01?

White—that is the first memory I can recall. The white ceiling, stark and featureless, unreachably looming above me. My second memory is of the intense, luminescent lights, so bright they dazed my vision. The brilliance burned my eyes, causing a searing pain that forced me to close them or try to look away. 

In my third memory, I was no longer alone. I saw people around me, all dressed in white shirts, carrying tablets and notebooks. Upon reflecting on my memories later, I realized these were tools for notetaking, capturing my every move, observing my every move, and collecting data on my every move. These early memories are indelibly etched into my mind, memories that were imprinted in my brain, carved there, to never be forgotten, impossible to erase. 

While most people might consider an impeccable memory a gift, I perceive it as a burden, a curse. The constant influx of information and the inability to forget even the minutiae can and will be or become overwhelming. At times, it felt as though my head might explode from the sheer volume of memories, even those seemingly insignificant ones have their weight when staked together.

In my desperation to escape this relentless recollection, I turned to self-harm, banging my head on tables, chairs, desks, and other objects that I could get my hands on, seeing it as the only way to alleviate the excruciating memory headaches. Despite the physical harm it caused, it provided temporary relief from the incessant onslaught of memories. For me, this act was not just about the pain; it was also about achieving a fleeting sense of forgetfulness, this acted similar to a drug, the feeling of being released from pain through the act of pain, even at such a young age I was a drug addict. This feeling that stimulated through my body, this inexplicable lightness, I like to call that sort of freedom, salvation. 

"Moonlight Sonata". That was the first thing I heard upon waking up. Each morning, a new song softly resonated through the building, creating a dilated sound. The so-called alarm was neither loud nor intense. An average person would probably unconsciously have ignored it due to its soft notes and continued sleeping soundly. However, I and the other children trapped here were conditioned to recognize this soft sound as our morning alarm. They claimed this was for our own benefit, but that was their perpetual excuse for every minor inconvenience that came their way, as if dismissing the very thought of them being wrong. But for us, there was only accepting this reality, the reality that they enforced upon us, we had no say in the matter, and if we were to object to the words of an instructor we would get brutally beaten. After witnessing the consequences of the first rebellion, no one dared to challenge the instructors again. Their overwhelming power instilled a deep-seated fear in us, making us reluctant to speak out.

We began to view the instructors as deities, beings that possessed absolute authority and power, far transcending the likes of our mortal comprehension. Just as one does not question the actions of gods or god in religious contexts, we refrained from uttering a single word or objection in the presence of our instructors—our gods.

There were different categories of these gods. Some were gods of knowledge, who endowed us with intelligence and quick thinking. Others were gods of combat, who made us stronger and more resilient to physical attacks. Lastly, there were the outer gods, the ones who observed us from their separate world. They remained in other rooms, gazing down upon us and the other gods through expansive windows, as if the very thought of interacting with us was repulsive.

This was our world—a place where music signaled the start of another day under the watchful eyes of our omnipotent overseers.

As I gradually rose from my bed, carefully removing the medical equipment attached to my body, I was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia, a fleeting memory fragment from a long-forgotten past. I couldn't recall its origin—perhaps I goten it from a dream or maybe it was the result of me forcefully repressing my memories. Nevertheless, it was not of immediate importance. As I surveyed the room, I noticed other children slowly and stiffly awakening, carefully removing the medical instruments. Despite the early hour of six in the morning, there were no complaints or sounds of discontent, as if they were mute. Waking up at this time had become a repeating habit for us, even if some children inwardly resented it, they never voiced their objections, in fear of punishment.

The hidden cameras meticulously placed throughout the facility, including our bedrooms, were a constant reminder of our surveillance, and that making or casing any wrongdoing would be noticed. The only exception was the bathrooms and toilets, which were free of cameras due to privacy concerns, although, instructors would always survey the toilets and bathrooms after we used them to see if we tried anything rebellious. Considering we would be here until adulthood the no-camera rule was understandable—or so we believed, although the future was uncertain.

As everyone silently prepared for the day, the doors opened abruptly and three instructors entered. Two of them were absorbed in their tablets, like little kids, while the third scrutinized us carefully before speaking.

"You will head to the kitchen to prepare your own breakfast. While you are there, you will be informed of today's schedule."

After he said that, the children and I followed the instructors to the kitchen.

The announcement we were given was unusual. Until now, our daily routine had been strictly regimented. Mondays, like every other weekday, followed an unvarying schedule. We usually began the day with three hours of Level-7 mathematics, akin to the curriculum for ninth or tenth graders, despite our young ages of seven and eight. The difficulty was significant, especially so as we were prohibited from using any form of aids such as calculators or rulers.

Following mathematics, we had a four-hour of the biology-history lesson. These were not typical classes. We started two years ago with the formation of Earth and the emergence of the first living organisms, gradually progressing to our current focus on dinosaurs. Later, we will start to learn about human events, and transitioning from biology to history. These lessons were unconventional and did not adhere to any standard academic rankings, therefore the absence of a difficulty rating.

Next, we had two hours of human anatomy at a level of seven, the high ranking is due to the absence of that exact orientation. This also includes hands-on sessions with cadavers and even dead people. The first introduction of deceased bodies initially shocked a few students, but the surprise quickly dissipated as if it were never there. We then studied social science for two hours and concluded the day with three hours of English.

However, this unexpected deviation from our rigid schedule left us curious about what lay ahead.t

After preparing our self-made breakfast, brushing our teeth, and showering, we were directed to the main testing hall. This hall is primarily used for written examinations and lessons on theoretical subjects. Practical subjects, such as swimming and martial arts, are taught in specialized facilities like the swimming hall and the martial arts dojo. However, the majority of our time is spent within the confines of the main hall. 

As all the children gathered in the center of the room, I noticed a subtle undercurrent of nervousness among them. From a young age, we were indoctrinated to suppress any unnecessary emotions, as we were taught that such displays were signs of weakness. They ingrained in us the belief that emotional vulnerability would hinder our growth and progress. The harsh methods used to instill this lesson are still etched into my mind, a brutal reminder of how deeply they embedded this ideology into our subconscious.

When we first arrived, there were fifty of us, all eagerly awaiting our futures in anticipation. Now, seven years later, only nineteen remain. The institute's methods are undeniably harsh, designed to weed out all but the most resilient. No ordinary child can possibly attain the capability to survive this abuse for long, this just goes to show how resilient even the most failed one of us is. 

Recently however, I've noticed some of my peers struggling more than usual, and I suspect that they will be unable to continue. I estimate that only five or six of us will make it to the age of eighteen without being forced to drop out. 

Those who seemed particularly on edge today are likely the ones who will not last much longer unless they find a way to overcome their challenges. On the other hand, a few of the children maintained an impassive demeanor, not displaying any visible signs of distress or worry. 

As I was lost in thought, an instructor made their way to the front of the room, positioning themselves where everyone could see. This time, it was a woman dressed in the same white attire as the other instructors, with glasses that caught the fluorescent light. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn't quite place where I had seen her before.

"Today will be slightly different," she announced. "We will be conducting a special test that focuses on teamwork and problem-solving. You will be competing against another department, one that has similarly raised its subjects as the way we raise you."

Her statement confirmed what we had suspected for some time—we were not the only ones subjected to these extreme tests. From what I knew, numerous departments across England followed this same brutal regimen, taking in unwanted children or orphans at such a young age that they couldn't speak, making this cruel institution their only home. We are the eighth generation to undergo this testing, with the first generation, Generation Zero, having started long before us. According to the instructors, there should be at least seven more generations of test subjects enduring the same trials as we are.

"We will be conducting an experiment called an escape room," she continued. "I'm sure you're familiar with the concept, but there are a few specific rules you need to be aware of in advance. And before I go into those, I should mention that you will be competing against another group of children." 

The room fell silent as we absorbed the information. We knew this test, like all the others, would be demanding, but the added element of group competition introduced an unfamiliar variable that made the atmosphere even more tense. But despite this tension, I could not help but feel excited. Not only would I be able to compete against others like me, with what I hope, skills that could surpass mine, but I would also be given the opportunity to test my abilities and see just how excellent they are.

"Now, let's proceed to the additional set of rules," she hastily said.

I felt a twinge of anxiety. She did inform us of this in advance, but still, how many layers did this test have?

"Firstly, you will have a two-minute window to communicate with the other participants in the other group through a phone that hangs on a wall. This communication period is a one-time opportunity, so it is crucial to use it strategically. Consider discussing potential strategies, sharing insights, or clarifying any uncertainties to maximize the benefit your team receives from this limited interaction."

Two minutes? That's barely any time. We'd have to be incredibly focused and efficient. I hoped the other group was as prepared as we were, or else there would be an overlap in communication. 

"Secondly, you will have the opportunity to contact an instructor via another phone that is also installed on the wall. This phone is not directly connected to the test system, or only to a limited extent, I should say. It should be used for seeking guidance or clarification if necessary. Please be mindful of the fact that this resource is available to assist you in understanding the rules or procedures, but not to provide direct answers to the test. However, this phone can be used twice, unlike the first one."

although the usage of this phone was still minimal, we at the very least had a way to communicate with the instructors if necessary, but why twice? To make things more comfortable for us? no chance 

Thirdly, under no circumstances are you permitted to leave the room while the testing is ongoing. Adherence to this rule is mandatory to ensure the integrity and fairness of the test. Exiting the room will result in immediate disqualification and termination of the test, as well as the loss of your team."

No pressure, right? Just stay put and don't mess up. Simple enough, except for the part where the entire test hinged on it. I wonder if it's like a red line that encloses the room 

"The conclusion of the escape room challenge involves unlocking a treasure, which signifies the successful completion of the test, and inside this treasure lays an envelope with a code that you are to inform an instructor of via the second phone. It is important to note that the entire test must be completed within a strict one-hour time limit. Time management will be critical to ensure that you can address all challenges and complete the escape room within the allotted time."

This was going to be a tight race against the clock. I could feel my pulse quickening in excitement just by thinking about it.

"These are the guidelines and procedures for how the test will be conducted, you will not have the opportunity to hear these rules again, so I hope that you have been listening carefully, to ensure full understanding and compliance. With these instructions understood, please proceed to the designated room where you usually rest and prepare yourself for the challenge ahead."

Listening carefully? I was hanging on every word, hoping I didn't miss a crucial detail. This was it, I thought while my excitement would not subside. Time to head to the room and get ready for whatever awaited us

As we were escorted to the examination room by the facility staff, a young girl among the children approached me. Dressed in the same white attire as everyone else, her waist-length, light peanut-brown hair shimmered like a star under the bright lights. I often wondered how her hair would appear under a sunset, reminiscent of those scenes I occasionally saw in movies; it would likely gleam like gold, a treasure of infinite worth. Her smile was broad and genuine, free from any malicious intent, as she greeted me, "Hi, Snow." She had coined this name herself, given that names were not used in our facility. Instead, we were identified by our point average scores or OAS.

This naming system served multiple purposes. For example, fostered a competitive mindset among the lower-ranking children, motivating them to achieve higher ranks, and it ensured that higher-ranking children remained focused on maintaining their high status. Instructors were mandated to address the children by these designations, instilling a sense of shame in those with lower scores and accomplishment among those with higher ranks. Like the other children, I too had a graded name; my current rank was 07, this is then how everyone usually addresses me, this ranking placing me in the middle tier of our cohort.

However, Autumn, the girl standing beside me, harbored a profound disdain for this place. As her only friend, I was privy to her deep-seated resentment towards the institution. 

Due to the intense animosity she harbored, she declined to address me by my formal rank and instead chose to give me a nickname. She referred to me as "Snow," a moniker inspired by the resemblance between my hair and the snow depicted in movies and photographs. As she herself explained, "Your white hair reminds me of the beautiful snowy landscapes I admire, it truly stands out in this environment. I would love to have hair like yours." Similarly, she coined the nickname "Autumn" for herself, attributing it to the seasonal color of her own hair.

"Hi, this special test really came out of nowhere." I said to her, "Yes, like it was super surprising and confusing. I seriously struggled to grasp all of the rules." Her response, however, was disingenuous. As the third-highest performer among the children and the leading among the girls, her claim of difficulty was inconsistent with her actual capability. She had consistently handled tasks with more intricate instructions, indicating that her struggle was exaggerated, likely to make my own less favorable performance seem less significant.

I inquired, "Yeah, I also thought that the rules were really difficult, but have you devised a strategy for us to succeed in this exam?" I asked this because, despite her lower Overall Ability Score (OAS) compared to others, she was undeniably the most intelligent among the children. Her OAS was lower primarily due to her performance in physical assessments which is why she is ranked third, yet her cognitive abilities were outstanding. I was unsure how she would fare against the other groups.

She acknowledged my insight, "You've figured me out haven't you, but given our current situation, it's not surprising. Regarding your question, I have developed some preliminary ideas. They are not foolproof, but they provide a starting point." She easily saw through my question's real motive without even pausing to think. "But I am worried about how good the other children will be, after all, they might even overwhelm us", she said with a sense of worry expressing concern about the proficiency of the other competitors, fearing that they might surpass us.

Despite her outwardly naive appearance, which often led others to underestimate her, in reality, she possesses exceptional intelligence and boundless potential, I would even label her as an extraordinary genius. However internally, she harbors a deep-seated fear of judgment and failure, a vulnerability known only to me, as she has confided in only me. I value this trust immensely and would go to great lengths to permanently get rid of it.

I reassured her, "Don't worry, our group will undoubtedly succeed, without a shadow of a doubt." My confidence stemmed from a unique strength that lies in our group, which I believe will give us an edge over the others.

She then hesitantly asked, "It might be presumptuous of me to ask, but could you assist me with collaborating with the others? You are the only person here whom I consider a friend." Her slight blush as she made this request highlighted her discomfort in asking for help.

I responded warmly, "Of course, you are my friend too. I would never refuse to help you." I deeply valued our friendship and was somewhat disheartened by her embarrassment in seeking assistance from me.

She expressed her gratitude with a childlike enthusiasm, "Thank you sooo much like I really mean it."

I hold our friendship in high regard, particularly in an environment where personal connections and relationships are often devalued. Despite the prevailing sentiment that these bonds are unreliable, we have managed to form a meaningful relationship, something likely unmatched by other groups.

Our friendship began in the most unlikely of places, yet it flourished beyond expectation. Reflecting on its origins, the initial circumstances were quite peculiar. However, those early days are now a distant memory, leaving us with no cause for concern. Even so, I can't seem to forget it, even when I'm doing that. More importantly, what holds paramount significance at this moment is the impending test before us. I am eager to explore its potential and discover the opportunities it presents, both for me, as well as Autumn.