Solemnly

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The room was steeped in a controlled stillness, a space where every element was deliberate. Sunlight filtered through the pristine window, casting long, measured beams that illuminated the floating dust motes. The Director, a man whose years had etched quiet authority into his features, held a porcelain cup, the dark liquid within swirling in slow, methodical circles. His legs, clad in crisp black trousers, rested beneath a polished mahogany desk. A neatly pressed white shirt stretched over his broad frame, and a charcoal grey coat draped over the back of his leather chair—an unmoving presence, much like the man himself.

His pale grey eyes drifted past the glass, observing the world beyond. An ancient oak stood, its gnarled branches swaying in the morning breeze, moving in silent rhythm against the sky's unbroken blue. Birds flitted through the air, their songs a careless melody of freedom. A breeze slipped into the room, rustling his silver-grey hair, a faint whisper against his skin.

"These moments," he murmured, his voice barely above a breath, "are far too rare. A brief reprieve from the hum of… obligation." He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth. "I can hardly remember the last time I felt sunlight unfiltered by glass."

The tranquility shattered with a sharp, deliberate knock.

"Enter," he commanded, his voice even, expectant.

The door swung open, its hinges voicing quiet protest, and Dr. Anya Volkov stepped inside. The stark white of her lab coat contrasted against the subdued tones of the room. Her sharp features, meticulously composed, betrayed nothing—though her eyes lingered for a moment on the tranquil scene, a flicker of something akin to envy passing through them.

"Good morning, Director," she said, her tone clipped, efficient.

"Indeed," he replied, setting his cup down with practiced precision. "A rare moment of peace."

Anya's lips pressed into a thin line, her posture shifting ever so slightly. "Instructor Kray has submitted his resignation from the Nursery program."

The Director raised an eyebrow, a silent inquiry. "Has he?" Amusement laced his tone.

"Yes, sir. He requests immediate approval." She placed a sealed envelope on the desk, her fingers lingering for a fraction of a second before pulling away.

The Director stood, his movements unhurried, and stepped toward the window. The breeze had strengthened, tugging at his hair. He breathed in deeply, as if absorbing something beyond the morning air. "Very well. I will handle it."

"Understood, sir." Anya turned to leave, but his voice halted her at the threshold.

"Anya."

She stiffened slightly. "Yes, Director?"

"Your thoughts on the Nursery's… recent setbacks?"

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—pain, resentment, perhaps both—before she masked it. "My brother, Alexei, was among those lost in the Library collapse," she said, her voice detached, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed the effort. "A casualty of… 44's unexpected evolution."

"A regrettable incident," the Director acknowledged, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "But a consequence of progress."

Anya exhaled slowly. "If I may speak freely, Director?"

"Always."

"The program's foundation is flawed. It pursues an unattainable ideal—an arrogant defiance of human limitation. It is a curse."

"44," the Director interrupted, his tone measured but firm, "is proof that the ideal is not unattainable. He is the first true success since the shift in our approach. The embodiment of what we seek."

"Even if that embodiment leads to destruction?" Her voice sharpened, cutting through the space between them. "Perfection at the cost of ruin—is that truly success?"

The Director turned, walking back to his desk, his expression unreadable. He refilled his cup, the slow pour of coffee the only sound between them. "44's actions are the natural consequence of his past. The Nursery will endure. He will learn that defiance has a price."

Anya's fingers curled at her sides. "That is all I have to say, Director."

He inclined his head. "Your loyalty is noted, Anya. As was your brother's sacrifice. Dedication is always valued."

She held his gaze for a moment before nodding curtly and exiting, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

The Director leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "44," he murmured, "what are you planning? How will you navigate the world beyond these walls?"

Beyond the window, the hospital stood stark against the lush landscape, its white facade almost blinding in the morning light. The grounds bustled with quiet efficiency—doctors and nurses moving with practiced precision, their expressions betraying nothing of the tragedies they encountered daily.

A few months prior, in the month of Dan, a boy had been admitted—nine years old, barely recognizable beneath bruises and lacerations. The staff, hardened by years of emergencies, had faltered at the sight of him. The brutality carved into his small frame was something beyond cruelty.

Now, in a quiet room, a nurse entered, carrying a basket of fruit—apples and oranges nestled neatly within. She approached the lone figure at the window.

The boy sat motionless, his gaze fixed beyond the glass. His jet-black hair, tousled by the breeze, framed a face marked with the remnants of his suffering.

"Hello," the nurse greeted, her voice soft.

Silence.

"How are you feeling today?" She placed the basket on the table beside him.

Still, nothing.

She smiled, undeterred. "That's alright. You don't have to talk. It's been like that for the past two months." She tilted her head. "What was your name again? I seem to have forgotten."

The boy's lips parted slightly before he spoke, his voice a whisper. "Klein. You can call me that."

"Klein," she repeated, as if tasting the name. "A handsome name. I don't think I've met anyone with it before."

He lowered his gaze to the fruit, his fingers tracing the smooth curve of an orange. "Thank you."

"Well, I'll leave you to it," she said, stepping back toward the door. "Remember, we're always here if you need anything."

She exited, the door clicking softly behind her.

Klein—44—stared out at the world beyond the glass.

"It seems my escape has disrupted your plans," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But these people… they are different."

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