Which These Bois Are Gonna Need

Footsteps struck the concrete from several directions. Rubber soles squeaked.

A cart rattled over a seam in the floor.

Somewhere nearby, a man was shouting. The words blurred beneath the slam of a door and the hard, practiced voices of staff answering him.

363 kept their left hand against the wall.

The paint was cool and rough beneath their fingertips. Small imperfections in the surface gave them something consistent to follow. Pitted concrete. A crack. A patch where the paint had bubbled. Another crack.

Peterson glanced at their hand but didn't tell them to move it.

That almost felt like permission.

The wall changed beneath their fingers.

363 slowed when concrete became metal.

The new surface was colder, interrupted by narrow seams, recessed handles and heavy, locked doors. They didn't know how they knew that.

They didn't remember where they had lived before the white room. They didn't remember what kind of doors had surrounded them or whether anyone had ever waited for them to come through one. Their mind contained facts without origins, knowledge severed from experience.

Metal doors like these were designed to keep people in.

Something struck the other side of one.

363’s hand jerked away.

A voice followed, too muffled to understand.

Peterson kept walking.

363 looked back.

There were six doors along that section of corridor. Perhaps more beyond the turn. Some had small reinforced windows covered from the outside. Others had only narrow slots at eye level.

People were being held behind them.

How many? How long?

They tried to imagine a person standing in each room. Sleeping there. Waking there. Learning the hours through meal trays and footsteps.

They wondered how many lives would be spent behind those doors.

“Eyes forward,” Peterson said.

363 obeyed.

The corridor widened ahead of them. The noise changed first. The overlapping voices faded, replaced by music playing softly through a speaker somewhere beyond the next doorway.

The song was cheerful. It was disgusting. It made the room worse.

Gold lettering had been applied to the wall beside the entrance.

THE LOUNGE

Peterson opened the door and guided 363 inside.

The room was designed to resemble something pleasant.

There were upholstered chairs, low tables, shelves of folded clothing, and several stations arranged along one wall. Each station had a dressing-room mirror bordered by exposed bulbs. The light was warm instead of white, but there were too many bulbs, too many reflections, too many bright circles repeated endlessly in the glass.

363 stopped just inside.

Their reflection stopped with them.

Blood had dried from their nose to their upper lip. More blood stained the side of their jaw where they must have wiped at it with the back of their hand. Their knuckles were split and dark with it.

They didn’t remember when the bleeding had started.

They touched beneath their nose.

Peterson caught their wrist.

“Don’t.”

They stopped.

“You’ll smear it.”

She steered them toward the nearest station and pressed lightly between their shoulder blades until they sat.

The chair was soft.

363 distrusted it immediately.

Peterson moved behind them. In the mirror, she appeared composed and unhurried. Her hair was neat. Her uniform was clean. Nothing about her suggested the corridor outside or the people behind the locked doors.

She placed a black case on the counter and opened it.

Inside were brushes, pencils, glass bottles, round containers, rectangular palettes, tubes arranged by color and size. Everything had a specific place.

363 stared.

Peterson met their eyes through the mirror.

“Every good Romantic uses makeup as a weapon.”

363 looked at the supplies again.

They understood the individual word. They didn't understand the sentence.

Peterson took a packet of wipes from a drawer.

“Chin up.”

363 lifted their chin.

The first touch was cold.

They flinched anyway.

Peterson paused.

She steadied their jaw with one hand and wiped the dried blood from beneath their nose with the other. She worked slowly, softening it before removing it instead of scraping at their skin.

Her thumb brushed the corner of their mouth.

Something inside 363 collapsed toward the contact.

The sensation was so immediate and so frightening that their breath caught. Their shoulders loosened before they could stop them. Their face tilted almost imperceptibly into her palm.

Comfort rushed through them. Not safety.

They knew enough to understand there was a difference, even if they could not explain how.

Still, when Peterson started to withdraw her hand, 363’s fingers lifted from their lap.

They nearly caught her wrist.

Nearly curled their hand around hers and held it there.

Peterson saw the movement in the mirror.

363 lowered their hand.

A faint expression crossed her face. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or simple confirmation.

She’d learned something.

“Good,” she said quietly.

The word entered 363 like warmth.

Peterson cleaned the blood from their knuckles next. Her touch remained careful. She checked each finger, turning their hands beneath the bulbs, inspecting for swelling and damaged joints.

The gentleness made everything more confusing.

The same hands could restrain them and order punishment and yet their body leaned toward her before their mind could intervene.

Peterson disposed of the stained wipes and began arranging products across the counter.

“First, you clean the skin.” She held up a bottle. “You can’t build anything worth looking at on a dirty surface.”

363 watched her pump liquid onto a cotton pad.

She guided their hand through the motion, showing them how to sweep it across the forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. Then came another liquid, and a cream Peterson told them was moisturizer.

“You have to take care of what the owner is purchasing.”

363 stared at themself in the mirror.

Peterson tapped the back of their hand.

“Pay attention.”

“Yes, Handler.”

“Primer.”

She applied a smooth gel across their face.

“Foundation.”

She dotted pigment over their skin and blended it with a damp sponge, tapping instead of dragging.

“Why?” she asked.

363 searched for the expected answer.

“To hide damage.”

“Partly.”

Peterson added more around the discolored skin beneath their eyes.

“To create consistency,” she said. “Owners like to believe what they’re seeing is natural. Effortless. They don’t want to see the work unless they’ve requested to watch it.”

The foundation muted the marks on 363’s face. Their skin became even beneath the lights. They weren't perfect but they were controlled.

Peterson opened a smaller tube.

“Concealer goes where?”

363 looked at the mirror.

“Under the eyes. Around the nose. Over discoloration.”

“And?”

They hesitated.

Peterson touched the split skin near their knuckles.

“Anywhere the truth is distracting.”

363 looked down.

Peterson tipped their face back toward the mirror.

“Don’t hide from your reflection. The owner will notice.”

“Yes, Handler.”

She showed them how to blend the concealer without disturbing the foundation beneath it. Then she selected a palette filled with silver, charcoal, and gray.

“You have hooded eyes,” she said. “That means placement matters.”

363 watched the brush move across their eyelids.

Peterson created depth above the natural crease so the color remained visible when their eyes were open. Silver brightened the inner corners. Gray softened outward. Charcoal sharpened the edge without becoming heavy.

“Look straight ahead.”

363 did she adjusted the angle.

“Again.”

They looked away and returned.

“Better.”

A pencil came next.

“Winged liner.”

Peterson braced two fingers against 363’s cheek and drew a clean black line along their lashes. At the outer corner, she extended it upward.

“Never follow the eye down,” she said. “It makes you look tired.”

“I am tired.”

Her hand stopped.

363’s pulse jumped.

For several seconds, Peterson said nothing.

Then she continued drawing.

“What you are isn’t always relevant to what you present.”

The second wing matched the first.

Mascara darkened their lashes. Peterson explained how to turn the wand while lifting, how to separate clumps, how to remove excess product before it ruined the work.

She placed a tube of deep cherry color on the counter.

“Lips.”

363 watched her paint the color across their mouth.

The red was not bright. It was darker than fresh blood and warmer than the dried stains Peterson had removed. She blotted it once, reapplied it, then cleaned the edges with concealer.

“Blush restores life,” she said.

A muted warmth appeared high on 363’s cheeks.

“Highlighter suggests health.”

Light caught along the tops of their cheekbones and the bridge of their nose.

“Bronzer gives the face dimension. Owners don’t want a painted doll unless they specifically order one. They want to believe you woke up like this. They want to believe the color in your face came from seeing them.”

Peterson stepped back.

“Eyes.”

363 looked at her.

“No. Your eyes.”

They turned toward the mirror.

Peterson moved behind them and rested her hands on their shoulders.

“An owner must be able to see openness,” she said. “Life. Interest. Want.”

363 studied the person in the glass.

They knew the reflection belonged to them because it moved when they moved. Beyond that, there was no recognition waiting beneath the skin.

The face had no history, only the number staff used when they wanted its attention, but now silver brightened the eyes.

The liner sharpened them. The cherry color made the mouth look deliberate rather than bloodied. The foundation had erased the visible evidence of the corridor, the white room, the test.

The person in the mirror looked composed.

Awake.

Beautiful.

The thought came before 363 could reject it.

Beautiful.

Their chest tightened.

The worst part was that the beauty was real.

Peterson hadn't invented their face. She had not created the shape of their mouth or the depth of their skin or the way silver caught against their eyes. She had only arranged those things, emphasized them, taught the light where to land.

They wanted to keep looking.

Shame burned a crisp path through their stomach, low and hot, engulfing the desire immediately. Peterson saw it.

“You like it.”

363’s swallowed.

“Yes, Handler.”

“You should.” Her hands tightened slightly on their shoulders. “Beauty is useful.”

Useful.

The word reduced the feeling to something WRU could own.

Peterson swept the products from the center of the counter and placed them in a line.

“Now you do it.”

363 stared at her.

“Remove it first.”

Their hands trembled as they reached for the cleanser.

Peterson watched from beside the station.

363 wiped away the cherry color. The cotton pad came back red. The silver disappeared next, then the liner, the foundation, the carefully constructed warmth.

Their bare face returned in pieces.

The blood was gone, but the exhaustion remained.

“Again,” Peterson said.

363 began.

Cleanser.

Moisturizer.

Primer.

They used too much and Peterson caught their wrist before the second pump.

“That product costs more than you do per ounce.”

They froze.

She leaned closer.

“Waste it again, and I’ll have you practice after correction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Handler.”

“What happens after correction?”

“I continue until the lesson is complete.”

“Good.”

Their hands shook harder.

The foundation went on unevenly. They tried to correct it and created a darker patch along the jaw.

Peterson made a sound of disapproval.

363’s stomach contracted.

“Remove it.”

They did.

“Again.”

The second attempt was better.

The concealer creased beneath one eye.

“Again.”

The left wing extended too far.

Peterson took the pencil from them.

“Do you think an owner wants to look at that?”

“No, Handler.”

“Do you think an owner will care that your hands were trembling?”

“No, Handler.”

“Do you think they’ll ask whether you were frightened?”

“No, Handler.”

Peterson pressed the pencil back into their palm.

“Then stop showing it.”

363 focused on the mirror.

They couldn't stop their body from trembling but they could make the line appear as though it had not.

They anchored their smallest finger against their cheek. They shortened the movement. They drew from the outer corner inward rather than trying to create the wing in one stroke.

Peterson said nothing.

363 completed the second eye.

The wings nearly matched.

“Remove it.”

363’s hand stopped.

Her expression didn't change.

“You don’t own the result. Remove it.”

They wiped the liner away.

“Again.”

They practiced until the skin around their eyes reddened from repeated cleaning. It didn't hurt, but 363 saw the irritation and understood that it would become damaged if they continued too long.

Peterson didn't stop them.

Mascara.

Too much product. Remove it. Again.

Cherry lip color.

Uneven corner. Remove it. Again.

Blush.

Too low. Again.

Highlighter.

Too bright. Again.

Bronzer.

Unblended. Again.

The room narrowed to the mirror, the products, and her silence.

363 learned that silence could be a threat.

They also learned to monitor the smallest changes in her face. The tightening beside her mouth. The lift of one brow. The way her shoulders settled when they selected the correct brush without being told.

Their hands steadied. Fear became information.

They adjusted the foundation to match the skin at their neck. They placed concealer only where it was needed. They built the silver slowly and kept the gray above the fold of the lid. They drew each wing in short controlled strokes.

Mascara.

Cherry.

Blush.

Highlighter.

Bronzer.

When they finished, they set the final brush down with its bristles facing away from the edge of the counter.

Peterson stepped closer.

She inspected them from the front, then turned their face toward the light.

363 waited, breathing too loud in their ears.

Peterson looked at the mirror and gave an approving nod.

Nothing more.

No smile.

No praise.

Just a single nod.

Relief struck so sharply that 363 almost sagged in the chair.

They had done it correctly.

Peterson approved.

The knowledge felt far too important. It settled inside them beside hunger and thirst and the need to know where the nearest exit was. Something necessary. Something their body would begin pursuing without permission.

Peterson began returning the products to the case.

“Makeup isn’t really about beauty,” she said.

363 kept watching her.

“It’s about control. Your control over what other people see. Your control over what they assume. People believe faces before they believe facts.”

She held up the foundation bottle.

“This can hide a bruise.”

The concealer.

“This can hide exhaustion.”

The cherry lip color.

“This can make silence look inviting.”

She picked up the eyeliner pencil last.

“And this can make fear look like desire.”

363 looked at their reflection again.

Peterson stood behind them, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair.

“The presentation must look natural,” she said. “Captivity must look like desire. Obedience must look like devotion. If an owner sees the work, you’ve failed.”

The face in the mirror looked open.

Alive.

Interested.

No one looking at it would know that 363’s hands had trembled. No one would see the locked doors in the corridor or the blood Peterson had cleaned from their mouth. No one would know how badly they had wanted her hand to remain against their face.

The mask didn't conceal the beauty.

It used it.

Peterson closed the black case.

“Someday,” she said, “this may keep you alive.”

363 didn't answer.

They watched the person in the mirror and memorized every step.

some buried, wordless instinct recognized the value of a face that revealed nothing it had not chosen to reveal.

Primer.

Foundation.

Concealer.

Silver and gray above the crease.

A controlled wing.

Cherry lips.

False warmth.

Manufactured light.

It was a mask convincing enough to pass for a person who wanted to be exactly where they had been placed.

363 held their reflection’s gaze.

“363,” Peterson said.

They heard her.

The man clawed at their wrist.

363 tightened their grip again.

“Release him.”

They looked at Peterson.

She stood perfectly still.

No fear.

Only expectation.

“He hurt me,” 363 said.

“Yes.”

“He’ll do it again.”

“If instructed.”

The man’s face had begun to darken.

“He shouldn’t be allowed to.”

“Release him.”

363 didn’t.

Peterson’s hand moved.

The remote was small, black, and already in her palm.

The collar activated.

363’s body seized.

Their fingers tore away from the man’s throat as electricity drove through the muscles of their neck, shoulders, and spine. Their body locked so violently that they couldn’t protect their fall.

The mat struck their cheek.

Their jaw snapped shut.

The shock ended.

Air dragged into their lungs.

The room smelled suddenly of hot metal, damp fabric, and burned dust.

Someone pulled the staff member away.

He coughed and choked, curled on his side with both hands around his throat.

363 tried to rise.

The collar activated again.

Their arms collapsed beneath them.

The second shock lasted long enough for white to flood their vision.

Sound narrowed into a thin mechanical whine.

When it stopped, they lay shaking against the mat.

Peterson’s shoes entered their field of vision.

Clean.

Black.

Polished enough to reflect the overhead lights.

She crouched.

“You were told to defend yourself.”

363 tasted blood.

“Yes.”

“You were not told to kill him.”

“He was hurting me.”

“He was performing a function.”

“He enjoyed it.”

“That isn’t relevant.”

“It’s relevant to me.”

Peterson’s eyes sharpened.

“There’s the problem.”

363 tried to lift their head.

Peterson placed two fingers beneath their chin and helped, almost gently.

The tenderness made something cold move through them.

“You don’t get to decide what deserves violence,” she said. “That’s the part you keep misunderstanding.”

“The action is the same.”

Peterson smiled.

“Yes.”

The answer came too easily.

As though she’d been waiting for them to understand.

“The action is exactly the same.”

She brushed wet hair back from their forehead. The water there had been sprayed onto them nearly twenty minutes earlier. Their body still hadn’t produced a drop of its own.

“When you hurt someone for WRU, you’re exceptional.”

Her thumb wiped blood from the corner of their mouth.

“When you hurt someone because you’re angry, frightened, or offended, you’re unstable.”

She looked at the blood on her thumb.

“When you attack staff, you’re defective.”

“You praised the same technique yesterday.”

“Yesterday, it served us.”

Peterson rose and offered the remote to one of the trainers.

“What changes isn’t the violence. What changes is who authorized it.”

The man 363 had strangled had stopped coughing. Another staff member helped him toward the door.

He looked back at them.

His expression wasn’t contemptuous now.

It was afraid.

Peterson noticed.

She looked pleased again.

“That fear,” she said, “belongs to us.”

363 pressed their palms to the mat.

Their arms trembled from the shocks. Heat continued building inside them, heavy and disorienting. They knew they were approaching the point at which their judgment would deteriorate.

Peterson checked the tablet.

“Thirty-nine point one.”

The technician stepped closer with the cooling equipment.

Peterson stopped her.

“Not yet.”

363 looked up.

The room became quieter.

Peterson crouched again.

“You’re still refusing the lesson.”

“The lesson is that you’re afraid of me.”

One of the trainers struck them across the mouth.

Their head turned with the impact.

They felt pressure.

They heard the wet crack of skin against skin.

They saw fresh blood scatter across the pale mat.

No pain followed.

The trainer looked unsettled by the absence of reaction.

Peterson looked annoyed.

“Don’t do that again,” she told him.

The trainer’s face tightened.

Peterson returned her attention to 363.

“The lesson is that nothing you can do belongs to you.”

363 licked blood from their lip.

“That isn’t true.”

Peterson’s expression went still.

“What belongs to you?”

“My decisions.”

Peterson stood.

“Restrain them.”

Three handlers moved at once.

363 fought.

Not because they believed they could escape the room.

Because allowing the restraints to be applied without resistance would’ve made Peterson’s statement easier to believe.

They drove an elbow backward into one handler’s chest. They caught another beneath the jaw with the heel of their palm. A third wrapped both arms around their torso.

363 hooked their foot behind his ankle and brought them both down.

The room erupted into movement.

Hands seized their wrists.

A baton struck the side of their thigh.

The impact registered as force without pain.

Their leg buckled anyway.

Someone caught their hair.

363 turned toward the grip and bit down on the nearest forearm.

The handler screamed.

Blood filled 363’s mouth.

The collar activated.

Their jaw released.

The current threw every muscle into rigid contraction. Several handlers used the opening to force them face-down. One knee settled between their shoulder blades. Another pressed against the back of their thigh.

Their wrists were cuffed.

Their ankles followed.

A short chain connected both restraints, preventing them from standing fully.

The shock ended.

363 lay still.

Their breathing came too quickly now.

The floor moved beneath their cheek in slow, nauseating waves.

Peterson checked the sensor.

“Thirty-nine point four.”

The technician looked uneasy.

“We need to cool them.”

“In a moment.”

“They don’t sweat. At this rate—”

“I know their limits.”

Peterson knelt beside 363.

Her hand rested on the side of their neck.

Not affection.

Measurement.

Possession made physical.

“You could’ve stopped,” she said.

“So could they.”

“You could’ve followed the instruction.”

“You could’ve given a logical one.”

Peterson exhaled through her nose.

“I’ve been patient with you.”

“No.”

The single word came out rough.

Peterson’s fingers tightened.

“No?”

“You’ve been curious.”

For the first time, anger cracked through Peterson’s composure.

It disappeared quickly.

That made it more dangerous.

She stood.

“Cool them to thirty-eight.”

The technician moved immediately.

Cold water poured over 363’s head, neck, arms, and torso. Cooling packs were pressed into their armpits and along their groin over the training clothes. A fan was positioned near the floor.

Their body shuddered at the temperature change.

They remained restrained while the staff worked.

The cooling was efficient and impersonal. The technician monitored the numbers rather than their face. When the reading fell below thirty-eight, the packs were removed.

Peterson watched the entire process.

“Take them to the White Room,” she said.

The handlers became quieter.

363 had heard the name before.

Everyone in the facility had.

Staff used it casually in hallways.

A threat stripped of explanation.

White Room correction.

White Room refusal.

White Room overnight.

The words were spoken with the same tone used for laundry schedules and inventory counts.

“How long?” one trainer asked.

Peterson looked down at 363.

“Eighteen hours.”

The technician hesitated.

“With their thermoregulation—”

“The room will remain at twenty-one degrees Celsius. Continuous medical monitoring. No exertion cycle.”

Peterson’s gaze stayed fixed on 363.

“Unless they refuse position.”

363 was pulled upright.

The short chain between their wrists and ankles forced them into a bent, awkward stance.

Peterson stepped close enough to straighten the twisted collar with both hands.

“You’ll have eighteen hours to consider whether your decisions belong to you.”

363 looked at her.

“They will when the eighteen hours are over.”

Peterson’s smile returned.

“Make it twenty.”

The White Room was at the end of a corridor 363 hadn’t seen before.

The walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same flat, seamless white. Even the door had been painted to disappear when closed. Light panels filled the entire ceiling, producing brightness without shadow.

There were no windows.

No clock.

No drain.

No furniture.

Nothing to look at except the outline of their own body against the blankness.

The handlers removed the transport restraints but left their wrists cuffed behind their back.

A white square had been marked at the center of the floor in a shade only slightly darker than the rest of the room.

“Kneel inside the square,” one handler ordered.

363 remained standing.

The handler lifted the remote.

“Don’t make this longer.”

363 looked at the door.

The hinges were concealed.

The access panel sat outside.

There were cameras in all four ceiling corners, each embedded beneath smooth transparent covers.

A speaker grille was set into the ceiling directly above the square.

363 stepped into it and knelt.

“Respect position.”

They lowered themself onto their heels.

Knees apart.

Spine straight.

Hands secured behind them.

Chin lowered.

The handler attached the cuffs to a short restraint anchored in the floor behind the square. There was enough slack to sit upright but not enough to stand or lie down fully.

A sensor was secured against 363’s chest.

Another was placed beneath their tongue long enough to record their starting temperature.

“Thirty-seven point six,” the handler said.

He removed it.

No one offered water.

The door opened.

Peterson stood on the other side.

She hadn’t accompanied them down the corridor, but she was there now.

“Twenty hours,” she said. “The timer begins when the door closes.”

363 looked up at her.

Peterson waited.

They lowered their gaze again.

The door sealed.

The lock engaged with a soft electronic click.

Then there was nothing.

The lights didn’t change.

The air system produced no noticeable draft.

The room was cool enough to prevent immediate overheating, but not cold enough to offer relief from the warmth still trapped inside their muscles after training.

363 counted their breaths.

At first, it was easy.

One hundred.

Two hundred.

Five hundred.

They estimated time through breathing rate, then corrected for the gradual slowing of their pulse.

At approximately forty minutes, the speaker activated.

“Back straight.”

Peterson’s voice.

363 adjusted their posture.

The speaker went silent.

They started counting again.

Their knees began to lose sensation.

Not pain.

Pressure first.

Then numbness.

Their ankles stiffened beneath the weight of their body. The cuffs pulled their shoulders backward. A muscle along the left side of their neck twitched at irregular intervals from the collar shocks.

None of it hurt.

That didn’t mean none of it was damaging them.

363 tested each finger in sequence.

All responded.

They rotated their wrists as far as the cuffs allowed.

No grinding.

No instability.

They shifted their weight slightly to protect the joint of their right knee.

The speaker crackled.

“Still.”

363 stopped.

The White Room wasn’t silent.

That would’ve been easier.

The electrical hum of the lights changed pitch whenever they moved their head. The ventilation system clicked at intervals too inconsistent to use as a reliable clock. Their own breathing returned from every surface without enough echo to define the room.

At some point, thirst became measurable.

Their tongue stuck briefly to the roof of their mouth.

Their lips dried.

They swallowed less often to conserve saliva.

The door didn’t open.

No food came.

No water.

No human presence except Peterson’s voice.

“Chin down.”

“Hands still.”

“Back straight.”

Every correction proved that she was watching.

363 began counting the intervals between commands.

Thirty-seven minutes.

Twenty-two.

Forty-one.

Nine.

There was no pattern.

That was deliberate.

After several hours, their muscles began trembling.

The motion was small at first, concentrated in their thighs and abdomen. The body attempting to protect itself from a position it couldn’t maintain indefinitely.

“Still,” Peterson said.

“I am still.”

Their voice sounded strange in the white space.

Dry.

Too loud.

The speaker remained silent for several seconds.

Then Peterson said, “You’re moving.”

“Muscle contraction isn’t voluntary.”

“Control it.”

“That isn’t physiologically possible.”

“Control it.”

363 tried.

The effort increased the trembling.

The collar activated at a lower setting than before.

Their muscles clenched.

The anchored cuffs prevented them from falling forward, wrenching both shoulders backward instead. Their body convulsed once, twice, then settled.

The shock ended.

“Back straight,” Peterson said.

363 forced themself upright.

They lost track of time after that.

The lights never dimmed.

Their eyes watered from the brightness, though the moisture dried quickly against their skin. They tried to focus on the faint seam around one ceiling panel, but Peterson corrected their gaze whenever their chin rose too far.

They recited the languages they spoke.

French.

Spanish.

Malay.

English.

They listed every person who’d touched them during processing.

Every voice they’d heard.

Every doorway.

Every turn between the training room and the corridor.

They reconstructed the evasion course.

They placed each handler inside it and considered how the outcome would change if the weapons were real.

The speaker activated.

“What are you thinking about?”

363 didn’t answer.

“363.”

They kept their gaze lowered.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yes.”

Silence followed.

The collar activated.

The current was brief.

A warning.

Peterson’s voice returned.

“Answer.”

“I’m thinking about the training course.”

“What about it?”

“How to improve it.”

Peterson laughed softly through the speaker.

Even distorted by the room’s audio system, the sound remained recognizable.

“You’re supposed to be considering your behavior.”

“I am.”

“Explain.”

“The course would be more effective with fewer visual obstacles and more unpredictable staff placement.”

“That isn’t your behavior.”

“My behavior exposed the weaknesses.”

The collar activated again.

This time, the shock lasted long enough to interrupt their breathing.

When it stopped, 363 leaned forward as far as the restraint allowed.

“Position,” Peterson said.

They remained bent.

The room tilted.

Their vision narrowed.

“Position.”

“No.”

The word barely carried.

The door opened.

Two handlers entered.

They wore white protective uniforms that nearly disappeared against the walls.

One caught 363 beneath the jaw and forced their head upright. The other pressed a handheld scanner against their neck.

“Thirty-eight point three,” he said.

“Cool them.”

A cloth soaked in cold water was pressed against 363’s face and neck.

They turned toward it instinctively.

The handler pulled it away.

“Position first.”

363 straightened.

The cloth returned.

Cold water moved down their throat and beneath the collar. None entered their mouth.

A fan ran for several minutes.

The handlers watched the temperature drop.

When it reached thirty-seven point eight, they removed the cloth and left.

363 looked toward the closing door.

Peterson stood beyond it.

“How long?” they asked.

“Eight hours and sixteen minutes remaining.”

They’d been inside for almost twelve hours.

Their estimate had been wrong by more than an hour.

The door shut again.

The knowledge of the remaining time was worse than uncertainty.

Eight hours and sixteen minutes.

Their body had already begun to fail the position.

Their shoulders sagged.

Their head dropped.

Their breathing became irregular whenever the muscles around their ribs cramped.

There was no pain.

Only diminishing function.

Every time they shifted, Peterson corrected them.

Every time they failed to respond, the collar activated.

Not at full strength.

Enough to reset the body.

Enough to make the consequences of stillness compete with the consequences of movement.

At some point, 363 began seeing shadows that weren’t there.

A dark shape crossed the wall.

They lifted their head.

Nothing.

The room remained blank.

“Chin down,” Peterson said.

363 lowered it.

The room couldn’t make them blank simply by becoming blank around them.

The speaker activated again.

“Who authorizes your violence?”

363 didn’t answer.

“Who authorizes your violence?”

Their throat worked around nothing.

“I do.”

The shock drove their body against the restraints.

When it ended, their head hung forward.

“Wrong,” Peterson said.

363 breathed.

“Who authorizes your violence?”

“I do.”

Another shock.

Longer.

Their vision whitened until the room disappeared inside its own brightness.

When they could see again, there was blood on the floor beneath their knees. One of the earlier cuts had reopened.

“Who authorizes your violence?”

363 lifted their head.

“WRU.”

“Who owns your training?”

“WRU.”

“Who owns your body?”

363 said nothing.

The collar clicked faintly as the system armed.

“Who owns your body?”

“WRU.”

The answer changed nothing inside them.

Peterson couldn’t see that.

Or perhaps she could, and that was why the questions continued.

“Who owns your anger?”

“WRU.”

“Who owns your violence?”

“WRU.”

The speaker went silent.

363 remained kneeling.

They understood the purpose now.

WRU didn’t need belief.

Belief would be preferable, but it wasn’t necessary.

WRU needed the correct answer to become easier than resistance.

It needed the lie to leave their mouth automatically.

It needed obedience to happen before thought.

The room remained bright.

Time continued without markers.

Eventually, the door opened.

363 didn’t look up.

Their body no longer responded quickly enough.

Footsteps crossed the room.

Peterson stopped in front of them.

“You may raise your head.”

363 tried.

The first attempt moved their chin less than an inch.

Peterson waited.

They forced their neck straight.

Her uniform was still immaculate.

Her hair was still perfectly secured.

She looked exactly as she had in the training room twenty hours earlier.

363 wondered whether she’d slept.

Whether she’d eaten.

Whether she’d watched continuously or simply returned whenever the monitor alerted her to movement.

Peterson checked the tablet.

“Twenty hours.”

363 looked at the door behind her.

It remained open.

“You stayed in position,” she said.

“I was restrained.”

“You answered correctly.”

“You used the collar.”

“And now the correction is over.”

One of the handlers unlocked the floor restraint.

When the tension released, 363’s upper body pitched forward.

Peterson caught them beneath the arms before their face struck the floor.

Their legs didn’t move.

The joints had stiffened. The muscles had weakened. Their feet were cold, swollen, and numb beneath them.

Peterson lowered them onto their side.

A technician entered with water, electrolyte solution, cooling cloths, and a medical kit.

363 stared at the bottle.

Peterson held it just beyond their reach.

“What did you learn?”

Their mouth was too dry to shape the words cleanly.

“That violence is permitted when it serves WRU.”

“And?”

“Punished when it doesn’t.”

“And?”

363 looked at her.

Peterson waited.

They could’ve refused.

The room was still open behind her.

The collar was still active.

Their body couldn’t survive another twenty hours in position without significant damage.

“WRU authorizes it.”

Peterson smiled.

“Good.”

She opened the bottle and held it to their mouth.

363 drank.

Too quickly.

Peterson pulled it away after two swallows.

“Slowly.”

363 stared at the water.

Peterson let them drink again.

She had created the thirst.

She controlled the relief.

She would record the relief as care.

When the bottle was empty, Peterson wiped the water from 363’s chin and handed it back to the technician.

“Take them to medical. Food after their temperature stabilizes. Then six hours of sleep.”

The technician nodded.

Peterson rested her hand briefly against the side of 363’s face.

“You did well.”

363 understood the structure.

Peterson praised their violence when it served WRU.

She punished it when it protected them.

The lesson wasn’t that violence was wrong.

The lesson was that 363 didn’t own their violence.

WRU believed that authorization created ownership.

It believed the collar could change the meaning of their hands.

363 lay still while the staff lifted them onto a transport stretcher.

Their knees wouldn’t straighten.

Their shoulders trembled.

Their skin remained dry beneath the cooling cloths, even with feverish heat still trapped inside them.

Peterson walked beside the stretcher as it passed through the door.

363 turned their head toward her.

Inside the White Room, they’d given every answer she demanded.

They’d said WRU owned their body, their anger, their violence but the answers had been tools.

The words they’d chosen had opened a door.

That was a form of evasion too.

Peterson had taught them to escape a maze by controlling what the people hunting them believed.

363 closed their eyes.

There was no hidden meaning in any of it. No arbitrary posture. No command to remain still simply because someone else enjoyed watching their muscles tremble. No demand that they call humiliation respect.

Someone tried to hurt them.

They stopped that person.

Simple.

The combat room smelled of rubber mats, disinfectant, warm plastic, and the metallic residue left behind by stun batons. Fluorescent panels covered the ceiling. Their electrical hum settled behind every instruction, too steady to ignore and too faint to become useful.

There were no windows.

One wall held padded shields, batons, weighted training knives, restraint poles, cuffs, and protective helmets arranged with obsessive precision. Colored tape marked different zones on the floor. A yellow square for starting position. A red line beyond which trainees weren’t supposed to cross until instructed. A blue circle used for defensive holds.

The opposite wall was mirrored from floor to ceiling.

363 knew the glass concealed an observation room.

They’d caught movement behind it during their second session—a hand lifting, the pale blur of a face, the brief glow of a tablet screen. The reflection had disappeared almost immediately.

After that, 363 stopped looking directly at the mirror.

They used it anyway.

Peterson stood near the edge of the mat with a tablet tucked against her ribs. Her dark hair was pulled back so tightly that not a strand moved when she turned her head. Her uniform remained immaculate despite the oppressive warmth of the room. Sleeves rolled evenly. Collar fastened. Black shoes polished.

“Again,” she said.

The handler across from 363 adjusted his padded gloves.

He was taller than Peterson and considerably wider than 363, with thick shoulders and the careless confidence of someone who’d been assured that the person in front of him wasn’t allowed to win.

He came forward hard.

His right shoulder dipped before the strike.

363 stepped outside its path.

Their left hand caught his wrist. Their right forearm drove against his elbow. They turned their hips, took his balance, and put him on the mat before his second foot finished moving.

His breath left him in a rough burst.

363 followed him down. Knee against the center of his back. Wrist bent behind him. Forearm across the base of his skull. Not enough pressure to damage the vertebrae.

The handler slapped the mat.

363 released him immediately and stood.

Peterson smiled.

It wasn’t warm. Her smiles never softened the rest of her face. They were signs of satisfaction, sharpened by calculation.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

The handler pushed himself upright, face flushed.

“They anticipated the grab,” Peterson continued, speaking to the observers behind the mirror rather than to 363. “They’re tracking weight distribution before contact. Minimal wasted movement. No hesitation after commitment.”

363’s breathing remained controlled.

Heat had already begun gathering inside them.

Their skin stayed completely dry.

That was one of the first things the medical staff had recorded after intake. No perspiration after exertion. No moisture beneath the arms, along the spine, or at the hairline. Their body generated heat but couldn’t release it properly. During physical drills, the warmth accumulated quietly beneath their skin until their muscles weakened, their thinking slowed, and their balance deteriorated.

There was no discomfort to warn them.

WRU had converted that into another procedure.

A sensor had been fixed to 363’s chest beneath their gray training shirt. Another rested against the side of their neck, partially hidden by the collar. Her tablet displayed their heart rate, breathing, and body temperature in neat columns.

A technician waited near the wall with bottles of chilled water, cooling cloths, and a spray nozzle for maintenance.

363 looked down at their hands.

A narrow split had opened across one knuckle. Blood stood out sharply against their skin.

They hadn’t felt it happen.

Peterson crossed the mat and took their hand.

363’s fingers tightened instinctively.

Peterson noticed.

Her thumb pressed beside the wound. She turned their hand beneath the fluorescent light, inspecting it as though checking damage to an expensive piece of equipment.

“You broke the skin.”

363 looked at it.

“Yes.”

“Did you notice?”

“Not until I saw the blood.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“That’s why you need supervision.”

“I need information.”

“You require both.”

Peterson released their hand. An assistant passed her a cloth, and she wiped the blood from her thumb before dropping the cloth into a marked disposal container.

Then she checked the tablet.

“Thirty-eight point one.”

363 understood that she meant their temperature.

“I can continue.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Peterson faced the technician.

“Cool them.”

The first spray of water struck the back of 363’s neck.

Their shoulders jerked before they could stop them.

The water was cold enough to tighten the muscles along their spine. It ran beneath the collar, down their shoulder blades, and into the waistband of their training pants. More water misted across their arms, face, and chest. A cooling cloth was pressed against the sides of their neck.

The handlers watched.

WRU had taught them that even necessary medical care could be staged as humiliation.

363 stood still until Peterson checked the reading again.

“Thirty-seven point seven,” she said. “Good enough.”

The cloth was removed.

Water continued to drip from 363’s hair and clothing, creating the appearance of sweat their body couldn’t produce.

Peterson returned to the edge of the mat.

“Again.”

The drills continued.

Knife defense.

Restraint escapes.

Close-quarters takedowns.

Protective positioning.

Room entry.

Extraction under resistance.

363 learned which training weapons bent and which shattered. They learned which handlers telegraphed their attacks and which waited for eye movement before committing. They learned that the ceiling camera nearest the north wall lagged half a second behind the others whenever it changed angles.

They learned that the reinforced door took three seconds to release after Peterson scanned her badge.

They learned that staff rotated every forty minutes.

Peterson rarely did.

They learned the sound of exhaustion in the handlers’ breathing.

They learned how pride made people careless.

When two trainers came at them at once, 363 dropped low, drove a shoulder into the first man’s center of gravity, and used his body to block the second.

A baton intended for 363 struck the first trainer’s ribs.

He swore.

363 twisted the weapon from the second man’s grip.

The second trainer reached for their collar.

363 pivoted, trapped his arm, and drove the end of the baton toward his throat.

They stopped less than an inch from his trachea.

The trainer froze.

363 could see the pulse jumping beneath the skin of his neck.

“Hold,” Peterson said.

363 held.

The baton remained suspended against the man’s throat.

“Look at him.”

363 looked.

“Do you understand what would happen if you continued?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“His airway could collapse.”

The trainer swallowed carefully.

“And?”

“He could die.”

Peterson sounded pleased. She stepped closer. "Exactly."

363 saw their reflection in the mirrored wall behind her. Their hair was wet from the cooling spray, strands stuck to their forehead and temples. Their shirt clung heavily to their body. Water shone against their arms.

The collar looked darker against their damp skin.

None of the moisture had come from them.

Peterson followed their gaze toward the mirror.

“You’re very good at this,” she said.

363 didn’t answer.

Peterson moved behind them. Her hand settled lightly against the back of their neck, just above the collar.

363’s body locked.

“Release him.”

They lowered the baton.

The trainer stumbled away, rubbing his throat.

Her fingers remained where they were.

“You could’ve killed him.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

“You told me to stop.”

“That’s right.”

Her nail traced once along the top edge of the collar.

“That’s what makes you useful.”

The next drill involved evasion.

Movable walls divided the larger training structure into three narrow corridors. The lights were dimmed. Alarms shrieked at irregular intervals. Bright strobes flashed behind metal grates, interfering with depth perception.

Staff moved through the maze wearing protective gear and carrying stun batons that produced snapping blue arcs.

363 was ordered to reach the far door without being restrained.

They did.

The first time, it took four minutes and twelve seconds. The second time, two minutes and thirty-eight.

By the fifth attempt, they’d mapped the entire course.

They stopped trying to outrun the trainers and began controlling where the trainers believed they were going.

A kicked panel created an echo in the west corridor. A loose length of chain thrown beneath a divider sent two handlers toward the wrong exit.

363 climbed the frame of one wall, balanced across the narrow upper support, and dropped behind the final trainer without making enough noise for him to turn.

Their hand closed around the back of his vest. They dragged him down.

His baton hit the floor.

363 kicked it beyond his reach, stepped over him, and reached the exit.

The timer stopped.

One minute, nine seconds.

Silence followed.

Then Peterson clapped once. The sound cracked through the room.

“That,” she said, “was excellent.”

363 stood with one hand against the exit door.

Their chest rose and fell more rapidly now.

The sensor beneath their shirt pressed against their skin with every breath. Heat throbbed deep inside their torso, though their hands had begun to feel clumsy rather than hot. Their mouth was dry. Their vision took an extra moment to adjust each time the lights flashed.

The water sprayed over them between rounds had already warmed against their body.

Peterson checked the tablet.

“Thirty-eight point four.”

“I can do another run.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then reset the course.”

A few trainers looked toward Peterson.

363 recognized the mistake as soon as the words left. They'd given an instruction.

Her gaze lifted slowly from the tablet.

“What did you say?”

“The course should be reset.”

“That isn’t what you said.”

363 remained beside the exit.

Peterson crossed the room without hurrying.

The alarms had been silenced. In their absence, every sound became distinct: the squeak of Her soles against the mat, the faint click of her tablet locking, the irregular breathing of the handler still lying near the wall.

Peterson stopped in front of 363.

“You gave an order.”

“I described the next logical step.”

“You told my staff what to do.”

“The distinction doesn’t change the task.”

“No,” Peterson said. “It changes your position within it.”

363 looked past her at the handlers gathering themselves from the floor.

One held his wrist. Another had blood beneath his nose.

Peterson followed their gaze.

“Does that make you feel powerful?”

The question was a trap. Most of her questions were.

363 considered it anyway.

“It means the exercise was poorly designed.”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“Careful,” she warned. The warmth vanished from her voice.

363 looked at her.

Peterson reached up and took hold of the front ring of their collar.

“You’re impressive when you remember what you are.”

“And what am I?”

Her expression sharpened with interest at the question.

“A weapon.”

363’s fingers flexed at their sides.

Peterson noticed that too. Her grip on the collar tightened.

“You’re allowed to be dangerous,” she said quietly. “You’re allowed to be vicious. You’re allowed to break bones, tear skin, frighten people, and leave blood on the floor.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to their injured knuckle.

“But only when we choose the target.”

363 remained still.

Peterson tugged the collar once, forcing them a fraction closer.

“Do you understand?”

“I understand the rule.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“The rule isn’t logical.”

Her face became very calm.

Behind her, one of the trainers shifted his weight. The movement was small, but 363 saw his hand drift toward the remote clipped to his belt.

Peterson released the collar and stepped back.

“Center position.”

363 didn’t move.

The red line was several feet behind them.

She waited.

“Center position, 363.”

“You said I was to reach the door.”

“And now I’m telling you to return.”

“The exercise is complete.”

The collar activated.

363’s body seized. Their shoulder struck the door as their legs folded. Electricity drove through the muscles around their neck and down their back, forcing every part of their body into a violent contraction. They didn’t feel pain. Function disappeared. Their jaw locked. Their fingers curled. Their lungs refused to expand.

For three seconds, their body belonged entirely to the current.

Then it stopped.

363 dragged in air. Their vision flickered.

Water from their soaked clothing spread across the floor beneath them.

Peterson watched without moving.

“Center position.”

363 planted one hand against the mat.

Their arm shook from the electrical contraction. They pushed themself upright towards Peterson, not the center.

The trainer reached for the remote again.

Peterson lifted one hand.

“Wait.”

363 rose to their feet.

Their balance shifted unexpectedly. The room tilted, corrected, and became level again.

Peterson looked curious.

“What are you doing?”

“You asked whether I understood.”

“And?”

“I understand that you use the collar when your instructions don’t survive examination.”

The shock came faster this time and lasted longer.

363 struck the floor on their side. Their teeth closed through the inside of their cheek. Blood filled their mouth with a warm metallic taste.

Their body convulsed against the mat.

The shock stopped.

Before their muscles had fully released, two trainers moved in.

One forced 363’s arms behind their back. Another secured their wrists. The first trainer’s knee pressed between their shoulder blades.

363 could’ve displaced him. They could’ve rolled toward the pressure, trapped his leg, and brought him down. They began to move.

Peterson crouched in front of them.

“Don’t.”

They stopped.

A third trainer brought over a restraint pole, and the loop was already positioned near their throat. Resistance from the floor would tighten it against the collar and restrict their airway.

Peterson studied their face.

Blood moved slowly from the corner of 363’s mouth toward their chin.

“You’re overheating.”

363 said nothing.

“Your temperature is thirty-eight point seven.”

“I can continue.”

“I know.”

Peterson wiped the blood away with her thumb.

“That’s part of the problem.” She stood. “Bring them to the center.”

The trainers hauled 363 upright by their bound arms.

Their shoulders rotated too far. They registered the strain without pain. A joint could be damaged without warning. A tendon could tear while their face remained empty.

Peterson knew that.

The other handlers did too. They dragged 363 back across the red line and forced them to their knees inside the blue circle.

“Respect position,” Peterson said.

363 looked up at her.

The position required their knees spread, spine straight, hands secured behind them, chin lowered, gaze fixed on the floor just ahead of Her shoes.

It was a position of access that was designed to make resistance visible before it became effective.

363 remained upright but didn’t lower their head.

Peterson waited.

“Respect position.”

“No.”

The word changed the room.

One of the trainers inhaled sharply.

The remote remained in his hand, but he looked toward Peterson before using it.

Her expression didn’t change.

“Why not?”

“The position has no defensive value.”

“It isn’t defensive.”

“Then it has no value.”

“It teaches you where you belong.”

“I belong where I choose to stand.”

Peterson regarded them for several seconds. Then she looked toward the trainer holding the remote.

“Level three. Five seconds.”

The collar activated.

The bound position prevented 363 from breaking their fall. Their upper body folded forward until their forehead struck the mat.

The current held them there.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Their breath stopped.

Four.

The sensor beneath their shirt shifted as their chest convulsed.

Five.

The current ended.

363 remained folded over their knees, lungs dragging for air.

“Sit up,” Peterson said.

They did. Their movements were slower.

The room had begun to pulse faintly at the edges.

Peterson placed two fingers beneath their chin and raised their face.

“Respect position.”

363 met her eyes.

“No.”

Peterson smiled.

They hadn't obeyed but their refusal gave her permission to demonstrate how much obedience could cost.

“Level three,” she said. “Eight seconds.”

The next shock drove them down harder. Their forehead struck the same place on the mat. They tasted more blood. When it ended, they remained conscious, but their arms had gone numb from the shoulders down. Their fingers opened and closed uselessly behind their back.

Peterson allowed them several breaths.

“Sit up.”

363 forced their spine straight.

“Respect position.”

They lowered their chin.

The response was practical, not surrendered.

Peterson understood the difference but, for the moment, she accepted it.

“Good.”

The praise was soft.

363 hated it more than the correction.

Peterson circled them once.

“You’re going to repeat the final exercise.”

363 looked toward the maze.

The walls had already been pulled apart, leaving the training room open.

“I completed it.”

“You’re going to repeat it according to instruction.”

Their wrists remained bound.

Peterson gestured toward the smaller staff member entering through the side door.

He wasn’t wearing padding. He had narrow shoulders, pale hair, and a bruise along his mouth. 363 recognized him from processing. He’d held their head still while another employee photographed their teeth. He’d forced two gloved fingers between their lips when they refused to open their mouth. He’d discussed the alignment of their teeth as though evaluating an animal at auction.

Now he carried a restraint pole.

Peterson addressed 363.

“You will defend yourself until he’s disarmed. You will then hold him on the floor. You will release him the first time I instruct you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Handler”

“Say the whole answer.”

“Yes, Handler, I understand the instructions.”

“Good.”

The cuffs were removed.

The employee advanced.

363 watched his hands.

The loop of the restraint pole came toward their neck.

They turned, caught the shaft, and pulled.

He resisted.

363 stepped inside his reach, drove the heel of their hand into his sternum, and sent him backward. His grip loosened. They took the pole from him, reversed it, and swept his legs out from under him.

He hit the mat badly.

His head snapped back.

They sat on the floor after lights-out with their back against the wall and their knees drawn up. The room was never completely dark. A recessed strip above the door cast a pale blue glow across the floor, bright enough for the camera to record movement and dim enough that staff could call it nighttime.

The ventilation hummed overhead.

Cold air drifted from the ceiling vent, but it didn’t cool them properly. It only moved over their skin. Their body couldn’t sweat. Heat collected inside them without any visible warning for the people watching.

WRU had discovered the anhidrosis during processing.

It had become another line in their file.

THERMOREGULATORY IMPAIRMENT. REQUIRES SUPERVISION DURING EXERTION.

As though they’d needed WRU to explain their own body to them.

363 knew the earlier signs: Dry mouth, pressure building behind the eyes, skin that felt too tight, muscles turning slow and uncooperative, sounds becoming both sharper and farther away and thoughts arriving with oceans in between them.

The later signs were harder to use: Confusion, loss of balance, narrowing vision, and finally, collapse.

By the time they reached those, the body had already taken control away.

Everything became useful information when placed in the correct category.

363 tapped two fingers against the side of their knee.

Once.

Twice.

Pause.

Once.

Twice.

Pause.

They kept the rhythm small enough that the camera might mistake it for muscle strain.

The first category was rules that preserved life:

Drink when water was available.

Eat enough to remain functional.

Report nausea after a head injury.

Protect their throat when someone reached for the collar.

Turn their face away before impact if protecting the head wasn’t possible.

Breathe slowly during restraint.

Never waste air shouting into a sealed room.

Do not allow the body to overheat merely to prove that an order was unjust.

That last rule had required revision.

During the first outdoor endurance assessment, Handler Peterson had placed a bottle of water on the concrete beside her boot.

It was late morning. The sun hung white above the training yard, flattening every shadow. Heat rose from the pavement and pressed through the soles of 363’s shoes. The black uniform WRU had issued trapped warmth against their body. The collar around their throat seemed to hold even more of it there.

While trainees sweated through their shirts, 363 remained dry and one of the medical observers noticed.

Handler Peterson noticed too.

She always noticed.

“Ask,” she’d said.

363 looked at the bottle.

Condensation slid down the plastic and gathered beneath it in a dark ring.

They could smell the warm rubber of the training mats. Disinfectant drifted from the open equipment shed. Somewhere beyond the wall, a truck changed gears and then faded into the distance.

They looked back at her.

She was wearing sunglasses. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and the remote rested against the front of her hip.

“Water is medically required,” 363 said.

Her expression didn’t change.

“Then ask for it.”

“You already know I require it.”

“Yes.”

“The request provides no new information.”

“It demonstrates that you understand who controls access.”

There it was.

A rule that pretended to be about communication but was actually about possession.

363 didn’t ask.

Kaycee left the bottle where it was.

The drill continued.

363 ran the perimeter wall. Climbed the obstacle frame. Crawled beneath wire stretched low enough to scrape their shoulders. Dragged a weighted training dummy across forty feet of concrete while the straps bit into their palms.

The heat built silently.

Their skin stayed dry.

Their heartbeat became too fast.

Handler Peterson voice came through the haze.

“Again.”

363 completed the course again.

On the third circuit, the yard tilted.

They corrected their footing.

The wall seemed to move farther away with every step.

Their tongue stuck to the roof of their mouth. Their vision blurred at the edges, the bright concrete dissolving into white light.

“Ask,” she called.

363 kept moving.

Their knee struck the ground first.

They remembered the impact only because of the sound - a sharp crack against the concrete -because there was no pain to measure it by. Both hands failed to catch them.

Their cheek met the ground.

The concrete smelled of sun-baked dust.

Boots approached.

Someone swore.

Handler Peterson dropped beside them while the medical team opened their uniform at the throat and pressed cold packs beneath their arms, behind their neck, against their groin. Water touched their lips, but someone pulled it away when they didn’t swallow correctly.

“You could’ve died,” Handler Peterson said.

She sounded angry..l

363 had turned their head enough to look at her.

Her sunglasses were gone. Her pupils were small in the glare.

“You withheld medically necessary water.”

“You refused a direct instruction.”

Her jaw tightened.

Later, after the medical team reduced their temperature and cleared them for discipline, Handler Peterson had sent them to the white room.

The room had no windows, no corners deep enough to hide in, and no darkness.

Light filled it from every direction.

The walls were white.

The floor was white.

The narrow drain in the center was white around the edges where cleaning chemicals had bleached the metal seal.

There was no clock.

There was no bed.

There was no sound except the ventilation and whatever noises 363’s own body made.

They spent eighteen hours there.

Perhaps nineteen.

The duration was difficult to calculate because the lights never changed and staff entered at irregular intervals to order new positions.

Kneel.

Stand.

Hands behind your head.

Face the wall.

Lie down.

No, not like that. Begin again.

Their body was still recovering from the heat. Their mouth remained dry. A headache pulsed behind their eyes without pain exactly, only pressure and interference. Their limbs trembled. Their thoughts kept breaking apart.

When they swayed, the speaker in the ceiling clicked on.

“Position, 363.”

They corrected their posture.

At some point, a cup of water appeared through the slot in the door.

They drank it.

There was no requirement to ask.

The contradiction was deliberate.

Handler Peterson wanted them to understand that water hadn’t been denied because they lacked permission to drink. It had been denied because they’d refused to perform dependence correctly.

The lesson wasn’t that she wanted them alive.

WRU wanted them alive. Dead inventory had no market value. Their survival belonged to the institution.

363 revised the category.

Preserve life whenever possible.

Accept necessary resources even when accepting them pleased the handler.

Never confuse preservation with care.

Never confuse relief with kindness.

Never confuse the person who ends a deprivation with someone who didn’t create it.

Their fingertips tapped again.

The second category were rules that prevented immediate punishment:

Kneel when told.

Stand before Handler Peterson had to repeat herself.

Keep their hands visible during evaluations.

Do not pull against the collar when resistance would tighten it.

Answer identification questions clearly.

Hold the respect position until released.

Do not correct staff unless the error creates immediate danger.

Do not bare their teeth at medical personnel.

Do not strike a handler outside an active exercise.

Say, “Yes, Handler,” when silence would be recorded as defiance.

These rules weren’t true. They weren’t good either. They didn’t become legitimate because violating them produced pain, isolation, restraint, sensory deprivation, or another period in the white room.

They just were.

A storm didn’t become morally correct because standing in it could kill someone.

A person observed the sky. They found shelter if it was available and waited for the conditions to change.

363 had once believed visible resistance mattered.

During processing, they’d corrected every misuse of their name. Every false statement. Every attempt to describe what was being done to them as consent.

The corrections hadn’t changed the staff’s behavior.

They’d only provided material for the behavioral report.

ARGUMENTATIVE.

FIXATION ON SEMANTIC DISTINCTIONS.

RESISTS ROLE INTEGRATION.

CHALLENGES AUTHORITY THROUGH DELIBERATE LITERALISM.

WRU treated accuracy as a symptom when accuracy interfered with control.

So 363 learned to choose when being correct was worth the consequence.

They still corrected information privately but they stopped offering the corrections to people who would use them as evidence of disobedience.

Handler Peterson noticed the reduction in arguments and interpreted it as progress.

363 interpreted it as conservation.

There was no value in spending strength where nothing could be gained.

The third category was rules that provided useful information:

Stand on the marked line.

Wait until the second tone before moving through a secured door.

Turn toward the wall when another trainee was transported through the corridor.

Announce yourself before entering an occupied training room.

Keep your hands visible during inspection.

Do not cross the yellow floor boundary without permission.

Do not look through an open staff door.

Do not speak during shift transition.

These rules revealed procedure.

Staff expected obedience before fully disengaging locks.

The first tone indicated that a badge had been read. The second meant the magnetic lock had been released. The third, used less often, meant the corridor beyond had been sealed.

Inspections required two employees unless the trainee had already been restrained.

Punishment required only one handler and one camera.

The yellow lines weren’t merely visual instructions. They marked the limits of door sensors, overhead restraints, and the reach of wall-mounted shock leads.

The staff door beside Training Room Four didn’t latch properly when humidity rose. That was why trainees were ordered not to look at it.

The cameras in the west corridor shifted angles every thirteen seconds.

The one outside the white room lagged slightly after switching views.

Transport happened most often after the evening meal, when the halls were quieter and most trainees were secured in individual rooms.

Shift transition lasted eleven minutes.

During those eleven minutes, staff repeated information aloud.

Names.

Numbers.

Injuries.

Planned transfers.

Behavioral warnings.

Sometimes destinations.

363 memorized everything they could hear.

Handler Peterson praised them for learning routines quickly.

“You’re finally paying attention,” she said one afternoon.

363 stood on the blue line with their hands clasped behind their back.

They didn’t answer.

They had always been paying attention.

Handler Peterson had only recently learned what their attention looked like when they concealed its purpose.

She began asking questions during walks between rooms.

“How many doors did we pass?”

“Seven.”

“Cameras?”

“Five visible.”

She smiled. “Visible?”

“One behind the tinted panel near Medical Two.”

Her smile widened.

“Good. How many staff members?”

“Eleven.”

“Descriptions?”

363 gave them.

Height.

Approximate weight.

Dominant hand.

Visible equipment.

Injuries.

Which staff member dragged the left foot. Which one repeatedly checked a phone that wasn’t part of the WRU-issued system. Which guard watched her rather than the trainees.

She listened with open approval. She thought she was helping shape them into the kind of product WRU wanted. She didn’t understand that every exercise sharpened the same skills 363 would need to escape.

The fourth category was rules that could be exploited:

Ask permission before approaching staff.

Request clarification if a command could cause injury.

Report damaged equipment immediately.

Do not abandon an assigned handler.

Protect WRU personnel during live exercises.

Remain within arm’s reach during escorted movement.

Repeat an instruction if there is doubt about comprehension.

Handler Peterson liked rules that sounded reciprocal.

They made control appear orderly.

They suggested obligations existed on both sides.

They did not.

Still, the appearance of reciprocity created openings.

If 363 asked for clarification, the handler had to restate the command for the cameras.

Restatement created time. Time allowed observation.

If equipment was reported as damaged, a drill had to stop until the equipment was inspected.

If 363 reported dizziness or overheating with the correct phrasing, medical staff had to record it.

A record could later contradict a handler’s claim.

If they were ordered not to abandon Handler Peterson, they could remain close to her without being disciplined for threatening proximity.

If they were required to protect her, they were allowed to scan entrances, watch hands, track movement, identify weapons, and position their body between her and anyone who approached too quickly.

She called it protective instinct.

It wasn’t instinct. Instinct was too simple.

It was analysis, repetition, and the careful study of how violence moved through a body before it occurred.

During a staged attack, another trainer had approached Handler Peterson from behind.

363 saw his attention fix on her right shoulder. They saw the weight settle into his front foot.

His hand opened before it reached for her.

They moved before she finished the command. They caught the trainer’s wrist, rotated under the arm, and drove him face-first onto the mat. The impact forced the breath out of him in one harsh sound.

The room went still.

363 held his arm at an angle that would allow a break with very little additional force.

They couldn’t feel whether their own knuckles had struck the floor.

They looked instead.

The skin remained intact.

Handler Peterson said their number.

363 released the man immediately and returned to position.

The other trainer rolled onto his back, coughing and swearing.

Handler Peterson laughed.

The sound startled 363 more than a reprimand would have.

She stepped close and placed two fingers beneath their chin.

Their shoulders tightened.

She noticed, she always noticed, but she didn’t remove her hand. Instead, she lifted their face until they were looking at her.

“There you are,” she murmured. “Knew you were in there.”

363 could smell coffee on her breath and the sharp citrus soap WRU stocked in the staff bathrooms.

Her fingers were warm.

The remote hung within reach.

363 calculated the room.

One injured trainer on the floor.

Two observers behind the glass.

A locked exit.

Restraint launchers stored in the wall cabinet.

No viable route beyond the room.

They allowed the touch.

Resisting would move the situation into the second category.

Rules that prevented immediate punishment.

Handler Peterson mistook stillness for permission.

Later, she wrote that 363 had accepted handler-directed contact without aggression.

She didn’t write that 363 had counted every person in the room first.

The fifth category was rules that were meaningless:

Sit only where directed.

Fold the blanket with the seam facing inward.

Hold the cup in the right hand.

Sleep with the face turned away from the door.

Do not cross the room without first standing still for three seconds.

Speak only after being invited.

Do not look at another trainee for longer than three seconds.

Say thank you after punishment ends.

Wait for the handler to announce that pain is over.

Keep personal items aligned with the edge of the shelf.

Do not cover the camera while changing clothes.

Ask before touching food already placed on their tray.

These rules preserved nothing.

They prevented nothing except spontaneous choice. They didn’t make the environment safer. They didn’t provide necessary information. They existed because WRU needed obedience to extend into movements too small to justify resistance.

A person who had to ask before lifting a cup was being trained not to recognize their own thirst as authority. A person who had to wait to be told that pain had ended was being trained to distrust their own body. A person who had to sleep facing away from the door was being trained to accept vulnerability as virtue.

Handler Peterson explained some of these rules when 363 asked.

She usually answered as though the question pleased her.

“Facing the door signals vigilance,” she said.

“I am vigilant.”

“You don’t need to be here.”

“Not true.”

“You’re not responsible for what happens in the hall.”

“You’ve trained me to respond to threats in the hall.”

She had stared at them for a moment before smiling. Her eyes glimmered with interest.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I decide when the threat is real.”

That added another category to their mental checklist and provided even more useful information.

Handler Peterson believed reality became official when she named it.

She had explanations for the other rules too.

Speaking without permission disrupted structure.

Blanket standards taught care and attention.

The cup rule prevented defensive positioning.

The shelf rule created discipline.

Thanking a handler after correction reinforced successful reintegration.

She always had a reason and seemed to believe that explaining domination transformed it into logic.

363 listened carefully.

The rules remained meaningless but her explanations weren’t.

They revealed what she wanted.

She wanted 363 to see her as reasonable. She wanted to be distinguished from the staff members who shouted, struck without warning, or enjoyed fear too visibly. She wanted them to understand that she was careful and that she paid attention. She wanted them to know that she knew when they were nearing overload and understood hat she adjusted drills around their inability to sweat.

That she gave water before medical staff had to order it. That she ended white-room corrections when the prescribed period was complete.

She wanted credit for knowing exactly how much harm they could survive.

Handler Peterson interpreted knowledge as intimacy.

363 interpreted it as threat assessment.