R

The equations bled across the page, numbers twisting like serpents. 44 didn't bother solving them—he'd memorized the answers years ago. Instead, he studied the room.

*Thirty-four subjects. Thirty-four hollowed-out husks.*

They hunched over their desks, pencils scratching in unison. No laughter. No whispers. Just the sterile rhythm of obedience. The Nursery had carved them into this: *perfect*, passionless machines.

*Perfection.*

44's lips curled. The word tasted like a curse.

Perfection was a corpse, stiff and cold. It was the silence of the girl in Cell 12 after the instructors "corrected" her. It was the empty eyes of Subject 39, who'd forgotten his own name.

*But not me,* 44 thought, his fingers tightening around the pencil. *I remember.*

The memory flickered—a sliver of sunlight through barred windows, a woman's voice singing a lullaby. *Mother?* He wasn't sure. The Nursery scrubbed minds clean, but fragments lingered like ghosts.

A chime shattered the silence.

**"All instructors report to the Director immediately."**

The instructors froze, then filed out without a word. No explanations. No warnings.

44's pulse quickened. *This is new.*

The door sealed shut. A mechanical whine echoed overhead as the cameras powered down, their red lights blinking out one by one.

*Click. Click. Click.*

Silence.

Then—

**"Subjects are granted freedom to interact. Proceed as you deem fit."**

A hologram flared to life above them: **35**.

The number glowed, blood-red.

44 stood, his chair screeching against the floor. Thirty-four heads swiveled toward him, their eyes flat, predatory.

"What do you think they want us to do?" he asked, his voice slicing the stillness.

Subject 46 rose first. Taller, broader, his knuckles scarred from years of breaking bones. "It's obvious," he said, cracking his neck. "Kill each other. Last one standing gets a reward."

Murmurs rippled through the room. Subjects edged closer, their breaths shallow, fists clenched.

44 smiled. *Of course.* The Nursery's idea of "freedom" was a slaughterhouse.

46 lunged, closing the distance in three strides. "I've wanted to put you in your place, 44. Let's see how perfect you are without your mind games."

44 sidestepped, his movements fluid. "You're predictable, 46. All brawn. No *thought*."

A fist grazed his temple. 44 staggered, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. He laughed.

*This* was alive. This rush of heat, this razor's edge between control and chaos.

46 swung again. 44 ducked, driving his elbow into the larger boy's ribs. A crack echoed.

"You're weak," 44 hissed. "They made you a weapon, but you don't even know who to aim at."

46 roared, tackling him to the floor. They rolled, limbs tangled, fists flying. Around them, the room erupted—bodies clashing, screams tearing through the air.

44's vision blurred as 46's hands closed around his throat. "You talk too much," 46 spat.

"And you… don't… think… enough," 44 gasped, clawing at his attacker's eyes.

A crash. 46 jerked sideways, blood blooming across his temple.

44 blinked up at his savior.

**42.**

The boy stood over them, a shattered chair leg in his hand. His face was calm, but his eyes burned—a wildfire smoldering beneath ice.

"Enough," 42 said.

46 staggered back, clutching his head. "Traitor! You're supposed to be one of us!"

42 ignored him, offering 44 a hand. "They're watching."

44 followed his gaze. The cameras were still dark, but the air hummed with unseen currents. *Of course.* The Nursery wouldn't miss this.

"Why help me?" 44 muttered.

42's grip tightened. "You're the only one who sees it."

"Sees what?"

"The flaw."

Around them, the battle raged—bodies colliding, blood slicking the floor. But for a moment, the world narrowed to 42's whisper:

"Perfection is a lie. And lies… *break*."