40 years ago, there were children who were born in a facility.
They called one Subject 3830. The other, 3829. Just numbers—digits assigned at birth, tattooed behind their ears like serial codes on abandoned equipment. No names. No birthdays. No family records.
Just concrete walls. Observation windows. And silence.
But silence could be broken.
It happened on a day like any other. 3830 sat cross-legged on the cold floor of Rec Room B—a blank, gray chamber barely large enough to echo. Her hands were clutched around a dull plastic block she'd been given to "stimulate problem-solving behavior." Her eyes weren't on it. They were on the ceiling.
Until he walked in.
3829
He wasn't big, not yet. A wiry twelve-year-old with dark, unruly hair and a still-healing bruise on his chin. His eyes scanned the room, as if checking for hidden cameras or punishment panels. Then they landed on her.
