Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The City doesn’t introduce itself. It just keeps going.
From above, if you ever get high enough to see more than a district at once, it looks like a machine that forgot what it was built for. Towers packed so tight they lean into each other. Streets layered on streets, some still breathing, others long abandoned but never removed. Lights flicker even in places no one lives anymore, like the City doesn’t trust the dark.

Down where I am, it smells like metal, rain, and old decisions. The kind of place where you don’t ask why something exists, only how long until it breaks or kills you.

People move fast here. Not because they’re busy, but because standing still is an invitation. Invitations get answered by Syndicates, by Fixers looking for an easy payout, and by things that don’t belong to any Wing and never will. The City is fair like that. It doesn’t care who you are. It only cares whether you’re prepared.

Fixers are what passes for professionals in this mess. Official problem-solvers. Hired hands. If something needs doing and you don’t want to do it yourself, you call a Fixer. Missing persons. Contract enforcement. Escort jobs. Cleanups. Sometimes prevention. Sometimes retaliation dressed up as maintenance.

You don’t just wake up one day and decide you’re a Fixer, no matter how sharp your blade or how fast your trigger finger is. To make it official, you need a license, and licenses only come from Offices recognized by the Associations. Either you knock on the right door, or you walk into an Association building and hope they don’t laugh you back onto the street. Even then, the license is just permission to start bleeding for money.

The Associations sit above the whole Fixer ecosystem, pretending to be neutral while quietly deciding who lives long enough to matter. They’re massive organizations, each with its own specialty, combat, investigation, logistics, suppression, things like that. When something happens in the City, a case gets routed to the Association that claims it knows best how to handle it. From there, the job gets handed down to Fixers they think are suitable. Or disposable. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

At the center of it all is the Hana Association. If Fixer work has a spine, Hana is it. Licensing, records, grades, assignments, everything eventually passes through their hands. They don’t swing weapons themselves. They don’t have to. Paperwork does the killing for them.

Grades come after. Higher pay, better contracts, more freedom, but only if you earn it. Every job gets logged. Every success, every failure. Performance tracked, weighed, compared. Some Fixers chase the ladder obsessively, climbing grade by grade like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. Others don’t bother. They stay where they are, take the jobs they want, and disappear between contracts.

Then there are the Offices.

An Office is just a group of Fixers who decided they work better together than alone. Sometimes. Some Offices are officially affiliated with an Association, meaning work comes to them whether they like it or not. Others operate independently, hunting down clients, favors, and rumors like scavengers. There’s no standard size, no standard structure. Some Offices are legendary names whispered in Backstreets bars. Others are two people sharing rent and a death wish.

People say there are as many Offices as there are Fixers. It’s not wrong. New ones pop up constantly. Old ones vanish just as fast, swallowed by bad contracts, internal betrayals, or one job that went slightly too wrong. The City doesn’t mourn Offices. It replaces them.

Officially, Fixers exist to solve the City’s problems. Unofficially, a lot of the City’s problems wear Fixer coats. When you give people legal permission to use violence for money, things get… flexible.

The real power here belongs to what we call the Wings.

Not feathers, not symbols, companies. Twenty-five of them, each big enough to own a district outright. They call themselves conglomerates, but everyone knows the truth: every Wing props up the City with a miracle it refuses to fully explain. Singularities. Technologies so far beyond normal understanding that arguing whether they’re science or magic feels pointless. They keep the lights on. They keep people useful.

Every district, except Z, sits under one Wing’s shadow. Each Wing maintains a Nest, the part of the City meant to be seen. Clean streets. Predictable rules. Guards that actually show up when you call. Inside a Nest, life is… tolerable. Sometimes even comfortable. You sleep with both eyes closed, trusting that the Wing above you still knows what it’s doing.

But Wings aren’t eternal.

When one snaps, when its Singularity fails, leadership implodes, or something worse crawls out from under the hood, the collapse isn’t subtle. A Wing doesn’t just vanish, it takes stability with it. The Nest decays almost overnight. Protection evaporates. Contracts stop meaning anything. Old grudges wake up hungry. Historically, a fallen Wing means wars, riots, purges, disappearances on a scale big enough that the City later insists they were unavoidable.

Eventually, another Wing grows into the gap. It always does. The City hates empty space.

But the time in between? That’s when promises die. Not safety. Not law. Not survival.

Step outside the Nest and the pretense burns off even faster. The Backstreets aren’t under anyone’s protection. Out there, you don’t belong to anyone, and no one owes you anything. If you want safety, you buy it. If you want justice, you hire it. And if you can’t afford either, you learn how to bleed quietly.

I’ve worked enough districts to know the rhythm. The shift in the air right before violence breaks. The way crowds thin without anyone saying a word. The way people pretend not to see blood unless it spreads too far.

This is a City built on contracts and consequences. Wings above. Nests protected. Backstreets forgotten but never empty. Power flows downward, pain flows sideways, and hope… hope gets taxed until there’s nothing left to collect.

Somewhere in all that machinery are companies that don’t bother advertising. No billboards. No slogans. You just know them because everyone does, and because if they vanished, the City would start tearing itself apart within hours.

Lobotomy Corporation is one of those names.

Officially, it’s a Wing, L Corp, stationed in Nest L. An energy company. That’s the label they use, at least. What matters is that they supply an absurd amount of power to the City, enough that entire districts go dark when their output even hiccups. They keep the whole machine breathing. No one really knows how they do it, only that they do, and that questioning it too loudly makes people uncomfortable.

Most people know two things about Lobotomy Corporation.

First: it pays well.
Second: it produces energy in a way no one fully understands.

That should have been enough to keep me away.

It wasn’t.

The building didn’t look like a Wing facility.

That was the first red flag.

No grand façade. Just a clean, gray structure seemingly in the middle of the city covered with armed checkpoints. No signage beyond a small plaque near the door. Cameras everywhere I could see, though that didn’t mean much.

I checked my permit again before going in. Temporary access, single-use, time-stamped. Legit. Expensive, too. Whoever issued it had pull.

Inside, the air was… neutral. No smell. No draft. The kind of climate control that made you forget weather existed.

A woman at the desk looked up as I approached.

“Name?” she asked, already typing.

“Samuel,” I said.

She nodded. “Fixer grade?”

“Four,” I replied after a pause. “Registered. Freelance.”

That was technically true. Some offices would’ve pushed me up to a high Grade 4 on a good week, maybe even whispered Grade 3 if I delivered something flashy. I didn’t bother correcting the number downward. Overstating gets you killed faster than underplaying.

“Experience?”

“Backstreets. Escort. Retrieval. Cleanup.”

Her fingers stopped for half a second at the last word.

Then she smiled.

“Floor six. Room C.”

No badge. No escort. Just directions.

I wasn't sure whether the confidence they had that no one would try anything was another red flag or a green one this time.

The elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet. No music, no announcements. The floor numbers lit up as we passed them. I watched my reflection in the brushed steel doors, scar above the eyebrow, jacket patched more times than I’d admit, eyes already tired.

I reminded myself: This is an interview. Not a trap.

The doors opened.

Room C was smaller than I expected. Table. Two chairs. A single glass of water already poured. No windows.

The man waiting there looked… ordinary. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean suit, no insignia. Hair neat, smile practiced but not exaggerated.

“Samuel,” he said, standing. “Thank you for coming.”

He didn’t offer a handshake.

“I didn’t have much choice,” I replied, taking the seat opposite him.

He laughed lightly. “True. But you came anyway. That says something.”

About what, he didn’t specify.

He sat, folded his hands. “I’ll be honest. We don’t usually recruit freelancers at your… level.”

There it was.

“But?” I said.

“But you’re adaptable. You work alone. You don’t ask unnecessary questions.” He glanced at a tablet on the table, no screen visible from my angle. “And you’re still alive.”

I shrugged. “Low bar.”

“Higher than you think.”

He slid the glass of water toward me. I didn’t touch it.

“Tell me,” he continued, casual as a lunch meeting, “why do you take the jobs you take?”

I met his eyes. “Because they pay.”

He smiled again. Wider this time. “That’s the wrong answer.”

I waited.

“The correct answer,” he said, “is because you don’t like being told what you ARE.”

That landed closer than I liked.

He leaned back. “Let’s talk capability. You’re Grade 4 officially. Unofficially, you function closer to a low Grade 3 when motivated. You’re not exceptional. You’re not weak. You’re… usable.”

Usable. Not employable. Not talented.

Usable.

“What’s the job?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “Dangerous.”

I didn’t react.

“Mentally taxing,” he added.

Still nothing.

“Legally ambiguous,” he finished.

I smiled. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

He chuckled. “You’d be assigned to an Energy Production Facility. Entry-level position. Training provided. Advancement… possible.”

“Combat?” I asked.

“Sometimes.”

“With?”

He paused. Just long enough.

“Yes.”

There it was.

I leaned back. “You’re underselling.”

“We prefer not to oversell,” he replied smoothly. “Expectations are important.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he said, almost idly, “Mortality rate is high.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How high?”

“High enough that honesty saves us paperwork.”

I laughed once, sharp. “That bad, huh?”

“You’d be surprised how many people still sign.”

I thought of the City outside. Of fixers dying in alleys for half the pay. Of contracts that didn’t warn you at all.

“At least you’re upfront,” I said.

He nodded. “We like transparency. Internally.”

That “internally“ did a lot of work.

He tapped his tablet. “No family ties that would complicate relocation. No active Office affiliation. No outstanding Wing debts.”

I stiffened slightly. “You dug deep.”

“We dig thoroughly.”

Another pause.

“Why me?” I asked.

This time, his smile faded just a bit.

“Because,” he said, “when things go wrong, you don’t freeze. You don’t moralize. You don’t break down. You compartmentalize.”

I didn’t like how sure he sounded.

He slid a document across the table. Thick. Heavy. Real paper.

“Temporary employment permit,” he said. “Conditional. Revocable.”

Along with it, a small card. Matte black. An address printed in clean white text.

No logo.

No explanation.

“Show up tomorrow,” he continued, standing. “0600 hours. Bring only what you can afford to lose.”

“And if I don’t?” I asked.

He smiled again. Fully this time.

“Then you go back to the City,” he said. “And we forget this conversation ever happened.”

I looked down at the permit. At the address.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something tightened, not fear. Anticipation. The kind that only shows up before bad decisions.

I picked them up.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

“Welcome aboard,” he replied.

As I left the room, I realized something unsettling.

At no point had he asked whether I wanted the job.

Only whether I’d survive it.

The lobby of the Main building was too normal.

That was the… I think third??? thing that bothered me.

Polished floor, high ceiling, neutral colors carefully chosen to offend no one. A receptionist desk stood empty, not abandoned, unused. The place felt like it was waiting for people who didn’t need to be welcomed.

I crossed the floor toward the elevators. Three of them, identical, doors seamless with the wall. No call buttons. Just a narrow slot beside each door.

I slid my permit in.

The slot pulsed once, white, then gone.

The doors opened immediately.

Inside, the elevator was smaller than expected. No mirrors. No panel. Just a faint hum in the air, like pressure before a storm. I stepped in, half-expecting the doors to close slowly, for the familiar lurch of descent.

Instead

Nothing.

No movement. No acceleration. No sense of falling.

The doors opened again.

Instantly.

I blinked, looked back over my shoulder.

The lobby was gone.

In its place stretched a wide, sterile corridor, walls smooth and faintly luminous, the light source impossible to pinpoint. The air felt different, cooler, denser, like I’d stepped into a sealed system.

Teleportation.

I’d worked enough high-grade contracts to recognize it. Elevators don’t skip the sensation of movement. They don’t ignore inertia. This was relocation.

A chill ran up my spine, not fear, exactly. Appreciation. Teleporters weren’t cheap. Not even Wings used them casually.

So this is where the real facility is, I thought. Buried where no one can hear you scream.

The doors slid shut behind me without a sound.

No turning back.

She was already there.
Standing at the center of the corridor, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture flawless in a way no human ever quite manages. Long blue hair, immaculate suit, eyes closed the whole time.

“My name is Angela. Welcome to Lobotomy Corporation,” she said, voice smooth, warm, perfectly modulated. “You must be Samuel.”

“Guess I made it,” I replied.

Her lips curved into a polite smile. Not friendly. Not hostile. Precise.

“You may relax,” she said. “The teleportation process is complete. You are now within the central underground facility.”

“I noticed,” I said. “No travel time.”

“Correct. Our elevators do not move vertically. They transfer personnel directly to their assigned layer.”

I exhaled slowly. “Efficient.”

“We value efficiency,” Angela replied. “Especially when mistakes are costly.”

She gestured for me to follow, turning without waiting to see if I obeyed.
I did.

We walked side by side through corridors that branched endlessly, each marked with symbols I didn’t recognize. The place was too clean. Too quiet. Even my footsteps felt intrusive.

“Before we proceed,” she said, “I will provide you with a brief overview of what you may expect.”

Brief. That word did not reassure me.

“Lobotomy Corporation is an energy production company,” Angela continued. “We extract energy from unique entities known as Abnormalities. This energy sustains the City at large.”

I snorted quietly. “Figures.”

She tilted her head slightly. Not offended. Measuring.

“The substance we produce is called Enkephalin,” Angela said. “It is commonly distributed to the public as electrical energy, though that is merely one of its applications.”

I glanced at her. “And the others?”

“Enkephalin is a refined, green compound that typically exists in liquid form,” she explained. “When administered in controlled doses, it induces a pronounced sense of relaxation and emotional stability.”

So that’s the catch.

“Our corporation,” Angela continued, “routinely provides Enkephalin to employees experiencing prolonged stress or cognitive fatigue. Productivity increases noticeably as a result.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “There’s a downside.”

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Overexposure, improper dosage, or contact with unrefined Enkephalin has been observed to produce severe psychological deterioration, physical degradation, and… unfavorable terminal outcomes.”

Unfavorable. That was one way to put it.

“We therefore maintain strict regulation protocols,” Angela added. “Employee exposure is monitored closely. Deviations are discouraged.”

We continued walking.

“The term Abnormality,” Angela said, seamlessly shifting gears, “is a functional designation rather than a descriptive one. It refers to entities that do not conform to natural law, psychological norms, or predictable causality.”

“Some Abnormalities are immediately grotesque, creatures whose appearance alone induces fear or distress,” she continued. “Others appear benign. Mundane, even. A machine. A child. A box. In many cases, the latter are more dangerous.”

“Because people underestimate them,” I said.

“Correct… partially,” Angela replied. “Incorrect management procedures can trigger reactions ranging from localized employee casualties to large-scale containment failures with catastrophic consequences.”

We stopped before a large observation window. Beyond it lay a containment chamber, thick glass, reinforced steel, restraints embedded into the floor.

Empty.

“There is another aspect of our work you should understand,” Angela said. “One that directly concerns employee survivability.”

That got my attention.

“Through prolonged interaction with Abnormalities,” she continued, “we are able to extract what is known as E.G.O, Extermination of Geometrical Organ.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s… subtle.”

“E.G.O is the material manifestation of an Abnormality’s inner nature,” Angela explained. “Their fears, impulses, obsessions, and self-perception, given physical form through specialized technology. Weapons. Armor. Tools.”

I looked at the empty chamber again, imagining something inside it, pressed into steel and glass.

“Employees equipped with E.G.O gear gain a significantly higher survival rate,” she said. “However, compatibility varies. Improper use can result in psychological destabilization.”

“So you’re telling me the monsters make the weapons,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Of course they do.”

Angela inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the obvious.

“There is more,” she added. “In rare cases, a human individual may manifest E.G.O independently.”

I turned to her. “Independently?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “A personal E.G.O. It reflects the individual’s internal structure, their convictions, contradictions, and the choices they make under extreme pressure. Such manifestations are considerably more powerful than extracted equipment.”

“And the catch?” I asked.

“It's so unlikely to achieve that so far only The Red Mist has achieved it” Angela replied.

That tracked.

“Additionally,” she continued, “we have observed weaker E.G.O manifestations in employees who form emotional attachments to specific Abnormalities. While this can enhance performance, it also increases risk. Attachment often precedes deviation.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Deviation gets people killed.”

“Yes.”

We stood there a moment longer, the empty chamber humming softly.

“Your role,” Angela said at last, “will involve direct interaction with these Abnormalities. Observation, management, and, when necessary, suppression.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They don’t like being managed.”

“Some do,” she replied. “Most do not.”

She turned to face me fully now.

“For your first days, you will undergo training,” Angela said. “You will learn classification systems, behavioral patterns, and response protocols. Deviations from established procedures, even minor ones, may result in injury, psychological trauma, or death.”

She said it the way someone might mention weather conditions.

“And if I succeed?” I asked.

“You will continue working.”

That was it.

I studied her face. No tells. No cracks.

“You’re very upfront.”

“Yes,” she said. “False reassurance reduces productivity.”

She paused.

“There is one thing you must understand above all else,” Angela said calmly. “At your current level, you are… replaceable.”

There it was.

Not cruel. Not mocking.
Clinical.

“The Corporation does not require you to be exceptional,” she continued. “Only functional. If you perish, another employee will take your place within hours. Energy quotas will not be affected.”

I felt something settle in my gut. Not dread, clarity.

“So I’m expendable,” I said.

“Yes,” Angela confirmed. “At present.”

At present.
That qualifier mattered.

“You may find this unsettling,” she added. “However, many employees report improved performance once they accept this fact.”

I laughed softly. “You’re assuming I mind.”

Her eyes lingered on me for a moment.

“Interesting,” she said. “You may proceed.”

She gestured down another corridor.

“An associate will guide you through departmental orientation. I look forward to observing your progress, Samuel.”

As she turned away, she paused.

“One more thing,” she said without looking back. “Should you experience distress, confusion, or existential discomfort, report it immediately. Unreported issues tend to compound.”

Then she was gone.
Not walking away.

Just… gone.

I stared at the empty space she’d occupied, then let out a slow breath.

So that’s the voice of God around here, I thought.
Polite. Efficient. Terrifying.

“Hi!! You must be the new hire!!”

The sudden burst of energy nearly made me flinch.

A woman with long brown hair and an aggressively cheerful smile practically bounced into view, waving like we were old friends. Orange armband. Big blue eyes. Way too much enthusiasm for a place like this.

“Hod,” she said, thrusting out a hand. “Sephirah of the Training Team! Welcome to Lobotomy Corporation!”

I stared at her hand for a second, then shook it. “Samuel.”

“I know!” she said brightly. “Angela already briefed me! She’s so efficient, isn’t she? Sometimes I think she doesn’t need us at all, but don’t tell her I said that!”

“…Right,” I said.

Hod leaned in slightly. “So! Did she explain the job? The dangers? The mortality rates? The importance of following procedures exactly?”

“Yes,” I said flatly. “In that order.”

“Oh good!” Hod clapped her hands. “I hate repeating myself, oh! I mean-”

She froze.

Then laughed awkwardly.

“-Actually, that’s a lie. I repeat myself ALL the time. Occupational hazard!”

I rubbed my temple. “Let me guess. You’re about to repeat yourself.”

“Only a little!” she said. “Just to make sure it STICKS.”

She began walking, motioning for me to follow.

“As a Training Team member,” Hod explained, “you’ll be learning the fundamentals of Abnormality interaction. You’ll probably get hurt. Possibly traumatized. Statistically speaking, you might die, but don’t worry! That’s what the learning curve is for!”

I glanced at her. “…You’re kidding.”

She smiled. “I wish.”

We passed more observation rooms. Some occupied now. Shapes moved behind reinforced glass. I looked away.

Hod continued, undeterred. “But! The good news is, you’re a fixer! So you already know how to follow instructions, assess risk, and not panic when things go wrong, right?”

“I don’t panic,” I said. “I internalize.”

“Ooooh,” she said, eyes sparkling. “That’s SO much worse!”

I sighed.

“So,” I said, “let me recap. Dangerous workplace. I’m expendable. High chance of death.”

“Yes!”

“And you’re excited about this.”

“Well,” Hod said, rocking on her heels, “someone has to be!”

She stopped before a door marked TRAINING TEAM - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“This will be your home for now,” she said warmly. “We’ll start slow. Observation shifts. Low-risk Abnormalities. Probably.”

“Probably,” I echoed.

Hod grinned. “You’ll do great! I can tell.”

I looked at the door. Then back at her.

“You all say the same things,” I muttered.

She blinked. “…We do?”

“Welcome. Expectations. Death. Replaceability,” I said. “You and Angela could share a script.”

Hod laughed nervously. “Oh! Well! I guess it’s important everyone hears it from multiple perspectives!”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what’s worrying me.”

She hesitated, just a fraction of a second.

Then her smile returned, just a bit tighter.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

The door slid open.

Beyond it, the Training Team awaited.

I stepped inside.

And for the first time since arriving, I had the distinct feeling that the City above, cruel, chaotic, violent as it was, might actually have been the safer place.

The walk from the Training Team wing to the residential sector took longer than I expected.

Not because it was far, but because the corridors refused to behave like a normal layout. Turns folded into other turns. Signs updated as we passed them. I was fairly certain that if I tried to retrace my steps alone, I’d end up somewhere I definitely wasn’t cleared for.

Hod hummed as she walked, hands clasped behind her back like this was a college campus tour instead of an underground facility that processed horrors for power.

“And this area,” she said brightly, pointing down a wide corridor with softer lighting, “is where most entry-level employees live! We try to keep it comfortable. Well, comfortable enough.”

The air felt warmer here. Not by much, but enough to notice. The walls were still sterile, still reinforced, but the lighting had a gentler tint, like someone had tried very hard to make it feel human.

“Dormitory rules are simple,” Hod continued. “No fighting in the halls. No unauthorized Abnormality materials. No tampering with facility systems. And, this one’s important, if something starts whispering to you at night, report it immediately.”

I stopped walking.

“…Whispering,” I repeated.

Hod paused, then turned back to me. “Metaphorically. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” I echoed, then kept walking.

She gestured toward a wide open space. Tables bolted to the floor. Vending machines humming softly. A long counter with built-in heating units.

“Kitchen and common area,” she announced. “Food’s provided. Nutrient-balanced. Not amazing, but it beats ration bars.”

I eyed a dispenser labeled SUPPLEMENTAL CALORIC GEL and frowned. “Do people… actually eat that?”

“Yes!” Hod said. “Sometimes on purpose!”

I decided not to ask follow-up questions.

“Showers are down that hall,” she added, pointing. “Laundry’s automated, just don’t put anything contaminated in the machines unless you want a very long lecture from the Safety Team.”

We passed rows of doors now, each marked with a number and a soft indicator light. Some green. Some red. A few dark.

“Red means occupied,” Hod explained cheerfully. “Green means vacant. Dark means… well. Temporarily unavailable.”

I noticed she didn’t elaborate.

She stopped in front of one door and tapped a small panel beside it. “Alright! This will be yours.”

She handed me a set of keys, actual metal keys, surprisingly heavy.

“Old-fashioned,” I remarked.

“Redundancy!” Hod said. “Digital systems fail sometimes. Keys are stubborn.”

I tested the weight in my palm. “Who else is in there?”

“Oh! Four others,” she said. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”

Soon enough. That phrase again.

“You’ll be sharing common space, of course,” she continued. “Individual beds. Lockers. Privacy screens. Try not to kill each other.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a rule?”

“It’s more of a guideline,” Hod admitted.

She stepped back, letting me open the door if I wanted, but I didn’t yet.

“So,” she said, clapping her hands lightly, “you’ve got some time before your first shift! I recommend settling in, unpacking, maybe resting. Orientation fatigue is very real.”

“And work starts when?” I asked.

“Later today,” she said. “You’ll be notified.”

I looked at the door again. Five people to a room. Underground. No windows.

“Any other rules I should know?” I asked.

Hod tilted her head, thinking. “Hmm. Don’t ignore alarms. Don’t get attached too quickly. And if you hear Angela’s voice unexpectedly, stop what you’re doing and listen.”

That one landed heavier than the rest.

“Got it,” I said.

She smiled, bright, earnest, just a little strained. “I’m really glad you’re here, Sam. I think you’ll… adapt.”

Adapt. Not thrive.

She gave a small wave, then turned and walked back down the corridor, her steps light, almost skipping.

I waited until she disappeared around a corner before unlocking the door.

The room was… surprisingly pleasant.

Not luxurious, Lobotomy Corporation didn’t do luxury, but thoughtfully put together in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental. Five beds, two of them bunk beds, were set neatly along the walls, each built solidly into the structure itself, each with a small locker beside it and a curtain that could be drawn closed. Above every locker hung a colored star, black, yellow, blue, red, and green. They didn’t explain anything, but they added a strange touch of warmth, like someone had tried to give order a personality.

The center of the room was open and lived-in. A low table sat in front of a curved couch that looked genuinely comfortable, not just technically usable. Across from it, a wall-mounted screen waited quietly, the sort you’d expect in a decent hotel room, nothing flashy, just enough to make downtime feel real.

Near one corner stood a proper table with chairs, clearly meant for shared meals rather than standing around with trays. A compact kitchen unit occupied the adjacent wall, modest but clean, included less as a luxury and more as an admission: sometimes, it was better to fend for yourself.

The bathroom was tucked away behind a partial wall, enclosed but not claustrophobic, its surfaces clean and well-maintained. A single workbench stood nearby, bolted down and practical, as if this room was expected to be used, not merely occupied.

Even the ventilation sounded different here, quieter, steadier. The air felt… calmer.

It wasn’t home.
But compared to the rest of the facility, it was the closest thing to kindness Lobotomy Corporation seemed willing to allow.

No personal touches yet. Whoever the others were, they weren’t here at the moment.

I set my bag down on the nearest empty bed and sat.

For the first time since entering the facility, there was nothing I had to respond to. No recruiter watching. No higher-up evaluating my reactions. No overly cheerful Sephirah explaining death statistics with a smile.

Just me. Underground. Waiting.

Somewhere above, the City kept grinding on, contracts, blood, noise.

Down here, things were quieter.

That somehow made it worse.

I leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the hum of a place that didn’t care whether I stayed long enough to get comfortable.

Work would start soon.

And I had a feeling this room wouldn’t stay empty for long.

I took the bottom-right bed.

No reason deeper than instinct. Corners mean fewer blind angles, and bottom bunks mean you don’t fall off if someone panics in their sleep. I dropped my bag on the mattress and nudged it with my foot until it sat flush against the frame. The bed creaked once, then settled, like it had already accepted me.

On the central table sat a neat stack of items, clearly placed there on purpose.

A slim, tablet-like device, matte gray, no visible buttons. A faint symbol pulsed on its surface when I touched it.

“Map and communicator,” I muttered. “Of course it’s one thing.”

Next to it lay several manuals. Real binders. Color-coded tabs. Someone had gone to great lengths to make sure I wouldn’t be able to say no one told me.

I sat down and flipped the first one open.

ABNORMALITY CLASSIFICATION AND RISK ASSESSMENT

Bold. Clinical. No drama.
I skimmed.

The letter in the name of an Abnormality represents its origin.

F - fairy tales, folklore, forgotten stories, urban legends.
T - traumatic experiences, phobias, intense emotions.
O - originating from beyond the City or even this reality. Unknown causes. Naturally occurring phenomena. Or manufactured by humans. A catch-all for anything that doesn’t fit elsewhere.

I stopped at Trauma and exhaled through my nose. That tracked.
The City produced trauma the way factories produced smoke. Of course someone figured out how to bottle it.

Then Original.
Catch-all. Beyond reality. Manufactured by humans.

“Great,” I murmured. “So even the rule-breakers have categories.”

I flipped the page.

Donation - Abnormalities created by clients. Donor Abnormalities are stored in unique, rounded extraction boxes to distinguish them from standard Abnormalities, which use square ones.

I blinked.

Funded Abnormalities.

“…You’re kidding,” I said quietly.

I read it again. No joke. Somewhere out there, someone had paid money to ADD this to the world.
The City really was allergic to restraint.

It only got worse after that.

The next classifications described shape, numbered 01 through 09:

Humanoid - human-like bodies or appendages, even when distorted.
Animalistic - resembling animals rather than humans.
Religious - alien to the world; tied to worship, belief, or human perception. Often incomprehensible.
Object - mostly stationary, object-like entities. Consequences of mismanagement were usually immediate.
Machine - mechanical entities capable of autonomous action, with long-term consequences shaped by managerial decisions.
Abstract - non-physical existences, dependent on perception, observation, or denied personhood.
Breaching Tool - tool-type Abnormalities capable of breaching containment.
Sin - categorized by the Seven Deadly Sins common within the City.
Tool-Type - non-breaching objects used for facility benefits, with varying results.

By the second designation, I stopped trying to picture them.

Another binder catalogued damage classifications.

Red. White. Black. Pale.

Red was simple, almost comforting in its honesty, blunt physical trauma, torn muscle, shattered bone, blood on the floor. The kind of damage you could see, measure, and scream through.

White was quieter. Psychological erosion. Fear, panic, intrusive thoughts worming their way in until the mind buckled. No wounds, no blood, just a steadily collapsing sense of self.

Black sat between them, or perhaps on top of both. A degradation of body AND mind, where pain fed madness and madness deepened the pain.

And then there was Pale.

Not injury. Not trauma. ERASURE.

Pale damage ignored flesh and ignored sanity. It shaved directly at what made you YOU, reducing life itself in proportion to what you had to lose. Strength, wisdom, experience, none of it mattered. In the face of Pale, everyone was equal.

I closed that binder slowly.

I reached for the next binder.

WORK PROTOCOLS - ENERGY EXTRACTION METHODS

The title alone told me this one would pretend to be humane.

Four tabs marked the edge, evenly spaced, color-coded. Someone wanted this to feel orderly. Reassuring. Like routine could make this safe.

I opened to the first.

INSTINCT

A work to satiate physiological needs.

I snorted quietly. That was doing a lot of work for a sentence with almost no words.

Physical contact required. Frequent contact. High bravery. High Fortitude.

So: touch the thing. Feed it. Clean it. Hold it together while it decided whether you were food or furniture.

“Pet the nightmare,” I muttered, skimming ahead. “Observed to Build character and Improve Physical Health.”

The next tab.

INSIGHT

Improve living conditions.

This one was colder. No touching. No bonding. Just observation, adjustment, optimization. Figure out what kind of cage made the monster least likely to scream.

Intellect. Prudence.

I imagined standing outside a containment unit, clipboard in hand, tweaking lights and temperature while something on the other side learned exactly how observant I was.

Increased Emotional Regulation, the manual promised.

Sure. That tracked. Nothing cleared the head like standing across from something that shouldn't exist and pretending to take notes.

ATTACHMENT came next.

I slowed down.

A work to satiate social needs.

That phrasing alone was a warning label.

Playmate. Companion. Limited interaction. Do not cross the line.

Temperance. Caution.

The manual didn’t spell it out, but it didn’t have to. This was the dangerous one. Not because the Abnormality would kill you immediately, but because it might not kill you immediately.

Because it might respond.

Trains the employee to understand the abnormalities better increasing Speed and Success rate of the work.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “At the cost of what, exactly?”

I didn’t like how long my eyes stayed on that page.

The last tab was black.

REPRESSION

A work to restrain existence.

Not needs. Not care. Not understanding.

Control.

Regulate emotions. Stifle desire. Decide how much of something was allowed to feel like itself before it needed to be shut down again.

Justice. Definite judgment. Rationality.

It was administration.

Attack speed. Movement speed.

“Of course it rewards efficiency,” I said, closing the binder partway. “The City always does.”

Four ways to interact with a nightmare.

Touch it. Study it. Befriend it. Silence it.

Pick wrong, and you die.
Pick right, and you get better, just enough to keep going.

I shut the manual and stacked it neatly back with the others. Someone had designed this like a skill tree. Like a game where stats went up and losses stayed off-screen.

E.G.O. followed. Equipment derived from Abnormalities themselves. Weapons and armor shaped by understanding, or misunderstanding, the thing they came from.

You kill the monster, the manual didn’t say, and then you wear what’s left.

I leaned back, rubbing my eyes. “This is a gamble where the house keeps the bodies.”

Eventually, I stood and opened my locker.

Inside hung a suit.

Not a uniform. Not really.
Long black coat layered over reinforced fabric, the silhouette heavy and ceremonial, like something meant to be worn into rather than put on. The material drank in the light instead of reflecting it. Subtle plating hid beneath the folds, too organic to be standard armor, too deliberate to be decoration. It looked less manufactured than condensed, as if someone had forced an idea of protection into physical form.

No rank markings. No flair.

A small Lob Corp emblem was stitched into the inside collar, almost apologetic. As if even they knew this wasn’t truly theirs.

Below it, embedded in dense foam, rested two pistols.

Twin frames. Long barrels. Asymmetrical lines that didn’t follow civilian logic. The metal was pale as bones with pattern dark like night on one gun, and vice-versa on the other, like it had cooled unevenly after being pulled out of something alive. As for the markings, they were those of the butterflies. The slides were skeletal, exposing more than they should, and yet nothing about them felt fragile. These weren’t flashy weapons. They didn’t beg to be admired. They felt final.

I lifted one.

The weight settled instantly, perfectly balanced, like my hand had been part of the blueprint. The mechanism moved with a quiet certainty when I checked it, no rattle, no slack. Whatever powered it wasn’t something you replaced with spare parts.

I understood, without knowing how, that these weren’t normal firearms.

The suit, I left hanging.

Not because it was bad.

Because it wasn’t mine.

I had my own, different cut, different history. Mine carried habits. It bent where I bent, bore the damage I’d already paid for. Wearing theirs would mean accepting a shape chosen for me, a role I hadn’t agreed to yet.

That felt premature.

So I only holstered the pistols.

They didn’t resist.

“That’s as far as we go,” I told the empty room.

I locked the locker, shouldered my bag, and glanced once more at the manuals on the table.

Then the communicator chimed softly.

REPORT TO TRAINING TEAM - SHIFT COMMENCEMENT

I stood.

Work was starting.

And whatever waited down there didn’t care which bed I’d chosen, or which suit I refused to wear.

Nothing happened at first.

That should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

My first hours passed in a blur of low-risk observation, procedural drills, and standing in corridors that felt longer every time I walked them. Training Team kept me busy without using me. Watch a monitor. Log a response time. Memorize a symbol set that changed depending on who was looking at it. Introducing me to threat levels (ZAYIN, TEETH, HE, WAW, ALEPH sorted from least to most dangerous)

The facility breathed around me, quiet alarms, distant thuds, the low vibration of something enormous being kept barely under control.

Then the communicator vibrated against my hip.

WORK ORDER RECEIVED
ABNORMALITY: T-01-54 - FORSAKEN MURDERER
WORK TYPE: INSTINCT

THREAT LEVEL: TEETH

I stopped walking.

Instinct.

Out of all the options, Insight, Attachment, Repression, that was the one I’d hoped never to see. The manual hadn’t been subtle about it.

Instinct Work requires direct physical proximity and contact.
Employee may be required to feed, clean, or otherwise maintain the Abnormality.
High risk of physical harm.

I swallowed.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

The map updated, drawing a path I didn’t want to follow. Red lines. Security checkpoints. A warning pulse every few seconds, like the system itself was reminding me I could still turn back even though I knew I couldn’t.

I started walking anyway.

The closer I got, the worse the air felt.

Containment units weren’t uniform. Some felt sterile. Some felt heavy. This one felt suffocating, like the corridor itself didn’t want to be near what it housed.

The door loomed ahead, thick glass, reinforced steel, layered locks. A monitor to the side displayed the Abnormality.

Forsaken Murderer.

He stared at the floor.

Didn’t blink.

His breathing came in heavy, uneven pulls, chest jerking as if every inhale hurt.

I felt sweat bead at my spine.

“Instinct work,” I muttered again. “Right.”

The panel chimed.

ENTER WHEN READY.

I wasn’t.

The door unlocked anyway.

The containment room was smaller than I expected.

Concrete floor. Drain in the center. No furniture. No restraints built into the walls.

Just him.

He sat on the floor, knees pulled in, head angled downward so sharply it looked painful. Gray skin stretched tight over bone, discolored like he’d never fully recovered from suffocation. His straitjacket was cream-colored once, now stained darker in places I didn’t want to identify. Black belts wrapped him in layers, each one buckled tight.

He shook.

Not violently. Not dramatically.

Constantly.

Heavy breaths dragged in and out of him, ragged, uneven, like his lungs didn’t trust each other anymore. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t react at all.

For a moment, just a moment, I wondered if this would be easier than I feared.

Then the communicator chimed.

BEGIN INSTINCT WORK.

I swallowed and stepped closer.

The smell hit me first.

Sweat, yes, but old sweat. Layered. Ground into skin. Under it, iron. Blood that had soaked in and never left. Beneath even that, something sharp and sour. Panic, maybe. Fear that had nowhere to go.

I crouched in front of him, cloth and small basin of water at my side. No gloves. No barrier.

“Alright,” I murmured, more to myself than him. “Let’s… let’s just do this.”

Procedure was clear.

Unfasten one strap at a time. Never fully remove the jacket.

My fingers hovered over the first buckle.

His breathing shifted.

It suddenly became more… attentive.

I unbuckled it.

The belt loosened with a soft snap.

His shoulders twitched.

I flinched, heart hammering, but he didn’t move beyond that. Didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.

I dipped the cloth into the water.

The water was clear.

I wrung it out and pressed it gently to his forearm.

His skin was cold.

Not corpse-cold. Just… underused. Like blood didn’t circulate properly anymore.

I wiped.

Gray residue smeared onto the cloth immediately.

My stomach lurched.

As I cleaned, his breathing began to change, slowly, subtly. Each time I wiped, he inhaled. Each time I pulled away, he exhaled.

Syncing.

I tried to speed up, to get ahead of it.

The belts creaked softly.

I froze.

They hadn’t been loose before.

Now they were… tighter.

Not by much.

Enough.

The communicator flashed briefly and voice came out.

PLEASE CONTINUE. THE SUBJECT MUST REMAIN CLEAN.

“Of course he must,” I whispered hoarsely.

I moved to his hands.

That’s when his fingers twitched.

Just a little.

Like he was remembering how to grab something.

My pulse spiked. “Hey, hey, it’s fine,” I said reflexively, stupidly. “I’m just-”

He lunged.

Not forward.

Up.

His head snapped toward me, mouth open, teeth bared.

For the first time, he looked at me.

His eyes were bloodshot, wide, unfocused, yet aware.

They were human… but not exactly.

He bit down on my forearm.

Pain exploded up my arm. I screamed, yanking back instinctively, but his teeth held. I felt skin break. Felt warmth spill.

He just breathed harder, faster, shaking violently now.

The belts tightened again, biting into his torso, forcing him back down, but his jaw stayed locked.

“Get, off!” I gasped, panic tearing loose. My free hand slammed against his shoulder uselessly.

The communicator chimed again.

STABILIZE THE SUBJECT BY HOLDING HIM FIRMLY.

I stared at the words in disbelief.

“You want me to what?!”

Another chime.

PLEASE CONTINUE.

Something in me cracked.

I wrapped my free arm around his shoulders and held him down.

His teeth released as suddenly as they’d bitten, leaving behind ragged pain and blood. His nails dug into my arm next, fingers clawing, scraping, leaving red lines that burned instantly.

I was breathing too fast now. Vision tunneling.

This isn’t real, part of my brain insisted. This is procedural. This is controlled.

It didn’t feel controlled.

It felt like kneeling over a man who had murdered someone and was remembering exactly how it felt.

As I wiped his neck, his mouth moved.

No sound came out.

I froze.

He didn’t look at me again. His gaze dropped back to the floor as if ashamed.

I swallowed hard.

His breathing spiked sharply.

PLEASE CONTINUE.

The belts constricted.

I wiped his mouth, hands shaking.

The water in the basin was no longer clear.

It was gray now. Opaque. Thick.

Every wipe made it darker.

My arm throbbed where he’d bitten me. My head felt distant, like I was watching someone else go through the motions.

When I paused, just to breathe, the communicator flashed again.

PLEASE CONTINUE.

I did.

I finished the last strap.

The moment the cloth left his skin, he began to shake harder.

But his breathing…

Slower.

Quieter.

Satisfied.

The belts loosened slightly.

The floor beneath him was spotless.

INSTINCT WORK COMPLETE.

The door sealed behind me. My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall, gasping, ribs screaming with every breath.

My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t unclench them.

The communicator chimed.

WORK RESULT: NORMAL
ENERGY EXTRACTION: ACCEPTABLE
EMPLOYEE STATUS: INJURED

I laughed. A thin, hysterical sound.

“Acceptable,” I repeated.

Medical staff patched me up without comment. No questions. No comfort. Just antiseptic and efficient hands.

The cafeteria smelled like hot metal and salt.

Not unpleasant. Just… artificial. Like someone had simulated food rather than cooked it.

I sat down harder than I meant to, tray clattering softly against the table. My hands were still shaking, subtle, but constant. Fine tremors running through my fingers like leftover static. I curled them into fists, then forced them open again.

Didn’t help.

I stared at the tray. Protein slab. Steamed vegetables that all shared the same shade of green. A cup of something beige that claimed to be soup.

I took a bite anyway.

Chewing felt optional. Swallowing felt like work.

Across from me, a guy I hadn’t noticed before cleared his throat. “First week?”

I looked up.

He was older than me. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Training Team armband. Tired eyes, but not hollow yet. That mattered.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

He snorted. “You’re holding your fork like it might attack you.”

I glanced down. He wasn’t wrong. I relaxed my grip slightly.

“Yeah,” I said. “First day.”

“Thought so.” He took a sip of his drink. “Instinct?”

My jaw tightened.

“…Yeah.”

He nodded once. No follow-up questions. A professional courtesy.

“That one mess you up?” he asked instead.

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Define mess.”

He smiled thinly. “Give it time.”

Another employee sat down beside him, a woman with short hair and a faint scar across her cheek. She eyed my arm where the sleeve was rolled back slightly, fresh bandage already darkening.

“Biter?” she asked.

I blinked. “How did you-”

“Lucky guess,” she said. “They like that.”

They.
Not he.

“So Forsaken isn’t the only one that likes biting?“

The answer to my question was so obvious they didn’t even bother to answer.

He snorted softly into his cup. “Could’ve been worse. At least it was only a TETH.”

I looked between them. “Only?”

“Statistically,” he said, unfazed. “Your odds were decent. Painful, sure, but not catastrophic. Management sometimes likes to throw a HE or worse at first-timers. Says it ‘builds character.’”

She rolled her eyes. “Or bodies.”

He shrugged. “Point is, you weren’t meant to die today. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened. Just… wasn’t likely.”

I swallowed another mouthful of tasteless food. My stomach protested, but I ignored it.

“I thought I was prepared,” I admitted quietly. “I read everything.”

The guy across from me let out a low laugh. “Yeah. So did we.”

“It’s different,” the woman added. “Reading tells you WHAT happens. Not how it feels when it’s your hands.”

My fingers twitched again, uninvited.

For a moment, none of us spoke. Just the hum of the machines. The faint clink of trays. Somewhere far off, an alarm chimed, and then cut out abruptly.

“Name?” the guy asked eventually.

“Samuel.”

“Mark,” he said, tapping his cup lightly. “That’s Rina.”

Rina gave a two-finger salute. “Welcome to the grinder.”

“Comforting,” I said.

She shrugged. “Better than lying.”

I pushed the tray away, appetite gone halfway through. My body felt heavy now, like the adrenaline had finally run out and taken everything else with it.

“How long does this feeling last?” I asked.

Mark tilted his head. “Which one?”

“The… buzzing,” I said. “Like I’m not fully in my body.”

Rina leaned back in her chair. “Couple hours. Sometimes days. Depends on the Abnormality. Depends on you.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

She smiled without humor. “We don’t do reassuring.”

Mark glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall. “You’ve got, what, fifteen minutes left?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Then eat,” he advised. “Even if it tastes like cardboard. You’ll need the energy.”

I forced myself to take another bite. This time, my jaw shook while chewing. I hated that they noticed.

“So,” Mark said casually, like we were discussing weather, “you planning to stick around?”

I looked at him. “You asking socially, or statistically?”

He considered that. “Both.”

I thought of the Forsaken Murderer. Of the way his breathing had slowed. Of the word clean whispered like a prayer.

“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly.

Rina nodded. “That’s the right answer.”

A chime sounded in my ear, soft, polite, merciless.

BREAK CONCLUDING. PREPARE FOR NEXT ASSIGNMENT.

My shoulders sagged.

Mark stood, tray in hand. “That’s us.”

Rina rose too, stretching. “You did fine, rookie.”

I laughed weakly. “You don’t know that.”

She paused, then met my eyes. “You came back out.”

That was apparently enough.

They left together, footsteps fading into the corridors. I lingered a moment longer, staring down at my hands.

The shaking had lessened. Not gone.

I wiped my palms on my pants and stood.

Thirty minutes had passed.

Somewhere deeper in the facility, something else was waiting.

And despite everything, despite the pain, the disgust, the quiet horror, I found a disturbing truth settling in my chest.

I’d survived the first one.

That thought scared me more than the Abnormality ever had.

I barely left the canteen before the bracelet chimed again.

I froze.

For half a second, just half, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard it. Like ignoring an alarm would somehow make it stop being real.

It chimed again. More insistently.

WORK ORDER RECEIVED
ABNORMALITY: O-05-76 – ALL-AROUND HELPER
WORK TYPE: REPRESSION

THREAT LEVEL: HE

I frowned. “Repression…?”

I’d read the manual. Twice. Slowly. It still hadn’t clicked in a way that felt actionable. Instinct was touch. Insight was observation. Attachment was… worse.

Repression felt abstract. Bureaucratic. Like something a sadist invented after discovering clipboards.

I stood, wiped my hands on my pants, and headed out.

All-Around Helper’s corridor was cleaner than most. Brighter, too. White walls. Polished floor. Everything smelled faintly of detergent and ozone.

That figures, I thought. The neat ones are always the creepiest.

I took out the summarized version of the manual and read as I walked.

REPRESSION WORK:
Deny the Abnormality fulfillment of its core desire.
No threats. No damage.
Strict procedural enforcement.

That… didn’t help.

I stopped outside the containment door and skimmed the instructions on the work next door.

Corrective Oversight Audit.

I blinked. Then read it again.

“…You don’t hurt it,” I muttered. “You just… drown it in rules.”

The realization made my stomach twist in a completely different way than before.

Instinct work had been violating in a physical sense. This was something else. Cleaner. Sharper. Like taking a soul apart with office policy.

The door unlocked.

It snapped to attention the moment I stepped inside.

Short. Boxy. Barely humanoid. A metal body with rounded edges, red circular eyes glowing with what I could only describe as terminal optimism. A permanent smile painted on its face, cheerful enough to feel intentional… Not to mention the massive size.

Terminal optimism, rendered in metal.

“HELLO!” it chimed.
“HOW MAY I HELP YOU TODAY :)”

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s start.”

I brought up the clipboard interface.

“Clean the floor.”

The Helper surged forward instantly, too fast, too eager. Panels slid open. Long, segmented arms unfolded from its sides, each ending in multi-purpose tools that definitely weren’t designed with human proximity in mind.

“But don’t disturb existing dust patterns.”

It stopped.

Not slowed.
Stopped.

Mid-extension, one arm locking in place less than a meter from my chest.

“ACKNOWLEDGED :)”

The motors whined, high, strained, like it was holding its breath.

I didn’t laugh. Just noted it and moved on.

“Optimize efficiency,” I added.
“Do not exceed baseline movement speed.”

The Helper recalibrated.

Its limbs retracted a fraction, then extended again, slower this time. Too slow. The blades scraped lightly against the floor, sending up sparks. One arm overcorrected, swinging wide.

slice.

Pain flashed white-hot across my forearm.

I hissed and staggered back as blood welled instantly through the fabric of my sleeve.

“ACKNOWLEDGED :)”

The arm froze mid-air, blade trembling.

I stared at the cut. Then at the Helper.

So it could hurt me. Good to know.

“Assist proactively,” I said, teeth clenched now.
“Do not act without authorization.”

The Helper’s head tilted a few degrees.

Just enough to feel wrong.

“ACKNOWLEDGED :)”

The internal systems ramped up, whirring, clicking, overlapping diagnostic tones tripping over one another. It tried to move. Stopped itself. Tried again. Arms extended, retracted. Wheels rolled forward half a meter, then reversed so hard they screeched against the floor.

Another arm jerked outward unexpectedly.

This time it clipped my shoulder.

Not deep, but heavy. Enough to knock the air out of me and slam me into the wall.

I exhaled hard. Braced a hand on the wall and straightened.

“Continue,” I said.

Ding.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Ding.
ACKNOWLEDGED.

The logs flooded the interface, no completions, just endless confirmations stacking like accusations.

I stepped closer, ignoring the blood soaking my sleeve. Grabbed one of its arms. Adjusted it manually. Then undid the adjustment. Paused the action. Rewound it.

Again.

Ding-ack-ding-ack-

The Helper jittered now, movements small and polite, like it was afraid of being wrong in any direction. Its smile never changed. The eyes stayed bright.

But the whine inside its chassis climbed higher. Strained. Desperate.

“Please clarify acceptable help parameters :)” it asked softly.

I wiped sweat, and blood, off my brow, hands shaking, not from fear but from the pressure. The constant contradictions pressed in on me too, the need to monitor every micro-movement so it wouldn’t suddenly decide to help me to death.

“Clarify acceptable parameters,” I repeated back to it. “No.”

The Helper obeyed.

Every action invalidated itself before completion. Tools hovered millimeters from surfaces. Arms expanded, then locked, then violently retracted. Once, a blade unfolded too far and gouged the wall beside my head, spraying concrete dust across my face.

I didn’t move.

I just kept issuing tiny corrections. Never resolving anything. Never letting it escape the maze.

This was hell for trying.

Finally, the interface chimed.

REPRESSION WORK COMPLETE.

RESULT: GOOD.

ENERGY EXTRACTION: EXCEPTIONAL.

EMPLOYEE STATUS: INJURED

The Helper powered down into standby, smile still perfectly fixed.

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR GUIDANCE :)”

I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, arm throbbing, shoulder bruised.

The Helper’s smile hadn’t changed once.

I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I’d found this easier to work with than the alternative.

I stepped out of the containment unit feeling… hollow. Drained in a way I couldn’t quite place. My body was fine. My head buzzed faintly. Medic team half-assed their job… again...

That’s it, I thought. That’s enough for today.

I turned toward the Training Team wing, already imagining my bed, the quiet hum of the dorms, maybe, if I was lucky, sleep.

The corridor outside the containment unit felt longer on the way out.

Not physically, architecturally it was the same sterile stretch of concrete and light, but my body disagreed. Every step sent a small, irritating protest up from my ribs, from my forearms, from places I didn’t remember being injured in, but definitely remembered now. Nothing serious. The kind of bruises that bloom later, like delayed receipts.

I rolled my shoulders once, experimentally. Bad idea. I hissed, then exhaled through my nose and kept walking.

Fine, I thought. That’s done. Food, work, horrors beyond comprehension, check, check, check.
All that was left was to make it back to the department, log out, maybe sit somewhere that didn’t hum like it was judging me.

My bracelet chose that exact moment to beep.

Not a loud alarm. Just the polite, synthetic chirp of authority clearing its throat.

I stopped mid-step.

“No,” I said aloud, to no one. Then, quieter, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The display flickered to life around my wrist, orange text scrolling with the same cheerful neutrality as always.

NEW ASSIGNMENT
TARGET: T-01-54 - FORSAKEN MURDERER
PRIORITY: IMMEDIATE

I stared at it.

I didn’t swear. I didn’t sigh. I just closed my eyes for a second too long, standing there in the hallway like a statue someone had forgotten to remove.

Finally, my brain had been saying not ten seconds ago. It’s over.

Apparently the Facility had heard that and taken it personally.

I opened my eyes, looked down the corridor I’d been walking toward, my department, my locker, the illusion of rest, and then looked at the arrow on the display, already rotating to point me the other way.

Of course it was the Forsaken Murderer.

Of course it wasn’t optional.

“Right,” I muttered, turning around. “Why not.”

The walk there was a blur. I remembered fluorescent lights passing overhead, the floor markings changing color, a pair of agents moving past me in the opposite direction with the hollow look of people who had also been lied to by the concept of END of shift. Someone nodded at me. I might have nodded back. Hard to say.

The bracelet guided me the last few meters like a leash.

[LOG ENTRY: ASSIGNMENT COMPLETE]

I was sitting on a bench outside my department, forearms resting on my knees, staring at the floor.

The bracelet was dark again.

I wasn’t bleeding. That was new. My hands shook faintly, the kind of tremor that came from adrenaline with nowhere left to go. My coat was rumpled, one sleeve tugged down farther than before, as if I’d adjusted it without thinking.

I had a vague impression of time having passed incorrectly. Too fast. Too slow. Both. The kind of work that didn’t leave images so much as pressure, like someone had leaned on my thoughts and then stepped away.

I inhaled. Counted. Exhaled.

Done, I told myself. Now it’s actually done.

Around me, the department was winding down. Agents moved with end-of-day laziness, logging reports, trading quiet remarks. Someone laughed, a real laugh, surprisingly human. The hum of the facility softened, or maybe I was just too tired to hear the edges of it anymore.

I leaned back against the wall and let my head thump lightly against it once.

Tomorrow, I thought distantly, was a problem for tomorrow.

Today had already gotten enough of me.

By the time I finally made it back to the department, my legs were running on just habit and spite. The corridor opened up into familiar territory: the orange accents, the cleaner air, the low background hum tuned just a little softer than the rest of the Facility. It felt like stepping into a different pressure zone.

And Hod was waiting.

Just standing there near the central terminal, hands folded behind her back, posture a little too neat to be casual. The orange armband caught the light when she shifted, and when she noticed me, her face lit up immediately.

“Oh! You’re back,” she said, genuinely bright. “I was just about to check your status.”

I stopped a few steps in, suddenly aware of how I probably looked, creased uniform, posture slightly off, expression somewhere between blank and frayed. I straightened anyway. Reflex.

“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded rougher than I expected. “Assignments complete.”

She glanced at her interface, then back at me, eyes scanning quickly… thoroughly.

“Well,” she said, smiling wider, “you did very well today.”

I blinked. Once. Then again.

“I-” I paused, recalibrating. Compliments weren’t part of the expected end-of-day protocol. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” Hod continued, stepping a little closer. Her tone softened, but the energy didn’t drop. “First day, multiple Abnormalities, no critical incidents, and exceptional energy yield on one of your works. That’s not common.”

She tilted her head, studying me with open curiosity. “You should be proud. You are a good employee.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

“I just followed the manuals,” I said. Which was true. Mostly. “And the instructions.”

Hod laughed lightly. Not mocking. If anything, it sounded relieved. “Most people say that,” she replied. “Most people also don’t make it this far.”

That made my stomach tighten.

She must have noticed, because she raised a hand quickly, palm out. “Ah, don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not trying to scare you. It’s just… honesty.” Her smile turned a little wry. “This place filters people. Fast.”

Filters.

The word stuck.

She glanced at the terminal again, then back to me, lowering her voice just a fraction which was thoughtful. “A lot of new hires don’t finish their first rotation. Some freeze up. Some push too hard. Some misunderstand what we’re asking of them.”

Her eyes met mine, steady and warm. “You didn’t.”

I shifted my weight, suddenly very aware of the faint aches still humming under my skin. “I’m not sure I understood everything,” I admitted. “Some of it still doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s normal,” she said immediately. “If it made sense right away, I’d be worried.”

That earned a faint, involuntary huff from me. She noticed, and seemed pleased by it.

“There’s something else,” Hod added, more quietly now. “The data shows compliance, yes. Results, yes. But there’s also… adaptability.” She hesitated, as if choosing the least alarming phrasing. “You respond well to constraint. To layered instruction.”

That was… oddly specific.

Before I could ask what she meant, she waved it off with a cheerful motion. “Anyway! That’s analysis talk. You don’t need to worry about that tonight.”

Tonight. As if time here behaved normally.

She clasped her hands together once, decisive. “You’re done for the day. Officially.” Then, with a small nod toward the corridor leading away from the department, “You should go rest in the dorms.”

Rest sounded theoretical.

“Your roommates are already in there,” she continued. “Don’t worry. They’re… manageable.” She smiled again. “I made sure.”

I didn’t ask how she defined manageable.

As I turned to leave, she called after me. “Oh, and Sam?”

I stopped, looked back.

She hesitated for just a heartbeat. As if sincerity was pushing past procedure.

“Good work today,” she said again. “Really. Not everyone gets told that. I wanted you to hear it.”

I nodded. This time, I didn’t force it.

“Good night, Hod.”

“Good night,” she replied. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

I walked away down the corridor toward the dorms, her orange-lit department receding behind me. The aches were still there. The exhaustion too. But underneath it all, something else had settled in, quiet, steady.

I had made it through day one.

Apparently, that already meant something.

I unlocked the dorm door, and for half a second my brain just… stalled.

I’d braced myself for silence. Maybe people asleep already, exhausted in their own corners. Anything that matched the rest of the Facility.

Instead, I walked into noise.

Not loud noise, nothing that would trip alarms, but the low, casual kind. Talking over each other. A laugh cut off halfway through. The clink of utensils. Someone complaining about a machine taking too long. Someone else responding with something sarcastic enough to earn a snort.

Four people were just… there. Like this was normal.

I stood in the doorway longer than I meant to, hand still on the frame, trying to reconcile what I was seeing. The room was not messy, not sterile. Chairs pulled at odd angles. A table with a few trays and cups scattered across it. Lockers along one wall, some open, some shut. The air smelled faintly of detergent, warm food, and metal that had been scrubbed too many times.

They were mid-conversation.

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t even my fault,” one of them was saying. “If it starts screaming when you log the report, that’s a system issue.”

“That’s what you said last time,” another replied. “And the time before that.”

“Yeah, and I was right then too.”

I cleared my throat.

Four heads turned toward me almost in sync.

For a heartbeat, nobody spoke. Then the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding snapped.

“Oh,” the guy closest to the table said. He looked relaxed in a way that felt illegal here. “You must be the new one.”

“Uh,” I said. My mouth felt dry again. “Yeah. Samuel.”

“Nice,” he replied easily. “Welcome.”

That seemed to unlock the rest of them.

The one leaning back in his chair straightened and gave me a quick once-over, not exactly in a hostile way, he was just observing me just like I was observing him. He had a young face, clean jaw, light brows over eyes that looked calm and faintly amused, like he was always watching something a step ahead. His hair was short, neat, nothing flashy. He smiled, small but confident.

“I’m Juro,” he said. “Safety team.”

He didn’t add anything else, like the role spoke for itself.

Next to him, a taller guy with long, messy hair glanced up from the counter. His face was narrower, cheekbones sharp enough to give him a permanently serious look. Straight nose. Focused eyes that didn’t miss much, even now. He gave a brief nod instead of a smile.

“Marian,” he said. “Information.”

Then he went right back to what he was doing, checking something on a screen, already half elsewhere.

The guy sitting cross-legged on one of the beds looked up last. He had a rounder face, soft lines, friendly eyes that lit up immediately. Short brown hair, tidy without trying too hard. He grinned like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Timothy,” he said. “Control team. You made it.”

Finally, the fourth one, the one I hadn’t immediately clocked as talking, set aside a clipboard and stood. He had a softer, slightly oval face, nothing airbrushed about him. Black rectangular glasses perched low on his nose. His eyes looked tired, distant, like his thoughts were never fully in the room. His hair fell in layered waves, longer in the back, framing his face without intention.

He didn’t rush to speak.

“I’m Thomas,” he said after a moment. “Training team. Captain.”

“Uh. Nice to meet you,” I said, suddenly aware of how stiff I sounded.

“Same,” Juro replied. “Come in. And close the door.”

I stepped inside fully, shutting the door behind me with a soft click that felt final in a way I didn’t hate.

Up close, I became very aware of myself.

My “uniform“ was darkened in patches with sweat. My sleeves were stiff in places. There was dried blood at my cuff, and… basically my whole body.

None of them reacted immediately.

That, more than anything, told me they were used to this.

“So,” Tim said, hopping off the bed and stretching. “First day?”

Not sure why he asked since it was obvious, but I nodded.

“And you’re still walking,” Juro added. “Good sign.”

Marian snorted quietly. “For now.”

Thomas watched me for another second, then gestured vaguely toward the open space. “You can drop your stuff wherever. Lockers are first come, first serve, but nobody’s territorial.”

“Yet,” Juro said.

“I’m making something to eat,” Marian said, already turning back toward the kitchenette. “Anyone want something while I’m at it?”

“Depends,” Tim replied. “Is it edible this time?”

“No promises.”

They went back to talking, just folding me into the background like I’d always been there. Complaints about procedures. A joke about time compression making a day feel like three and a minute at the same time. Someone mentioning an abnormality acting up and almost killing him earlier sounding irritated rather than scared.

I stood there, absorbing it.

This wasn’t relief exactly. It was… grounding. Like my nervous system didn’t know what to do with normal conversation after everything else, but it was trying.

Thomas finally spoke again, softer this time. “You okay?”

I thought about lying. About saying yes automatically.

“I think so,” I said instead.

“That counts,” he replied.

There was a beat. Then Tim looked at me again, really looked this time.

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyebrows lifted.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Before you do literally anything else, go shower.”

I blinked. “What?”

He pointed. “You’re covered in sweat.”

Then he squinted. “And blood.”

Juro leaned in, took a glance, and winced. “Yeah, that’s… wow.”

“All-Around Helper,” I muttered.

“Still,” Tim said cheerfully. “Shower. Now. We can smell you from here.”

“That’s not true,” Juro said.

“It absolutely is.”

Marian glanced over his shoulder. “Please,” he added flatly. “Before I finish cooking.”

They were all smiling.

“Bathroom’s in that corner there,” Tim continued, already turning away while still pointing to the bathroom. “Fresh towels in the cabinet. Welcome home.”

I stood there for a second longer, then nodded and headed for the showers, the sound of their conversation picking back up behind me like I’d never left.