The howl didn’t stop.
The monster roared, furious. The door shook under repeated impacts. Striped Shirt lunged forward and braced it with all his strength.
It battered the barrier for a long time. Then it finally stopped.
But it didn’t leave.
He could hear it pacing in Room B—scratching the walls, dragging claws, making strange cries that raised gooseflesh on skin he didn’t even remember owning.
Striped Shirt sagged in relief—and realized his shirt was soaked through with sweat. Exhaustion and terror had turned his legs into jelly.
Still… the bedroom had a ceiling. It was a sealed, safe box.
“What the hell is that thing—”
The moment the words slipped out, pain lanced through his neck. He crumpled, biting back a scream. One hand clamped over his mouth, the other over the collar, riding out the agony with furious confusion.
The collar could “hear.”
Even talking to himself counted.
He fumbled the metal band. Seamless. Tight. It felt grown into his skin.
When did they put it on him?
Above, the weak ceiling light buzzed. And as he stared at it, something shifted inside his head—like a rusty door cracking open. A thin trickle of images seeped in.
He was moving—but not on his own.
Two people were hauling him, one on each side. Combat boots stepped in alternating rhythm. His legs dragged behind him. There were gunshots—close.
A corridor. An elevator.
Someone shoved him hard. He slammed into an elevator wall and crashed to the floor. The doors slid shut.
Then the elevator’s overhead light blurred… merged… with the dim light of his bedroom.
He snapped back to the present.
He tried to push deeper into the memory. Nothing. The images dissolved the moment he grabbed for them.
He set it aside—no choice.
He dragged the only movable object in the room, the bed, and wedged it against the door. Then he wrapped himself in a thin blanket and crouched in the corner.
He was starving. He was exhausted. He was terrified.
And all night long, the monster’s noises scraped at his nerves.
Sometimes the sounds were so rhythmic, so patterned, that he couldn’t tell if he truly heard words—or if his mind was making them up.
But over and over, he swore he caught a few repeated fragments:
Kill.
Hungry.
I am water.
Barata.
The rest was indistinct, swallowed by distance and madness.
Eventually, somewhere between fear and fatigue, he drifted off.
***
A sharp bell jolted him awake.
Light flooded the bedroom.
For one sick heartbeat, he thought the monster had ripped the door open—because the door was wide open.
The brightness and the ringing were coming from Room B.
Where was the monster?
He crept out, trembling.
Room B was empty.
Not just empty—pristine. No scratches. No dents. No signs of last night’s impacts. As if the creature had never existed.
Above, the hall still opened into boundless dark.
The bell came from the timer screen. It now read: 959.
He remembered the voice’s rules. That meant sixteen hours—sixteen hours to drive that cursed wheel.
His stomach clawed at him. Last night’s broken sleep hadn’t restored anything. His limbs still ached, heavy and weak.
Food first.
He climbed into the wheel and ran.
Yesterday he’d barely scraped together 200 points in 120 minutes. Today it took twice as long. By the time he hit 300 points, stars danced in his vision.
The moment the counter reached 300, the buttons by Doors Two and Three lit up.
He didn’t hesitate. He opened Door Two.
Room C had no furniture either. On the floor lay a rough slab of bread and two apples.
Stingy, he thought. Three hundred laps for this?
He almost shouted it at the ceiling—then swallowed the impulse.
He devoured the bread. It was big enough, but it tasted like cardboard. He ate one apple too—core and all. He pocketed the second apple before leaving.
The moment he stepped back into Room B, the door to C shut, and the point counter snapped back to zero.
He stared at the counter and sighed. Then he ran again.
By the time the timer showed three minutes remaining, he’d earned 372 points. The light began to dim again. Shaken by the memory of last night, he retreated into his bedroom and closed himself in.
Right on schedule, when the timer hit zero, the monster returned.
***
Another night of shaking fear.
Then morning—automatic door opening, bright hall, no monster. The timer reset to 960. The counter display, however, now showed 172.
So points didn’t reset daily.
And food could be carried out of Room C.
He exhaled. With planning, he could afford to enter Room D every other day. If the voice hadn’t lied, he could figure out who he was—eventually.
Day by day, he refined the routine.
He ran. He ate. He rested. He ran again.
Soon he realized something: as long as he didn’t starve, earning 700 points in a day was easy.
The monster came each night.
But he stopped fearing it.
The bedroom door held.
***
On the third day, he burned himself out on the wheel until his counter reached 650—then he opened Door Three and stepped back into Room D.
The screens lit up, showing a menu of surveillance feeds.
He tilted his head toward the ceiling and shouted, very carefully:
“Hey! Are you there—if you’re not, then don’t speak!”
No answer.
“Right,” he muttered. “I’ll do it myself.”
Before coming here he’d dissected that blurry memory a thousand times and extracted a few key facts:
One: he had been captured. Captured by human soldiers.
Two: there had been gunfire at the time—meaning a battle was in progress.
Three: there was a corridor and an elevator.
That combination strongly suggested one place: Edean Tower. Or a fortress. Or a ship. But Edean Tower felt most likely.
And there were only two times the tower saw real fighting: Phantom Forge’s invasion, and the uprising where Little White and Bit stormed the tower. The uniforms he’d glimpsed—boots, pants—felt like Glimmer Guard gear.
So he didn’t waste a second.
He found the timestamp where the Glimmer Guard fought robots in the first-floor hall and the plaza outside.
He’d watched this once already—from the viewpoint of Little White and Teresa as they went to the top levels to arrest Soren. This time he anchored the camera on four Glimmer Guard squads sent as reinforcements.
Teresa’s order had been clear: shut down all elevators and force soldiers up the stairwells, so enemy fire would spread out.
Four squads obeyed.
A fifth squad—more than twenty strong—entered an elevator anyway and went up.
It violated Teresa’s command.
Striped Shirt’s pulse jumped. He locked onto them immediately.
The elevator stopped at Floor 231—an administrator level for the clone district.
The squad disembarked, eliminated a small number of robots, seized control of the floor, and herded all human administrators, safety staff, health staff, and subject instructors into a single room.
The process took time. He hopped between cameras in different hallways, hunting for something that matched his memory. Too many spaces looked alike.
Then, about twenty minutes later, several instructors were released.
They went to the clone floors and quickly gathered every child into a single auditorium.
The room filled with more than three hundred children, ages seven to seventeen. Glimmer Guards handed out thermal suits and oxygen masks. The kids had never been through anything like this—most had never been in one place together, never seen equipment like that. They were curious and confused… but no one asked questions.
Curiosity was a bad habit.
Striped Shirt didn’t know what was about to happen either. He leaned closer and listened.
Soon, a woman in white—over sixty—entered the auditorium, flanked by two armed Glimmer Guards.
She had presence. She climbed the podium and began to speak.
Striped Shirt turned the volume up.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Dr. Sally, your chief instructor. Time is urgent, so I’ll be brief.”
She cleared her throat, voice stern and practiced.
“Our home is under invasion. Our soldiers are fighting. According to reliable intelligence, the enemy has planted a powerful bomb inside the tower. For everyone’s safety, we must evacuate temporarily…”
She paused, glanced at the guards beside her, then continued.
“You’ll be taken to a ship. Once you’re in space, someone will explain the details. This is not a drill. Please remain calm, maintain the virtue of mutual care, and actively look after the younger members of our community.”
She finished and said, “That’s all.”
After a short silence, chairs scraped. Several guards stepped forward and guided the children out in lines through a rear door.
“Wait,” a guard captain said suddenly. “Number One and Number Two—come with me.”
Two boys looked confused. They glanced at the captain, then at Dr. Sally. She nodded. The boys followed him out through a left-side door.
Dr. Sally exited through a right-side door.
Striped Shirt wanted to watch both paths. But Dr. Sally stopped just outside and began speaking to another captain stationed there—so he chose her feed first.
Her voice was completely different now. The stern authority was gone. Even through the screen, he could hear how careful she was.
“I… can I see him once?” Dr. Sally pleaded. “I’ve something to tell him. Please—pass it along. He must want to see me too.”
The captain hesitated. He lifted a comm terminal and spoke softly—too softly for Striped Shirt to hear.
Then the captain spoke clearly to Dr. Sally.
“Come with me.”
“Thank you,” Sally breathed, and followed.
The captain led her into an empty office nearby, then left, shutting the door behind him. Dr. Sally stood there alone, not sure whether to sit or stand, waiting in trembling uncertainty.
Striped Shirt watched for more than ten minutes. No one came.
He was about to switch feeds when the door opened.
Someone stepped inside.
The newcomer wore a Glimmer Guard uniform too—but her build was small. When she removed her helmet, Striped Shirt saw a girl, seventeen or eighteen at most.
The girl stared at Dr. Sally with an icy expression.
Dr. Sally, on the other hand, looked like she might collapse from emotion.
“You… you finally came. I—” She stepped forward, reaching for the girl’s hands.
The girl dodged.
“I’ve done what you asked,” Dr. Sally said, sucking in a breath. “The children are preparing to board.”
“Good,” the girl replied. “Thank you.”
“Can you… can you spare my life?” Dr. Sally began to cry. “The children listen to me. I can help you manage them.”
“That isn’t my decision,” the girl said. “You’re begging the wrong person.”
“No… I…” Dr. Sally’s tears spilled freely. “You’re… identical. Seeing you is like seeing myself when I was young. F—sorry. I’m a little… overwhelmed. What should I call you?”
“Call me Willa,” the girl said, still cold.