The world was colorless.

  Not dark.

  Not bright.

  Just… pale.

  A flat, merciless white stretched in every direction.

  An infinite sheet of sterilized emptiness.

  There was no sky. No horizon. No warmth.

  The light didn’t come from lamps or suns, it simply existed, pressing against Ten’s eyes until blinking felt useless.

  Ten lay on a cold metal table.

  Straps bound his wrists and ankles, biting into his skin with a cruel, patient tightness.

  The steel beneath him carried no temperature—neither freezing nor warm.

  It was dead.

  It felt like lying on the belly of a machine that didn’t recognize the difference between “alive” and “not yet dissected.”

  Above him, something beeped.

  Slow.

  Measured.

  Unconcerned.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Ten tried to lift his head.

  Pain didn’t come.

  Fear did.

  He couldn’t move much, so he turned his eyes instead.

  Around him were children.

  Rows of them.

  Too many to count.

  They lay on identical tables, arranged in neat lines that disappeared into the white distance like an assembly line built to produce suffering.

  Their bodies were thin, fragile, wrapped in the same gray fabric.

  Numbers were stamped onto their chests, sleeves, wrists, everywhere a name might have gone.

  But their faces—

  Ten’s breath caught.

  Their faces were wrong.

  Blurred. Smeared. As if someone had taken a wet cloth and wiped away their features before they were allowed to become people.

  Eyes without pupils.

  Mouths without edges.

  Noses fading into blank skin.

  They looked human.

  And not human at all.

  Ten’s heart began to race, fast enough to hurt, because his mind tried to reject the image and couldn’t.

  A voice echoed through the space, metallic and hollow.

  “Subject No.10. Vital signs stable.”

  Ten flinched.

  No one had called his name.

  Because he did not have one.

  Days…or what passed for days came without transition.

  The lights never dimmed.

  The hum never softened.

  The air never changed.

  Men and women in white coats moved between the tables, their footsteps soundless.

  Their faces were blurred too, erased by the same invisible hand.

  Their voices were clean and clinical, like they were discussing weather.

  Needles pierced skin.

  Machines hummed.

  Something cold flowed into Ten’s veins, and then something hot, then something that burned like electricity crawling under his flesh.

  Children screamed.

  Children convulsed.

  Children went still.

  When a child went still, the table beside Ten would be empty the next time he looked.

  No body.

  No blood.

  Just absence.

  That was how Ten learned the first rule of this place:

  If something disappears here, no one mourns it.

  Ten learned quickly not to ask questions.

  But even faster, he learned something else.

  A feeling.

  Not a voice.

  Not a vision.

  A pressure inside his chest, like a hand resting on his heart, squeezing gently whenever danger approached.

  When the white coats came too close, Ten felt it: wrong.

  When a machine’s pitch shifted slightly, Ten knew: death.

  When another child was about to stop breathing, Ten felt it before it happened, like a stone dropping into his stomach.

  Sometimes it went further.

  Sometimes Ten knew—

  Not what would happen.

  But what could not be avoided.

  If he stayed on this table tonight, he would not wake up.

  If he turned his head left instead of right, the needle would miss the vein and the pain would be survivable.

  If he took one step forward in the corridor tomorrow, the floor would collapse.

  Ten never saw the future.

  He only felt the result.

  And he listened.

  That was how Ten lived.

  It wasn’t strength.

  It wasn’t bravery.

  It was instinct sharpened by terror until it became a talent.

  A talent the world would later call useful.

  A talent Ten only knew as: the ability to stay alive one more day.

  The first time he saw a face, he almost cried.

  It happened in the corridor.

  White walls.

  White floor.

  Children walking in single file, guarded by blurred figures holding shock batons.

  Ten kept his head down.

  He learned fast: if you looked too alive, you got punished for it.

  Then someone bumped into him.

  “Hey.”

  The voice was clear.

  Human.

  Ten froze like his body forgot how to exist.

  He looked up.

  The world didn’t gain color… but something sharpened.

  Her face was there.

  Clear. Real.

  A girl, a few years older than him.

  Messy hair tied back with a strip of cloth. Eyes tired, but sharp. A thin scar ran across her cheek, like life had tried to take her and failed.

  She looked… alive.

  “I said hey,” she repeated, quieter. “You okay, kid?”

  Ten stared so hard it felt like his eyes would bleed.

  “Stop staring,” she muttered. “You’ll get us shocked.”

  She stepped closer, blocking him from view, pretending to adjust her collar, casual, practiced, like she’d learned the art of protecting someone with a movement small enough to escape cameras.

  “What’s your number?”

  Ten swallowed.

  “…Ten.”

  She snorted. “Figures.”

  She hesitated, just for a beat, then leaned in.

  “I’m Thirteen.”

  The number felt heavy.

  But the way she said it wasn’t.

  She said it like a name.

  From that day on, the white world felt slightly less empty.

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  Thirteen was strong.

  Not in the way Ten was.

  She didn’t “feel danger.”

  She destroyed it.

  When the experiments pushed too far, her body reacted violently.

  Energy burst from her hands, cracking walls, shattering machines.

  The white coats flinched when they came near her.

  They pretended they didn’t fear a child.

  But Ten could feel it.

  Their fear smelled like cold metal.

  And Thirteen hated it.

  One night, sitting with Ten in the dim corner of the dormitory, “dim” meaning the lights were slightly less cruel.

  Thirteen whispered:

  “I don’t want this.”

  Ten didn’t know what to say.

  He only knew that when she said those words, his chest hurt.

  “I don’t want to keep going.” she continued, voice barely above air.

  “Every day feels like… like someone is opening me up to see what’s inside.”

  Ten stared at his own hands.

  “I… don’t want to wake up,” Thirteen said. Then she glanced at him, eyes sharp again. “But you do.”

  Ten opened his mouth, but nothing came.

  Because it wasn’t that he wanted to wake up.

  It was that his body refused to stop.

  Thirteen looked at him for a long moment, then snorted softly.

  “You’re annoying.” she said.

  Ten blinked.

  Thirteen’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

  “Annoyingly hard to kill.”

  Ten didn’t laugh.

  But something inside him loosened, just a fraction.

  Then the elimination rounds began soon after.

  Rooms.

  Sealed doors.

  Weapons dropped from the ceiling.

  One rule displayed in black letters:

  SURVIVE.

  Children killed children.

  Some screamed.

  Some cried.

  Some laughed, because laughter was sometimes the last thing a mind did before it broke.

  Ten ran.

  Ten hid.

  He listened to the pressure inside his chest and followed it blindly.

  Sometimes someone would attack him.

  Ten would freeze—

  And then wake up later, shaking, alone in the room.

  The attacker gone.

  Dead.

  Ten never remembered how.

  He told himself they tripped.

  That traps activated.

  That luck saved him.

  The world accepted those lies.

  So did his mind.

  Because if Ten admitted the truth, if he admitted that sometimes his body moved without him, that sometimes something inside him “took over” when survival demanded it, then he would have to ask a question worse than death:

  What am I?

  Only Thirteen stayed.

  Round after round.

  She grew thinner. Quieter. Her eyes dulled, like her rage was burning out and leaving only ash.

  One night, she asked him, voice calm, almost curious:

  “Ten… do you know when you’re going to die?”

  Ten hesitated.

  “…Sometimes.”

  Thirteen smiled, tired and sad.

  “I know I don’t get out of this.”

  Ten’s chest tightened like the pressure inside him had turned into a fist.

  “Don’t say that.”

  Thirteen shrugged.

  “I’m not scared,” she whispered. “I’m just… tired.”

  The final room was empty.

  No weapons dropped.

  No instructions.

  Only two numbers lit on the wall.

  10.

  13.

  Ten felt it instantly, like a blade sliding into his chest.

  If Thirteen fought, he would die.

  If Thirteen didn’t, she would.

  There was no third route. No clever loophole. No trap to exploit.

  Just a simple, brutal equation.

  Thirteen stepped forward.

  And she looked… relieved.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

  Ten shook his head, shaking harder than he wanted to admit.

  Thirteen’s voice stayed gentle.

  “I’m tired,” she continued. “I don’t want to wake up anymore.”

  Ten’s throat tightened.

  “Stop—”

  Thirteen raised a hand.

  Not to strike him.

  Not to threaten him.

  Just to silence him.

  Her eyes met his.

  And Ten felt something strange, like the white air thickened, like the hum of the lights dropped half a note, like the room was leaning toward her.

  She stepped closer and placed a blade into his trembling hands.

  The metal was warm.

  Not from heat.

  From the fact that it had killed before.

  “Please… help me end this torments.” Thirteen said.

  Ten’s hands shook so hard the blade rattled.

  He dropped it.

  “No,” he gasped. “No—no, I can’t—”

  Thirteen’s expression softened.

  Like she had expected that answer.

  Like she had been counting on it.

  And then—

  She lifted her palm slightly.

  Not dramatic.

  Not flashy.

  Just… deliberate.

  A pulse spread out from her like a silent wave.

  Ten didn’t see “energy” or “light.”

  He felt the world tilt.

  The white space dimmed, not like the lights flickered, but like someone had poured ink into Ten’s eyes.

  For a heartbeat, everything went… wrong**.**

  The hum deepened into a low, hungry vibration.

  The pressure in Ten’s chest, his warning vanished.

  Not eased.

  Vanished.

  As if something had swallowed it.

  Ten blinked—

  And the world went fully dark.

  Ten woke.

  Not on the floor.

  Not collapsed.

  He woke standing.

  His hands were steady.

  Too steady.

  In his grip was the blade.

  And it was buried in someone’s chest.

  A wet, sick sound filled the silence.

  Ten’s breath stopped.

  He looked down.

  The blade was plunged straight into Thirteen’s heart.

  Thirteen was holding his wrist.

  Not pushing it away.

  Holding it in place.

  Like she was making sure he didn’t pull out too early.

  Like she was making sure the act completed.

  Ten’s mind screamed.

  His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Thirteen’s face was pale, but clear, clearer than anything in this white hell.

  Her eyes met his.

  There was no anger there.

  No accusation.

  Only something fierce and gentle, like a hand pushing you out of a burning building.

  Blood soaked her shirt, darkening the only color that ever appeared in this world.

  Thirteen’s lips moved.

  A whisper slid out, wet and trembling.

  “Live,” Thirteen said. “For both of us.”

  Her grip tightened once, one last stubborn, protective squeeze.

  Then her strength broke.

  Her body sagged forward.

  Her hand slipped from his wrist.

  And Thirteen fell.

  Ten stared.

  Frozen.

  The room didn’t cheer.

  The system didn’t speak.

  The lights didn’t change.

  Only the blade in his hands remained, and the warmth of someone else’s blood on his fingers.

  Ten’s knees buckled.

  He fell beside her, shaking so hard he couldn’t swallow air.

  “I didn’t—” he tried to say.

  But the sentence had no end.

  Because it wasn’t about whether he intended it.

  It had happened.

  Then it happened again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The room reset.

  Thirteen stood in front of him, alive, tired, smiling like she had already accepted her fate.

  Each time, Ten refused.

  Each time, Thirteen’s hand lifted.

  Each time, Ten’s world dimmed.

  And each time he “came back”, the blade was already in her heart.

  Always the same angle.

  Always the same depth.

  Clean. Efficient.

  Like someone had practiced.

  At some point, Ten stopped crying.

  Not because he grew strong.

  Because he grew empty.

  At some point, part of him watched from very far away, cold, precise, efficient, like an observer behind glass.

  Ten didn’t know when that part began.

  Ten only knew that when he returned to himself, Thirteen was always dead.

  And his hands were always steady.

  That was when the thunder came.

  The white world cracked.

  Violet lightning tore through the ceiling like the sky itself had been stabbed open.

  The hum died.

  The sterile light trembled.

  For the first time, the world looked afraid.

  A figure stepped out of the rift.

  An old man.

  Tall, but bent.

  Hair silver and wild, as if wind had been chewing it for decades.

  A cloak hung off his shoulders, torn and scorched, fabric that had seen too much fire to fear it anymore.

  His face was lined with exhaustion that no time could heal.

  In his eyes sat lightning that had burned too long and refused to die.

  Z-69.

  But older.

  So much older.

  He looked at the scene, Thirteen’s body, Ten kneeling in blood and sighed.

  Not a theatrical sigh.

  A tired one.

  The sigh of someone who recognized this kind of cruelty.

  “She chose,” the old man said quietly. “Again and again.”

  Ten looked up, shaking.

  “I didn’t want to—”

  “I know,” Z-69 interrupted, voice rough. “You never do.”

  Old Z-69 stepped forward.

  Each step left faint arcs of lightning that burned the white floor, revealing darkness beneath, as if the sterile world was just a thin skin over something far uglier.

  “You were never weak,” he continued. “You just survived in a way the world doesn’t like to admit.”

  Ten’s throat tightened.

  “She… made me…” Ten tried, voice breaking. “I… I blacked out…”

  Old Z-69’s gaze sharpened.

  He didn’t press Ten for details.

  He didn’t need to.

  His eyes flicked once, briefly to Ten’s hands.

  Then back to Ten’s face.

  And something unreadable passed behind the lightning in his eyes.

  Recognition.

  Not pity.

  Recognition.

  He raised the Heaven-Sundering Short Blade.

  One swing.

  The room shattered like glass.

  The loop broke.

  Ten reached out, toward the collapsing white, toward Thirteen’s fading shape, toward the one sentence that had been stabbed into his heart—

  And the world fell away.

  Ten screamed.

  And woke up.

  The pod hissed open.

  Cold air rushed in.

  Reality returned, colors dull, but real.

  Ten dragged breath into his lungs like he didn’t trust air anymore.

  His body shook.

  His hands clawed at the edge of the pod.

  His throat felt scraped raw from screaming in a place that had no echo.

  Z-69 stood beside him.

  Not the old one.

  The current one.

  But Ten’s eyes still saw the older silhouette behind him like a ghost.

  Z-69’s nose bled dark, thick fluid, black like oil.

  Exhaustion sat deep in his face, not in the way of “tired,” but in the way of “something in my brain got scorched”.

  Ten grabbed his sleeve, desperate.

  “…Am I… a monster?”

  Z-69 looked at him for a long time.

  The violet crystal in his chest pulsed faintly, like it was listening too.

  Then Z-69 answered simply:

  “No.”

  Ten’s breath hitched.

  Z-69’s gaze drifted to Ten’s reflection on the pod glass.

  For a second, just a second, he thought he saw two silhouettes behind Ten.

  Z-69’s voice lowered.

  “But there’s something in you,” he added. “Something that keeps moving when you can’t.”

  Ten stiffened.

  Z-69 didn’t say the word.

  Didn’t label it.

  But his eyes, those tired lightning eyes, held the same implication as the scars in his own existence.

  Z-69’s jaw tightened slightly, like he didn’t enjoy admitting it.

  “…This situation looks familiar,” he said quietly. “Too familiar.”

  Ten stared at him.

  Z-69 didn’t elaborate.

  He didn’t need to.

  Ten felt it anyway, an ugly kinship, a shared abnormality.

  One body.

  More than one “thing” inside.

  And then Jin’s hand landed on Ten’s shoulder, harder than necessary.

  Ten flinched.

  “Idiot,” Jin snapped, voice rough with relief more than anger. “Do you have any idea how close you were to flat-lining in there?”

  Ten blinked, half-dazed.

  “…Sorry.”

  Jin clicked his tongue.

  “Don’t ‘sorry’ me,” he said, then exhaled sharply. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  Then Jin turned and jabbed a finger at Z-69 like a prosecutor who had been waiting for this moment his whole life.

  “And you—”

  Jin’s voice rose.

  “What kind of lunatic dives headfirst into someone else’s PAIN through an auxiliary port with a giant ‘BRAIN DAMAGE’ warning on it?! Are you actively trying to get yourself killed?”

  Z-69 didn’t even look at him.

  He wiped the last streak of black fluid from his ear, expression blank, posture relaxed, like Jin’s shouting was background music.

  Jin’s eyebrow twitched.

  “…Hey. I’m talking to you.”

  Z-69 finally glanced over.

  “Mm?” he replied vaguely.

  Jin stared at him like he was witnessing a natural disaster with a face.

  “…I swear,” Jin muttered, “one day I’m going to beat common sense into you.”

  Z-69 shrugged.

  “Good luck.”

  Ten watched the exchange in silence.

  Something inside his chest, tight for as long as he could remember loosened a little.

  Not because the pain was gone.

  Because for the first time, he wasn’t alone with it.

  DONG.

  A low metallic chime echoed through the room.

  The lights overhead dimmed.

  The white walls began to move.

  Not sliding but folding.

  Panels retracted.

  Seams opened like mechanical petals.

  The sterile chamber peeled itself apart, revealing a wider space beyond.

  Three massive doors emerged from the shifting walls.

  One green.

  One red.

  One blue.

  Each door bore a symbol etched at its center, perfect matches to the three keys they had obtained.

  The system’s voice descended again, emotionless and absolute.

  “Team Trial Complete.”

  “All participants have met the minimum survival criteria.”

  Ten stiffened.

  Jin’s jaw set.

  Z-69 lifted his gaze.

  “From this point onward, each participant must proceed individually.”

  “Please enter the door corresponding to the key in your possession.”

  “Trial Seven will begin upon entry.”

  Silence fell.

  The kind of silence that didn’t need sound to be heavy.

  Three doors.

  Three paths.

  Three chances to die alone.

  Ten looked at the green door, fingers tightening unconsciously around the key in his pocket.

  Jin glanced at the red one, expression unreadable.

  Z-69’s eyes rested on the blue door, steady, distant, as if already halfway through it.

  For a moment, none of them spoke.

  Because saying goodbye here felt like tempting the universe.

  Jin broke the silence first.

  “…Guess this is it.” he muttered.

  He looked at Ten, and for once his usual sharpness softened into something rougher and more honest.

  He placed a hand on Ten’s shoulder again, this time not hard.

  Firm.

  Like anchoring a man to the ground before he stepped into a storm.

  “Kid,” Jin said, voice low, “don’t die.”

  Ten swallowed.

  “…I’ll try.”

  Jin snorted.

  “Don’t ‘try.’ Do it.”

  Ten’s lips twitched, almost a smile, shaky but real.

  Jin turned to Z-69, chin lifted, eyes narrowed.

  “And you, Silverhead.”

  Z-69 raised an eyebrow.

  Jin jabbed a finger toward him, half threat, half vow.

  “Don’t pull that disappearing-into-your-own-head crap with me,” Jin said. “I’m still owed a rematch. I don’t care if you win, I don’t care if I lose, just don’t die before I get it.”

  Z-69’s mouth curved slightly.

  “Sure,” he replied calmly. “I always welcome a rematch.”

  Jin’s smirk returned, thin, stubborn.

  “Good.”

  Ten looked up at Z-69.

  The words came out quiet, but solid.

  “…You’re really okay?”

  Z-69 met his gaze.

  For a brief second, something tired but unbreakable passed between them.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” Z-69 said. “I’ve been worse.”

  Ten nodded.

  He believed him.

  That was the problem.

  Jin stepped back, hands in his pockets like he was trying to act casual and failing.

  He jerked his chin upward.

  “Floor Nine,” he said. “That’s where we meet.”

  Ten’s eyes widened slightly.

  Z-69’s gaze sharpened.

  Jin’s voice hardened into something like an oath.

  “Both of you,” he added. “You hear me? We climb. We meet. We drink, we fight, we laugh—whatever. But we meet.”

  Ten’s throat tightened.

  “…Okay.”

  Z-69 gave a short nod.

  “Floor Nine it is,” he said.

  Then he added, almost as an afterthought, but it landed like steel:

  “Don’t make me wait.”

  Jin huffed.

  “Like you’re the patient type.”

  Z-69 shrugged.

  “I can be.”

  “Liar.” Jin said, but the insult sounded affectionate in the dumb way only men who survived together can manage.

  Ten took a breath.

  He looked at both of them, really looked.

  Jin, loud and sharp and stubbornly alive.

  Z-69, quiet and terrifying and somehow… steady.

  And Ten, the weakest, the one who survived by listening to death, standing here with two people who had, in their own way, dragged him back from a place he couldn’t leave alone.

  “…See you.” Ten said.

  Jin lifted a hand without turning fully, a casual wave that still felt like a promise.

  “Don’t be late.”

  Z-69 paused at his door.

  Then spoke over his shoulder, voice calm but absolute:

  “Stay alive.”

  One by one, they turned.

  Ten walked toward the green door.

  Jin toward the red door.

  Z-69 toward the blue door.

  At the threshold, Ten hesitated.

  He glanced back.

  The other two had already stopped as well, like none of them could quite make themselves step through without one last look.

  For a heartbeat, the three of them stood facing different futures, linked by nothing but shared survival and the kind of understanding that doesn’t need words.

  The doors opened.

  Light poured out.

  Each of them stepped forward.

  And the paths diverged.