaze passed over Keil first. Then Rin. Then Leaf.

  Measured. Not curious. Not kind.

  Then it found the white-haired girl.

  It lingered.

  “Well,” Dr. Morvane said softly, her voice smooth in a way that didn’t invite comfort. “You’ve settled her in quickly.”

  No one answered.

  Keil’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up. Rin’s fingers trembled once before going still again. Leaf’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, breath shallow, shoulders rigid.

  Dr. Morvane stepped closer.

  The white-haired girl hadn’t stood. She was still seated on the floor, too slow to understand what this kind of entrance meant. Her pale eyes tracked the movement instinctively, body curling inward as the woman approached.

  Dr. Morvane crouched in front of her.

  Not close enough to touch.

  “Hello,” she said, tone light. Pleasant. “Do you remember me?”

  The white-haired girl didn’t respond.

  Her gaze flicked once—briefly—toward Keil.

  Dr. Morvane noticed.

  A smile touched her lips. Not warm. Not cruel. Something sharper.

  “I see,” she murmured. “Attachment already.”

  She straightened, turning back to the others.

  “You’ve been compliant,” she said, as though that explained everything. “Good. That makes things easier.”

  Her eyes returned to the white-haired girl, thoughtful now. Assessing.

  “I was not scheduled to visit today,” Dr. Morvane continued. “But curiosity is a difficult thing to suppress.”

  She reached into her coat and withdrew an advanced screened clipboard.

  “Stand her up,” she said calmly.

  Keil’s breath hitched.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Rin said quickly, voice barely steady.

  They moved at once—careful, gentle, terrified of doing it wrong.

  The white-haired girl allowed herself to be lifted, confusion written across her face. Her fingers clutched at fabric again, searching for something familiar as she was guided upright.

  Dr. Morvane watched every second of it.

  Fascinated.

  Dr. Morvane stopped in front of her bed.

  The white-haired girl noticed the heels first. They were clean. Always clean. She wondered, vaguely, how someone walked so much underground without getting them dirty.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A voice spoke above her.

  “Vitals are stable.”

  The girl didn’t look up right away. She was still watching her own hands, resting in her lap. They were small. Too small, maybe. She tried to rub her fingers together, just to feel something move.

  Althea tilted her head slightly. “Still quiet,” she said, not unkindly. “That’s fine. You don’t need to speak.”

  The girl felt relief at that. Speaking was hard. Speaking made things worse.

  Althea’s eyes drifted to her hair. White. Very white. People always looked at it longer than they meant to.

  “You know,” Althea continued, tapping something into her tablet, “most children come with records. A name. Someone who insists they matter.”

  The girl listened, but the words slid past her like water. Records didn’t mean anything to her. Names were… sounds. Sounds people used when they wanted something.

  “No family,” Althea said calmly. “No registered origin. No one asked where you went.”

  The girl blinked. That didn’t sound bad. It sounded empty. Empty was normal.

  Althea leaned in just enough for the girl to smell something sharp and clean—like metal and soap. “You’re very… uncomplicated,” she said. “I like that.”

  The girl thought that might be a good thing.

  She shifted slightly on the bed, unsure if she was allowed to move. Her eyes lifted just a little, not enough to meet Althea’s, but enough to show she was listening.

  Althea’s lips curved faintly. “No name, either,” she added. “But that’s alright. Names can be… distracting.”

  The girl nodded once. Slowly. If names were distracting, then it was good she didn’t have one. She didn’t want to be distracting.

  Althea straightened, already losing interest. “For now,” she said, “you’ll do just fine as you are.”

  She turned away, coat whispering as she walked toward the door.

  “We’ll decide what to call you later,” she said over her shoulder. “If you earn it.”

  The door closed.

  The hum returned—but it didn’t feel the same anymore.

  The white-haired girl stayed where she was, fingers curling slightly into the blanket. She waited. For what, she didn’t know. Waiting was safer than guessing.

  She didn’t know she had been laughed at.

  She didn’t know she had been reduced.

  She only knew that nothing bad had happened.

  That seemed important.

  For a moment, nothing moved.

  The hum of the facility filled the space again—low, constant, pressing against her ears like it always did. Somewhere far beyond the walls, something metallic shifted, then settled. The sound passed through the room and left, but the air it disturbed did not return to the way it had been before.

  From the corner of the room, there was a small movement. Fabric shifting. Someone is breathing a little too carefully. The presence of others—close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.

  Her eyes drifted, slow and uncertain, toward the other beds.

  Keil stood nearest his bed, hands at his sides, fingers stiff like he hadn’t decided what to do with them yet. The relief hadn’t made him lighter—just looser, like something inside him had finally stopped bracing for impact. His eyes flicked once to the door, then away, as if looking too long might invite it back.

  Rin sat down slowly, careful even now. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, and she flinched at the sound before realizing it was allowed. Her gaze drifted to the white-haired girl, softening without her meaning to. There was a sadness there she didn’t quite know how to name—quiet, aching, the kind that didn’t need tears to exist.

  Leaf leaned back against the wall again, but he didn’t relax into it. His shoulders stayed tense, jaw set, eyes dark and restless. He looked angry, maybe—but not at her. Not really. More like the anger had nowhere safe to go, so it just stayed, simmering under his skin.

  The white-haired girl watched all of it.

  She didn’t understand why the air felt heavier now, only that it did. That something invisible had passed through the room and left a trace behind. She shifted on the bed, blanket bunching beneath her fingers, and paused—uncertain—before letting herself sit a little closer to the edge.

  No one told her to stop.

  Keil noticed the movement and swallowed. Rin’s hands curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Leaf looked away, sharp and quick, like the sight of it struck somewhere tender.

  The hum of the facility went on, steady and uncaring.

  But the room—this room—held something fragile now. Not safety. Not comfort.

  Just the quiet knowledge that whatever had been taken from her hadn’t been given back.

  Finally, Rin was the first to move.

  She hesitated—just a breath too long—then shifted closer on the bed, turning her body sideways so she didn’t feel like a wall. Her voice, when it came, was soft. Careful. Like she was testing the air.

  “Um… hey,” she said. “You don’t… have to be scared anymore. She’s gone.”

  The white-haired girl’s eyes flicked to her. Not startled. Just alert. Watching.

  Rin smiled, a little nervous, then lifted one hand and gave a tiny wave, like that somehow made things easier. “I’m Rin. I— I already said that earlier, but… just in case.”

  No response.

  Rin didn’t push. She shifted again, tucking one leg under herself. “You don’t talk much, huh?” she added lightly, then quickly, “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  The girl’s fingers tightened in the blanket.

  Rin noticed. Her smile softened.

  “What… what do they call you?” she asked, gently. Not what’s your name—something smaller. Safer.

  The white-haired girl blinked.

  Once.

  Then she tilted her head, slow and uncertain, like she was trying to understand the shape of the question. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. After a moment, she shook her head. Just a small movement.

  Rin’s chest tightened.

  “Oh,” she said quietly.

  Keil, who had been pretending very hard not to listen, stilled. His eyes lifted from the floor.

  Rin tried again, slower. “Do you… remember where you’re from? Or— or anyone? Like… family?”

  The girl stared at her.

  Not blankly. Not confused exactly. More like the word family slid right past her without catching on anything.

  She shook her head again.

  Rin’s hands curled into her sleeves. “They didn’t… tell you, did they?”

  The white-haired girl watched her mouth as she spoke, eyes following each word with careful focus. When Rin stopped, she waited. Like maybe more was coming.

  Something cold settled in Rin’s stomach.

  “She—” Rin swallowed, then tried to sound steady. “The doctor earlier. She was… saying things. Mean things.”

  The girl didn’t react.

  Rin frowned slightly. “You didn’t… understand her, did you?”

  A pause.

  Then—slowly—the girl shook her head.

  Keil exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet, like it hurt not to. He stepped closer without realizing it, stopping a few feet away. “She does that,” he said, voice low. “Says stuff just to see if it sticks.”

  Rin nodded. “She said you didn’t have a name. Or a family. Or… anywhere you came from.”

  The girl’s eyes stayed on her. Wide. Unchanged.

  “She was mocking you,” Rin said, softer now. “That’s what she was doing.”

  Still nothing.

  Rin felt something ache behind her ribs. Not because the girl looked hurt—but because she didn’t. Because the words had gone nowhere. Like throwing stones into a well with no bottom

  “Oh,” Rin whispered. “You really didn’t know…”

  The white-haired girl shifted, uncertain, then glanced between Rin and Keil, like she was checking their faces for the right reaction. For instructions.

  Keil crouched slightly, lowering himself so he wasn’t towering. “Hey,” he said, careful. “You don’t gotta understand everything right now. That’s… that’s okay.”

  She watched him closely.

  Rin smiled again—this time a little watery. “We can tell you stuff,” she said. “If you want. Little things. Like… how meals work. Or what days feel like here. Or— or anything, really.”

  The girl hesitated.

  Then, very slowly, she nodded.

  It was small. Almost nothing.

  But it was there.

  Rin let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Keil’s shoulders eased just a fraction. Even Leaf, watching from the wall, looked away like he didn’t want anyone to see the way his jaw tightened.

  The hum of the facility continued.

  But something fragile—something tentative—began to take shape between them.

  And this time, no one rushed to break it.

  1:30 PM

  Rin kept talking.

  Not all at once—just little pieces, dropped gently into the space between them. Things that didn’t matter much. Things that were safe.

  She talked about how the lights dimmed at the same time every night. How the food trays were always warmer if you waited a minute. How the humming in the walls meant the generators were stable, not angry. She talked about the floor that creaked near the door and how Leaf always noticed it first. She talked about Keil snoring sometimes, even though he swore he didn’t.

  The white-haired girl listened.

  She didn’t understand most of it—not really. The words blended together, unfamiliar and heavy, but she followed Rin’s tone instead. The way her voice rose when she was trying to be cheerful. The way it softened when she thought she might be pushing too much.

  The girl’s eyes stayed on her face the whole time.

  Every now and then, her lips parted—just barely—like something was trying to come out.

  Nothing did.

  Rin noticed. She slowed down. “You can… try, if you want,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to. But you can.”

  The girl swallowed.

  Her throat moved, stiff, like it hadn’t done that in a long time. Her mouth opened again. A breath slipped out—too thin, too unsure to be a sound.

  She flinched at herself.

  Rin didn’t react. Didn’t smile too wide. Didn’t encourage too fast. She just stayed there, steady, like waiting was the most natural thing in the world.

  Keil watched from nearby, pretending not to. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. He recognized that look—the way her body braced, like speaking was something dangerous.

  She had never used it.

  Not here.

  Not before.

  Above ground, in the alley with its buzzing lights and passing boots, there had never been a reason to speak. No one asked her questions. No one waited for answers. Sounds only drew attention—and attention hurt.

  So her voice had stayed unused. Untested. Like something forgotten in the dark.

  Her lips moved again.

  A sound almost formed—broken, breathy, wrong. It startled her enough that she pressed her mouth shut with both hands, eyes wide.

  “It’s okay,” Rin said immediately, softer now. “It’s really okay. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  The girl stared at her hands, fingers trembling slightly.

  “She just… never learned,” Keil said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

  Leaf shifted against the wall. “Makes sense,” he muttered. “This place doesn’t exactly teach you how to be… human.”

  No one argued.

  Rin reached out—not to touch, just to rest her hand on the bed between them. Close enough to be there. Far enough not to scare her. “You can listen for now,” she said. “That’s enough.”

  The white-haired girl hesitated.

  Then—slowly—she nodded.

  She stayed close after that. Close enough to hear Rin’s voice clearly. Close enough that when the facility groaned somewhere deep below them, she didn’t shrink into herself quite as hard.

  She didn’t speak.

  But she listened.

  And for the first time, it felt like that might be the beginning of something—not the end.