I turn my head slowly.
Fortuna stands beside me.
Silent. Frozen.
Her eyes gleam — not with fear, not with wonder.
Something else.
A clarity so sharp it hurts.
She murmurs something I can't hear.
And without noticing, I breathe out a thought.
"We're pieces. Pawns on a giant chessboard."
But Aris cuts me off.
He steps forward.
His voice snaps like a blade.
"Not pieces. Anomalies."
He stops just ahead of us.
"Threats they tolerate… until they don't.
This system doesn't protect us. It observes us. It contains us.
We're here to justify our existence.
To prove our usefulness to the machine that locked us in."
I don't reply.
But something inside me nods — slow, unwilling.
Yes.
This isn't a refuge.
It's a cage.
A perfect one.
Polished, immense, mechanical.
A jewel case built for a war no one admits exists.
I try to breathe.
To quiet the vertigo crawling under my skin.
But the elegance of it all…
the cold harmony…
makes me sick.
It's too clean.
Too deliberate.
And that is what terrifies me.
Not what they can do —
but what I'm beginning to understand.
A question roots itself in me.
Why am I still alive?
Why haven't they sealed me?
Erased me?
Classified me as defective and removed me?
I look away.
Évra stands across the room, speaking with an officer.
Calm. Precise.
She turns.
Walks toward us.
Slow. Controlled.
She never looks at the map.
She doesn't need to.
She knows.
She has never needed screens or data or calculations.
She senses threats.
Hunts them.
And sometimes…
she trains them.
She smiles —
a smile without surprise.
A smile that says: I knew you'd look.
Her boots echo through the hall, each step marking a truth.
She stops.
"Well, my little creatures… impressed?"
I speak first.
My voice calm.
My mind shaking.
"Impressed, yes.
But curious too.
Why invest so much energy in us?
Three anomalies don't justify… all of this."
She laughs —
a deep, violent sound that cracks the silence.
"Oh, little bird…"
She steps closer.
Her gaze pierces mine.
"It's not you who justify this machinery.
You're a detail.
A speck of dust in a structure older than any of you."
She leans in.
"But I'll admit it.
Your Words…
make the whole thing far more entertaining."
She straightens.
Nods toward the map.
"These lights.
These countdowns…
They're our insurance.
Our guarantee that no bomb explodes without warning."
Then she looks straight at me.
"Some Words are harmless."
A pause.
"Others… are ticking bombs."
Silence thickens.
Then she murmurs — soft as a sentence passed.
"You, for example."
Her eyes don't blink.
And I freeze.
She's right.
I can feel it.
Unbound is a Word that shouldn't exist.
A Word that breaks systems simply by breathing.
I am a threat they've chosen to leash.
She turns.
No order.
No farewell.
Just her steady, heavy steps —
each one a warning.
She leaves behind a map…
and three young anomalies staring at the red glow of their own classification.
We exchange a glance.
Brief. Dense.
Full of everything we can't articulate yet.
We've been officially placed under surveillance.
⸻
We follow Évra through the silent corridors of the HQ —
a labyrinth so cold, so smooth, that it feels like the walls have been polished to erase every trace of humanity.
Our steps echo.
Hers louder than ours.
But it's her silence that makes the most noise.
Everything is neat.
Too neat.
A tension stretched to the breaking point.
We leave the main halls.
The buzzing disappears.
The light becomes whiter.
Too white.
A corridor.
Perfectly straight.
Bare walls.
Identical doors.
We stop.
Door number 7.
Évra turns.
No expression.
No softness.
Only one dry word:
"Here."
She opens it.
I step through.
A living room.
Simple.
Clean.
Almost sterile.
A gray couch.
A polished wooden table.
Nothing luxurious — nothing personal — but not unpleasant either.
A screen on the wall.
Two doors on the sides.
Bedrooms, I guess.
I stand there.
Breathing in this new cage —
better furnished than the last ones.
Évra glances at the rooms.
"Two bedrooms. Two beds each.
Figure it out."
No authority.
No concern.
Just obligation.
As if she's only showing us this because protocol demands it.
She turns back to the hallway.
And for a fraction of a second, I see something like excitement in her eyes.
"Come. I'll show you the best place in this HQ."
We don't even look at the rooms.
We follow her.
Silent.
Left turn.
Long corridor.
Rhythmic steps.
Hypnotic repetition.
Intersection.
Left. Right.
Or straight — toward a white double door.
An aroma drifts toward us.
Warm. Soft.
Something that doesn't belong to this cold building.
Like a memory of a normal life.
A life we forgot we had.
Évra smiles —
not with her mouth,
but with her voice.
"After effort comes comfort."
She touches the handle.
Opens it.
And the smell hits me.
Hard.
I gasp.
My nose widens instinctively.
It's… delicious.
Real.
Human.
Alive.
We step inside.
For the first time in forever,
I feel almost safe.
A little.
Just enough to ache for more.
A spacious room.
Bright but not warm.
A cafeteria —
simple, functional, familiar.
Tables for six.
Rigid chairs.
Soldiers eating in silence or laughing in low voices.
But none of that matters.
Because then we see him.
The chef.
Standing like a general in the heart of a battlefield he controls to the last grain of salt.
His kingdom is enormous.
Unreal.
Not a kitchen —
an altar.
He stands before a massive cooking station, surrounded by organized chaos.
Hanging pots glint under the lights.
Stoves roar like beasts waiting for orders.
Knives arranged with military precision.
Cutting boards stained with memories.
Mixers, ladles, scales, cloths —
everything has meaning.
Place.
Purpose.
I freeze.
Like a child staring at a forbidden treasure.
I didn't know a place could breathe like this.
Every tool feels alive.
Every surface radiates discipline.
Here, no one cooks.
Here, someone creates.
Évra's voice snaps me back.
She smacks the reality into place with a single sentence:
"I present to you… Tony."
The head chef.
"The only reason I accepted to join this damned HQ Section 03 is him.
The greatest cook of all time.
The man of a thousand dishes.
No one — and I mean no one — comes close."
Her tone is sincere.
Not a hint of exaggeration.
She speaks of him like one speaks of a myth.
And right now, I believe her.
Because Tony's gaze doesn't waver.
Because his apron is stained but spotless.
Because his hands don't need words.
They already know.