James followed closely behind the woman as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the ominous building, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The atmosphere was heavy with an air of foreboding, each step feeling more like a descent into the unknown. The basket in James's arms seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment, the child inside now eerily silent, as if sensing the gravity of the place they were approaching.
They stopped in front of a massive, intricately carved door at the end of the hallway. The woman rapped sharply on the wood, the sound reverberating through the stillness. A moment later, a deep, commanding voice from within responded, “Come inside.”
With a glance at James, the woman pushed open the door, and they entered the room. The office was expansive yet suffocating, its walls lined with dark, ancient books and strange artifacts that seemed to watch them as they moved. A large mahogany desk dominated the space, behind which sat their boss—a figure of authority whose mere presence exuded power and control.
James stepped forward, bowing his head in a gesture of respect as he held the basket before him, presenting it like a humble offering. The lady stood beside him, her posture rigid and respectful, yet there was a subtle tension in the air as if even she was not immune to the unsettling aura of the room.
“Sir,” James began, his voice steady but devoid of any warmth, “we found this at the entrance.” He carefully lifted the basket slightly, ensuring the child within was visible but shielded from the full intensity of the room's oppressive atmosphere. His expression remained impassive, as though the child was merely another item in a long list of duties to be performed.
“A child?” the man behind the desk repeated, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and irritation. His cold eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, scrutinizing the infant in the basket. “How on earth did a child get through our defenses?”
James remained as composed as ever, though there was a subtle undercurrent of tension in his posture. “A sentry reported that they shot a man attempting to flee the premises,” he replied evenly. “We presume he was the one who left the child at our doorstep.”
The man behind the desk clicked his tongue in annoyance, his gaze lingering on the infant for a moment longer before he leaned back in his chair, his expression hardening. “Tch,” he scoffed, dismissing the child with a wave of his hand. “Just put him with the other subjects. We’ll see if he proves useful.”
The woman and James exchanged a glance, both well aware of what “useful” meant in their line of work. Without another word, James bowed once more, then turned and exited the room with the basket still in his arms. The child’s fate was sealed as coldly and unceremoniously as the snow falling outside. The woman followed closely behind, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, the door closing behind them with a soft, ominous thud.
*** *** ***
James carried the basket through a series of winding corridors, the oppressive atmosphere of the building growing thicker with each step. The woman walked silently beside him, her face a mask of detachment as they made their way to a secluded part of the facility. The deeper they ventured, the more the air seemed to hum with an unsettling energy, as if the very walls held the weight of countless secrets.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Finally, they arrived at a heavy metal door, which James pushed open with a deliberate, practiced motion. Inside was a vast, dimly lit chamber, almost cavernous in size. The room was eerily silent except for the occasional soft murmur of babies, their tiny breaths creating a quiet symphony of despair. In the center of the room was a simple wooden crib, where James carefully placed the basket.
Around this lone crib stretched row after row of identical wooden cribs, each occupied by a baby lying in a similar state of helplessness. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, giving the impression of a sea of infants, their small forms swaddled in threadbare blankets. There were no toys, no colorful mobiles—just an endless expanse of cold, utilitarian cribs, all filled with fragile, innocent lives that had been discarded and forgotten.
The air was thick with a sense of abandonment, a palpable sorrow that seemed to cling to every surface. Five hundred babies, all as vulnerable as the one James had just placed down, lay in their cribs, their tiny cries blending into a haunting chorus that echoed off the walls. Some were asleep, others were quietly whimpering, but all were caught in the same silent struggle against the cold, sterile environment that surrounded them.
James stepped back, his expression still impassive, as if the sight before him was nothing out of the ordinary. The woman beside him surveyed the room with a clinical detachment, her eyes briefly flickering over the sea of cribs before she turned on her heel and exited the chamber. James lingered for a moment longer, his gaze resting on the child he had just placed down, then followed her out, leaving the baby alone among hundreds of others, all waiting in the cold embrace of a place that held no warmth, no love—only a grim purpose.
The following day, precisely at 9 a.m., the heavy metal door to the vast chamber swung open, and a group of workers entered in an orderly fashion. Dressed in sterile white uniforms, their faces masked and their movements efficient, they carried trays filled with bottles of milk, each bottle identical in size and shape. The room was bathed in the dim, artificial light that filtered through from the narrow windows high above, casting long, clinical shadows across the rows of cribs.
Without a word, the workers dispersed among the rows of cribs, each moving with practiced precision. They approached each baby with mechanical detachment, their gloved hands gently but firmly placing a bottle filled with breastmilk beside the tiny, squirming infants. The workers showed no signs of emotion as they went about their task, their faces hidden behind masks that revealed nothing of their thoughts or feelings.
The babies, sensing the workers' presence, began to stir. Some reached out with tiny hands, instinctively grasping at the bottles, while others cried out softly, their cries a feeble attempt to make themselves heard in the vast, uncaring space. The workers responded to none of this, focusing solely on ensuring that each child received the sustenance allotted to them.
Each baby was given a single bottle, filled to the brim with warm, nourishing milk. The routine was repeated three times a day at strict intervals, and this morning was no different. The workers moved swiftly, their tasks completed with the same cold efficiency that characterized everything in the building. The bottles were left within easy reach of the babies, though none of the workers lingered to ensure that the infants could adequately feed themselves.
Once the last bottle had been distributed, the workers gathered their empty trays and exited the room, the door closing behind them with a heavy, resounding thud. The chamber fell silent once more, save for the occasional soft gurgle or cry from the babies as they fed or fumbled with their bottles.
In this place, the routine was survival, and the milk provided each day was the only kindness these children would know. But even this act of nourishment was devoid of tenderness, reduced to a mere function in a place that had long forgotten what it meant to care. The babies were left to their own devices, isolated in their cribs, as the day stretched on in the cold, unfeeling silence of the building.