CHAPTER 7 — ABSENCE

  Corridor Five sleeps without darkness.

  Light panels glow low, blue-white, never off. The floor is cold steel. It carries sound far. Every step returns.

  Aden walks barefoot.

  Bruises map his legs. Old ones. New ones. Yellow, violet, dark blue. They do not slow him. His steps are even. Measured.

  In his hands, a book.

  Too thick. Too dense. Symbols layered inside symbols. He cannot read most of it. He carries it anyway.

  The corridor bends.

  A one-way glass wall waits there. Tall. Seamless.

  Aden stops.

  On the other side, a room.

  White. Narrow. Bright.

  A child lies strapped to a table. Wrists locked. Ankles locked. Chest rising too fast.

  The child’s mouth opens. Sound presses against the glass.

  “I don’t want to go in again… please…”

  The words arrive broken. Crushed by the wall. Still sharp.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Aden steps closer.

  He places his hand on the glass.

  Cold. Smooth. No vibration.

  The child twists. Straps hold. The table hums. A thin mechanical sound, steady, patient.

  Aden’s fingers spread.

  Pain is data.

  The phrase rises on its own.

  Then another fragment.

  Why does his voice sound… damaged?

  Behind him, the corridor changes.

  A reflection forms in the glass.

  Tall. Still. White coat.

  Carmen.

  “You should be asleep.”

  His voice is level. Neither soft nor sharp.

  Aden does not turn.

  The child cries again. Louder. Then a choke. Then breath, pulled hard through teeth.

  Aden’s hand stays on the glass.

  “Why does he scream, and I don’t?”

  Silence stretches.

  Machines hum. Lights pulse once. Long. Short. Short. Long.

  “Because your configuration differs.” Carmen says.

  Aden lowers his hand.

  The cold leaves his palm. A faint outline remains, fading.

  “Did I fail incorrectly?”

  The question lands and stays.

  Carmen does not answer at once.

  He studies him through the reflection. His posture. The way he stands too still. The book held close to his chest, like a weight that should not be dropped.

  “No, you are operating within optimal parameters.”

  The child’s voice breaks into a thin scream.

  Aden’s jaw tightens. Just once.

  “Then why does something feel absent?”

  He turns his head slightly. Not enough to face him

  Carmen steps closer.

  His shoes make no sound.

  He does not reach for him. Does not place a hand on his shoulder. He leans in, just enough to see his pupils, wide but steady.

  “Absence, is the foundation of adaptation.”

  The words settle.

  Aden nods.

  Once.

  The child’s cry cuts off.

  A sharp mechanical click. Then only breathing. Fast. Uneven.

  Aden looks forward again.

  His reflection overlaps with Carmen’s in the glass. Two shapes. One still. One watching.

  Absence.

  The word presses in. Not painful. Not heavy. Clean.

  He steps back.

  The book shifts in his hands. The spine creaks. He tightens his grip, then loosens it.

  Pressure recalibrated.

  Carmen turns away first.

  “Return to the sleep hall”

  Aden does.

  He walks down the corridor. Bare feet. Soft steps. The floor returns each one.

  Behind him, the room continues.

  Straps hold.

  Machines hum.

  Corridor Five resets to its rhythm.

  ---