The days after the doctor left blurred together into something that could only be described as painful.
Not violently so. Not all at once.
Just… steadily.
He'd been assigned a number—Twenty-One—and screened repeatedly since then. The same questions, over and over. Drug history. Family history. Psychological profiles phrased six different ways. They never told him what answers they were looking for, only noted them down and moved on.
The only real mercy was the food.
Actual meals. Warm. Balanced. Real enough that Aleph found himself eating slowly, suspicious of it. But even that came with a price. He never left the room unless instructed. The walls stayed the same shade of white no matter how long he stared at them.
Physical evaluations followed.
He performed poorly.
They didn't say it outright, but the implication was clear. Too small. Too light. Not enough endurance. For the past few days, he'd been "instructed" accordingly—forced conditioning sessions designed to build something he didn't have time to grow.
Four days wasn't enough to remake a body.
They trained him alone.
Always alone.
A drone handled most of it—voice synthesized, tone neutral. Aleph liked to imagine there was a real person on the other end, watching, adjusting the routines. It was easier that way. Easier than thinking the machine was the only thing willing to stay near him.
The sentries were worse.
They escorted him everywhere. Silent. Armored. Always a step too close. The way they watched him made his skin crawl—not like guards, but like handlers.
Like he might rupture if they looked away.
He was being escorted again now.
Another interview.
Another round of evaluations he already knew he wouldn't pass cleanly.
He tried to observe the facility as they walked—angles, doorways, anything—but the sentries noticed immediately. One of them shifted just enough to block his line of sight.
Message received.
They stopped in front of an automatic door.
The sentries stepped aside without a word, taking position on either side of the frame.
They didn't need to tell him what to do.
He already knew.
Aleph took a slow breath.
Then he walked in.
Aleph stepped into the room expecting the same endless routine—being referred to as Twenty-One, endless psychological evaluations, questions asked by people who had forgotten how to sound human behind sealed masks.
Four days.
Four days without seeing a single uncovered face.
Isolation had a way of sharpening things. Making small details feel loud.
That was why this felt wrong immediately.
What greeted him wasn't white fabric or a blank visor—but smoke.
Not thick enough to obscure the figure behind it, just enough to soften the edges. A woman sat across the room, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette burning lazily between her fingers. She wasn't looking at him.
At least—not yet.
Aleph stopped without realizing it.
*Why the hell is she so damn pretty?*
The thought came uninvited, reflexive, and immediately irritating. He hadn't expected that. Humanity, unfiltered, after days of sterile silence.
She wore a long black coat instead of medical white. Gold-thread embroidery traced faint patterns along the hem, epaulettes resting easily on her shoulders—ornamental, but deliberate. Not decoration. Insignia.
She kept smoking.
Kept reading from the tablet resting on her knee.
Didn't acknowledge him.
Whether she hadn't noticed his presence—or was choosing not to—was unclear. What was clear was that the silence was intentional.
After a few seconds, without lifting her eyes, she spoke.
"Planning to stand there all day?"
Aleph blinked, then pulled out the chair opposite her and sat. Smoothly. Controlled. Not obedient—but not defiant either.
He studied her now, closer.
"Who are you?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Another drag. A slow exhale. Smoke curled upward, drifting toward the ceiling like it didn't care about filtration systems.
Only then did she glance up.
Her eyes were sharp. Assessing. Not unkind—but not safe, either.
"That depends on how this conversation goes."
She leaned back slightly, appraising him in silence.
"You're late. Do you know why?"
Aleph frowned. "I was escorted."
A pause.
Then, faint amusement.
"Good. At least you're paying attention."
She set the tablet down.
"Sit still and listen."
"So, Aleph." She didn't look up from the tablet, voice casual, almost bored. "How have they been treating you these last few days?"
The question landed flat, like a box checked out of habit.
Aleph watched the smoke curl from her cigarette instead of answering.
"Get to the point."
Her eyes flicked up for half a second. Not surprised. Not offended. Just measuring.
"You don't mind the smoke, do you?"
Aleph didn't respond. He held her gaze.
She huffed softly—amused, or maybe just tired—and continued without waiting.
"You're probably wondering why one of those faceless fucks isn't sitting here instead. Why no one's asking you the same questions again." She tapped ash into the tray. "They think you're ready now. Or at least that there's no more time to delay."
"Delay what?"
Even though he already knew.
She took another drag before answering.
"The Mark. It's getting worse."
Aleph looked down at his arm. The skin there felt tight, warm—wrong.
*Great. What was even the point of taking that damn primer.*
She turned the tablet toward him. Medical data scrolled across the screen—charts, readings, numbers that meant nothing to him except for one: the progression rate had doubled since yesterday.
"The primer bought you time. Temporarily stabilized it. But that was never going to last." She leaned back, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. "You're Class B."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you responded to the primer without rejecting it outright, but your body didn't fully accept it either. You're in between." She paused. "Most people are Class A—reject immediately, die within hours. Class C accepts it completely, smooth integration. You're the middle ground. Unstable."
Aleph stared at the numbers. "How long?"
"Before it gets critical? Two days. Maybe three."
"And the blood?"
"Tomorrow." She tapped ash. "Which is why I'm here. Someone has to explain what you're actually signing up for this time."
"This time?"
She gestured vaguely with the cigarette. "The primer consent was for the primer. This is different. The actual blood. The trial."
Aleph leaned forward slightly. "Then explain it."
She studied him for a moment. Then she pulled another cigarette from somewhere in her coat and lit it from the dying ember of the first.
"The blood doesn't just change your body. It tests you." She paused. "Puts you through what they officially call a 'compatibility trial.' Most people just call it the nightmare."
"Trial."
"The blood puts you somewhere else. You won't be you. Different body, different place. You have to survive it."
Aleph stared at her.
"What?"
"It's—"
"No, I heard you." He shook his head slightly. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I know."
"Is it virtual? Some kind of simulation?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Then what—"
"I don't know what it is. No one does. It just happens."
Aleph leaned back, processing. The cigarette smoke drifted between them.
"So you're telling me I drink blood and have a dream. And if I die in the dream, I die for real."
"Yes."
He laughed. Short. Bitter. "That's insane."
"That's the blood."
A beat of silence.
"And you went through this."
"Seven years ago."
"And you expect me to believe—"
"I don't care if you believe me." Her voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "You'll find out tomorrow whether you believe me or not."
Silence stretched between them.
Aleph stared at his hands. The Mark pulsed faintly beneath the skin, a rhythm he couldn't escape.
"What am I supposed to do in this trial?"
"You'll know when you're there."
His jaw tightened. "How long does it last?"
"Depends on you."
"What happens if I fail?"
"You die."
"And if I refuse the blood entirely?"
She pointed at the Mark without a word.
Aleph's hands curled into fists on the table.
"You're not telling me anything. Just circling around it. Giving me the same fucking runaround as everyone else here."
"I'm telling you everything I can—"
"No. You're not." His voice was rising now. "You know what's funny? Back in Seventh Sector, no one talks about this. The trials. The blood. What it actually does to you. We get the propaganda—'Join the Savior Program, protect humanity'—but nothing about drinking dragon blood and having nightmares that can kill you."
She opened her mouth, but he didn't let her.
"They don't tell us because they know. If people in Seventh Sector knew what this actually was—if they knew what you just told me—half of them would choose the festering. At least that death makes sense."
Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
"And you." He pointed at her. "You sit there with your cigarette, your fancy coat, acting like you're helping me. Like you're on my side. But you're part of it. You know what's coming. You went through it. And you still show up here, day after day, telling kids like me just enough to get us to sign, but not enough to actually understand."
"That's not—"
"Four days." His voice cracked slightly. "Four days since the primer. Four days of tests and conditioning and being dragged around like cargo. And not once—not a single fucking time—did anyone tell me the blood would do this. That I'd stop being me. That I'd be thrown into some impossible nightmare with no idea how to survive it."
He was breathing hard now, hands shaking.
"So yeah. You're just like them. Maybe you hate it. Maybe you feel guilty. But you're still here, aren't you? Still doing their job. Still feeding slum rats into the machine and pretending it's mercy because we don't have another choice."
His voice dropped. Cold. Final.
"You're not here to help me. You're here to make sure I don't refuse. That's all this is."
She set the cigarette down slowly.
Her expression shifted. The professional mask cracked—just for a second—and something harder showed through underneath.
"You think I'm pretending?"
Her voice was quiet. Dangerous.
She inhaled slowly. Held it. Let it out through her nose.
"No. It doesn't have to make sense."
Her voice was even. Steady.
"We're injecting the blood of flying lizards into people. Creatures that existed before half the laws of this world settled into place. If you're looking for logic, you're already lost."
Aleph opened his mouth.
She raised a finger. Just one. Not threatening. Final.
"You're angry. That's fair. You should be. But don't confuse that with clarity."
She leaned back, cigarette resting between her fingers.
"I'm not here to justify the program. I'm not here to defend it. And I'm definitely not here to convince you it's noble."
Her eyes met his. Direct. Unflinching.
"I'm here because tomorrow, blood will enter your system whether you believe in it or not."
A pause.
"The trial isn't a punishment. It's a filter. The blood doesn't care who you were, where you came from, or what you were promised. It only cares whether you bend or break."
Aleph's jaw tightened.
"You think I have a choice?"
"I think choice stopped being relevant a long time ago."
She glanced at his arm.
"You can call this unjust. You can call it monstrous. You can call it exploitation. None of that changes the outcome."
Silence stretched.
"Your sector wasn't told because it wouldn't have helped. Fear doesn't prepare people. It just kills them earlier."
She tapped ash into the tray.
"This conversation isn't about choice. It's about readiness."
Aleph opened his mouth to answer—
Pain detonated in his arm.
It wasn't a pulse this time. It wasn't pressure or heat building slowly. It was fire—white-hot, immediate, like his nerves had been stripped bare and lit all at once.
His hand spasmed.
He barely had time to gasp before something seized his shoulders. Metal fingers. Sentries. They moved fast, practiced, hauling him up out of the chair as his arm was wrenched straight.
The Mark flared.
The skin around it darkened, veins spidering outward as if something beneath was pushing forward, stretching him from the inside.
Aleph screamed. He couldn't stop it.
"Containment."
The woman's voice cut clean through the chaos—sharp, absolute.
The sentries tightened their grip, dragging him toward the door as his vision blurred, the room tilting violently.
"Sedate him. Now."
The door slammed open. Cold air hit his face.
As they pulled him out, Aleph caught one last glimpse of her—already on her feet, cigarette crushed beneath her boot, eyes locked on his arm with something like grim recognition.
Not surprise.
Conformation.
Aleph opened his eyes.
An oxygen mask pressed against his face, cool plastic clinging to his skin. He tried to move—restraints held him fast. Wrists, arms, chest, legs. Pinned.
The room was blindingly white. So white it erased depth, shadow, even comfort.
A figure in a white hazmat suit moved beside him, head tilted toward a tablet, fingers sliding across it with practiced precision. Robotic arms extended and retracted above the bed, scanning, probing, adjusting. One hovered over his chest, another near his arm, a third shifting just out of view.
"Subject is conscious." The voice was filtered, flat. "Heart rate elevated. Blood pressure above baseline. Neural activity stabilizing. Mark response ongoing."
Aleph's right arm burned. Not sharply—deeply, like heat packed beneath the skin. The robotic arms worked faster there, clicking and whirring, but he couldn't see what they were doing.
The man in the suit snapped his fingers. Sharp. Deliberate.
"Focus, Twenty-One."
*Ah. Twenty-One. That was his name now.*
"We're administering the blood. The Mark is showing elevated activity."
A pause.
"Do you understand? Blink once if you do."
Aleph blinked.
"You will experience visions once the blood enters your system. There will be no pain—at least, not as you know it. You will be unconscious for the duration."
Another pause, measured.
"Do you understand?"
He blinked again.
"Your name is Aleph. Remember it."
The words pressed down like gravity, heavier than the room, heavier than the restraints.
"Do not hesitate inside the trial. And do not die there. If you do, the Mark will resurface, and we will terminate you."
A beat.
"Understand?"
Aleph blinked.
Something cold slid into his arm.
The burning dulled, replaced by a weight pressing behind his eyes. His thoughts frayed at the edges.
"Remember—none of it is supposed to be real. Survive at all costs."
The room dimmed.
Sounds stretched, losing shape.
Then, quieter, less rehearsed:
"Listen, kid. The Saviors are tied up right now. No one's on standby. If you die too fast, it becomes a rupture event. And I'd rather not deal with a monster today."
The darkness crept in from the edges of Aleph's vision.
"I'd also like to see my family tonight. So for the love of everything—don't die."
Aleph didn't blink.
He was already gone.