"Dad!" the little girl corrects him, her tone mock-stern. "You know I don't like that name. Geez!"

He chuckles, the sound lifting some of the heaviness from his heart. "I'm sorry, Cici. How's it going, kiddo?"

"Reaaaly Good. Guess what!" the child exclaims, their voice bursting with energy. "I drew a picture of our family today! Mommy says it's really good!"

"Is that right?" Santos chuckles, his earlier tension momentarily forgotten. "Well, I can't wait to see it when I get home. Did you draw me with my cool hat?"

"Yep! And you're holding a big shield 'cause you're a hero!"

His heart tightens at the word. Hero. If only you knew. But he pushes the thought away, focusing on the joy in his child's voice. "You're the best, Peanut. Make sure to save it for me, okay?"

"I will! Love you, Dad!"

"I love you too, Peanut," Santos says, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat as Angela comes back on the line.

"Mark," Angela says softly, her voice steady but carrying that tone she always uses when she's worried about him. "Just... remember why you're doing this. We're here for you every step of the way, okay?"

Santos leans against the cool metal wall of his quarters, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. The weight of her words settles on him, both comforting and heavy. "Yeah, I know," he replies, his voice quieter now. He hesitates, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling above. Then, almost impulsively, he adds, "Even so... I think I'm gonna come see you guys. Just for a weekend."

There's a pause on the other end, and then Angela's voice perks up, a mix of excitement and surprise. "Wait, really? How? You said you couldn't take time off for months!"

Santos chuckles softly, the sound a rare comfort even to himself. "Well, I've been quietly stacking up sick days by, uh, not using them. Truth is, I've got enough to be home for a month if I wanted to, but I'm saving the rest. Figured I could use a little break, though. Just a weekend."

Angela's voice brightens, the tension from their earlier conversation melting away. "Mark, that's amazing! Oh my gosh, we have so much to do. You've missed so much—Cici's drawings, the new bench we got for the backyard, the cake Lydia baked for her school project! Oh, and the garden—you won't believe how much it's grown! And—"

Santos laughs, a deep, genuine sound that fills the otherwise cold, empty room. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he listens to her ramble. Her excitement is infectious, and for the first time in weeks, he feels a glimmer of warmth breaking through...

"Yeah, I need this," he thinks to himself, the thought blooming like a quiet resolve. "I need to feel normal again, even if it's just for a little while."

"Alright, alright," he interrupts gently, his smile widening. "Slow down, Ange. You're gonna overwhelm me before I even get there."

Angela laughs, the sound light and musical, and it makes his chest ache with longing. "Sorry, I'm just... really happy. The kids will be so excited. We'll plan something fun, Mark. Something special."

"Special sounds good," he says softly, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar tenderness. "I'll let you know as soon as I get the dates locked in."

"Deal," she replies, her tone warm and content. "And, Mark? I can't wait to see you."

"Me too," he says, leaning back and letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. The thought of seeing her, of holding his kids, of just being home—it's enough to keep him grounded, at least for now.

As the call ends, Santos sits there for a moment, the faint buzz of the disconnected line still echoing in his ears. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and leans against the wall again, staring at the ceiling. His mind drifts to the image of his family—their laughter...

"Yeah, I need a break," he thinks, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Even if it's just a weekend, it'll be worth it."

Santos pulls a small, creased photograph from his breast pocket. His daughters' faces beam up at him, their wide, infectious smiles framed by Cici's dark hair that curls slightly at the ends and Lydia's shaggy blond hair in messy curls. Their piercing green eyes—his eyes—seem to twinkle even in the faded picture. He runs his thumb over the photo's surface, a bittersweet ache settling in his chest. I need to get back to them. If only for a mo—

A soft knock at the door jolts him from his thoughts. His body stiffens, and he quickly tucks the photo back into his pocket. Rising from the bed, he crosses the room in a few strides and opens the door, his stomach tightening when he sees who's on the other side.

Armin Lowry leans casually against the doorframe, his sharp features illuminated by the dim corridor light. His brown eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of cruelty and amusement. His short, military-style hair adds to his severe appearance, and the smirk curling his lips is predatory.

"Santos," Lowry greets, his voice dripping with mockery. "Time to go feed the little monsters."

Santos's jaw tightens, his fingers instinctively curling into fists at his sides. He forces his face into a neutral expression, though his disdain for Lowry simmers just below the surface. "I know the routine," he replies evenly, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

Lowry doesn't move, instead leaning in closer, his smirk widening. "Just a friendly reminder," he says. "Don't loosen the cuffs. We wouldn't want another delightful mess like Zola, now would we?"

The name Zola sends a shiver down Santos's spine. He wasn't a solider when this incident happened. Zola had killed a dozen guards and managed to escape, a feat that left a lasting impact on everyone in the facility.

"I won't forget," Santos says, his voice cold and steady, though his insides churn.

Lowry chuckles, low and bitter, devoid of any real humor. "Good boy," he sneers, straightening up. His eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Wouldn't want you getting too comfortable here, Santos. It's a shame you missed out on the spectacle last time."

Santos's stomach twists. "What are you talking about?" he asks sharply, his tone betraying his unease.

Lowry's smirk deepens, his lip curling in disdain. "Oh, nothing much," he says, feigning nonchalance. "Just that I had the privilege of escorting your sorry ass to the van, so I missed out on the beautiful chaos #13 brought. A real masterpiece."

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Santos exhales slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. His grip tightens briefly on the edge of his jacket. "I'm sure you managed just fine without me," he says, his voice clipped.

Armin laughs, the sound sharp and cutting. "More than fine," he says, stepping closer, his presence invasive. "But don't worry, Santos. I'm sure there'll be plenty more opportunities for you to witness it. You just have to loosen up a little. Maybe you'll learn to enjoy the artistry of it all."

Santos feels the heat rising in his chest, his muscles tensing as he fights the urge to swing at Lowry. Not here. Not now. He's baiting me, and he's not worth it.

"What do you want, Armin?" he asks, his voice low and steady, though his anger simmers dangerously close to the surface.

Armin's smirk fades slightly, his eyes hardening. "Just making sure you remember your place, Santos," he says, his tone sharp. "These kids are dangerous. Zola proved that, and I'd hate for you to forget what happens when you get too soft."

Santos swallows hard, "I know."

Santos's lips press into a thin line as Lowry claps him on the shoulder. The touch feels like oil slicking across his skin, but he doesn't flinch. Keep it together. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"Glad we understand each other," Armin says, his voice oozing with smugness. "Now, let's get moving. The kids are waiting, and I'm sure they're just dying to see you."

You mean they're dreading it, Santos thinks bitterly, but he simply nods, forcing his expression into one of compliance. He takes a deep breath, steadying the fire simmering in his chest, and follows Armin down the sterile corridor. The stark white walls seem to close in on him, the fluorescent lights casting harsh reflections on the polished floors. Their footsteps echo hollowly, amplifying the tension between them.

Trying to break the oppressive silence, Santos remarks, "Have you seen the new recruits? Half of them look like they've never held a gun in their life."

Armin chuckles, a sharp, humorless sound that grates on Santos's nerves. "They'll learn. Trial by fire tends to sort the weak from the useful."

Santos fights the urge to roll his eyes.

They reach the cafeteria, its sterile atmosphere doing little to mask the faint smell of reheated food. The stainless steel counters gleam under the fluorescent lights, and the room is nearly empty except for a few staff cleaning up after the last meal rotation. Santos approaches the food station and begins loading up trays.

Armin stops him abruptly, his hand shooting out to block Santos's movement. "You'll only be feeding #13 today."

Santos looks up, his brow furrowing. "Why just him?"

Armin smirks, a faint gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Orders from above. Apparently, he's a special case."

"Is he alright? Did something happen?"

Armin's smirk widens into a grin that makes Santos's stomach churn. "Don't worry about it, Santos. Just do as you're told."

Reluctantly, Santos loads a tray with food—a bowl of plain stew, a small loaf of bread, and a single cup of water. The smell is faintly inviting, but the clinical presentation saps any warmth from the meal. The weight of the tray feels heavier than it should as he carries it out of the cafeteria and into the quiet halls beyond.

As he walks, Santos notices the facility feels emptier than usual. The hum of machinery is faint, and the usual chatter of personnel has diminished to barely a whisper. The atmosphere is oppressive, the silence broken only by the occasional beep of a security panel or the faint murmur of voices behind closed doors.

He reaches the junction between the lab and the analyst room, the familiar sight of Emily and her small team catching his attention. She's seated at her desk, her sharp eyes scanning multiple screens filled with data streams. Two other analysts are engaged in quiet conversation, their voices hushed. Santos glances at them briefly, but something about the snippets of their conversation catches his ear.

"…the anomalies," one of them murmurs, their tone uneasy. "It's unlike anything we've seen before."

Emily responds without looking up, her voice clipped. "Focus on containment protocols. We can't afford any more surprises."

Santos's stomach twists, but he forces himself to keep moving. Not my place. Just get the food to the kid.

Approaching the guards stationed in front of the automated door, Santos gestures at the tray in his hands. "Meal for #13."

The guards exchange a glance but step aside, their postures stiff. The door's scanner activates, and a calm, automated voice fills the corridor.

Santos clears his throat, his voice steady despite the knot forming in his stomach. "Identification number 891-AC-91380. Security clearance code Tango-Alpha-Bravo-7-3-9er."

The door clicks softly, the locks beginning to disengage with a series of mechanical whirs. But before it fully opens, the voice continues...

"Describe the sensation of falling into the abyss."

The familiar question sends a chill down Santos's spine. He steadies his breathing, his grip tightening on the tray of food in his hands. Here we go again.

"Abyss," he replies curtly, his voice quieter than intended.

"Can you feel the emptiness enveloping you?"

"Abyss," he repeats, his throat dry.

"Do you find comfort in the darkness?"

"Abyss." His voice cracks slightly, betraying his unease.

"Is there a part of you that yearns to escape the abyss?"

He swallows hard, his response faltering. "Yes."

"Do you feel a sense of freedom in the abyss?"

"No," Santos answers quickly, his heart pounding now.

"Are you aware of the endless expanse of the abyss?"

"Yes," he says, his voice carrying a faint edge of defiance.

"Does the abyss call out to you?"

He hesitates for just a moment too long. What does it even mean? "No," he finally mutters.

"Let's explore further."

Santos's grip on the tray tightens. The sterile scent of the food mingles unpleasantly with the metallic tang of fear rising in his throat.

"Do you feel the void pulling at your soul?"

"Void," he answers, his voice flat but strained.

"Can you sense the nothingness consuming you?"

"Void," he repeats, gripping the tray so tightly his knuckles whiten.

"Do you find solace in the void?"

"No."

"Is there a part of you that fears the void?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever embraced the void?"

"No."

"Is the void a familiar presence in your life?"

"No."

"Embrace."

The word hangs in the air, suffocating and accusatory. Santos feels sweat bead at his temple.

"What does it feel like to surrender to oblivion?"

"Embrace," he forces out, his voice almost a whisper.

"Do you find peace in letting go?"

"No."

"Can you feel the warmth of oblivion washing over you?"

"No."

"Have you ever yearned for the sweet release of embrace?"

"Yes," he admits reluctantly.

"Is there a longing for oblivion deep within you?"

"No," he lies, his voice barely steady.

"Is there a place where you can find solace in oblivion?"

"Yes."

"What's it like to surrender completely to the void?"

"Terrifying," he whispers, his voice cracking.

"What's it like to be embraced by nothingness?"

"Cold."

"What's it like to lose yourself in the embrace of oblivion?"

"Lonely," he breathes, the word feeling like a confession.

The silence that follows is oppressive, every second stretching out unbearably. Santos shifts uncomfortably, his breaths uneven. Finally, the voice returns.

"Baseline test 73% passed. Access granted."

Santos exhales sharply, the knot in his stomach loosening slightly. 73%? That's lower than before. Focus. The locks disengage with a mechanical whine, and the door slides open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. The cold, clinical light feels harsher now, the shadows darker and deeper. He steps through, the tray balanced carefully in his hands as the door slides shut behind him with a metallic hiss.

The hallway is eerily quiet, the air heavy with the smell of antiseptic and damp concrete. Each step he takes echoes down the narrow corridor, amplifying the isolation. His eyes trace the numbered doors lining the walls, each one identical save for the faint differences in wear and scratches. Every door hides a story, a secret, and the weight of that knowledge presses down on him.

What am I even doing here? he thinks, his mind circling the question he's been avoiding since the day he arrived. These aren't monsters. They're just kids.

He approaches the door marked freshly with "#13," the paint stark and jarring against the dull gray metal. He stops in front of it, the knot in his stomach tightening again. Adjusting his grip on the tray, he reaches for the keycard clipped to his belt, his fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The door's locking mechanism is intricate, a series of clicks and whirs echoing in the silent hallway as Santos slides the keycard through the reader. A soft beep indicates that the card has been accepted, and the door starts to unlock. The sound of the bolts sliding back seems to reverberate down the corridor, amplifying the sense of anticipation and unease.

Finally, the door swings open with a low creak. Santos steps into the room…