One hundred and eighty minutes had passed since Simel laid eyes on the hanging body of Silla, his roommate. After witnessing the corpse, the boy threw himself beneath the rough blankets of his bed, trying to forget what he had seen in the room next door.

  The cold face, with a relaxed expression and a trace of drool at the mouth; clear, empty eyes devoid of life; skin as pale as a white sheet; and the putrid odor released from the intestines. A human life, equal to his own, torn apart like a paper cloth by the hands of the hell that is to come.

  He closed his eyes to rest but could not succeed.

  “Deep breaths.” he says, taking large portions of air into his lungs and emptying them slowly.

  “Visualize the amygdala, section it and divide the emotions you want to feel. Think of them as a stone painted with different colors.”

  He stops, taking a pause before continuing the one sided going speech, clenching his grip on the sheet trying to keep calm.

  “Now think of a big tree with hundreds of branches, that is the prefrontal cortex. Now imagine that in the trunk of that tree there is a hole… put the stone… into the hole… ugh…”

  With a jolt he throws himself out from under the blankets, onto the cold floor.

  “HURK!”

  With his stomach turned upside down acidic taste pours out of his mouth as he ejects a wave of vomit.

  The acidic substance spread across the floor, forming a wide puddle of stomach waste. A few seconds after the surge, the stream weakened more and more until it was completely exhausted. Within moments, all that remained was the pool of vomit and a thin strand of drool stretching from the corner of Simel’s mouth.

  “…Shit…” the young man says as he begins pounding his fist and elbows against the ground.

  “Not… it’s not fair… it’s not fair… it’s not fair… it’s not fair…”

  He hits it again and again.

  The speed of the strikes increases with each hit, causing Simel knuckles to start bleeding from the concussion which only made him scream harder. “NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR.“

  Simel forcefully slaps his hands onto the floor, pressing down with his palms, lifting his head upward with his neck.

  “UNFAIR!”

  SPAM!

  With force, the boy drives his forehead into the puddle of vomit, hitting the floor. The blow is so strong that a single strike is enough to make his eyes shut tight.

  Slowly, he opens his eyes…seeing…two black silhouettes arguing with each other… He watches them from below, looking up.

  Confused, Simel tries to stand up but realizes he is already in an upright posture, standing at full leg extension,its the young man size to be greatly diminished.

  The boy tries to approach the two tall shadows, but his body seems to respond only faintly, as if held back by something.

  Meanwhile, one of the two dark humanoid figures places what appears to be its hands around the other’s neck. Simel tries to get closer again… but the more the distance closes, the more his vision blurs, more and more.

  Exhausted,the eye shut to rest, and when he opens them… he sees a light on the ceiling. He immediately recognizes it as the lamp in his room.

  “That… dream… again…” he says with a confused look, yet his tone seems much more relaxed than before. He shifts his hips to the left, away from the puddle of vomit, and places his hands on the floor to push himself up.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  As he stands, his mind feels far more sober and clear-headed. His heart no longer races at a thousand beats per minute; on the contrary, it is as plane as a sheet, almost a death beat.

  Knock knock

  At the sudden knock on the door, Simel calmly turns toward it and rests his hand on the knob, opening it.

  Behind the door stood another woman, dressed very differently from the one during the interrogation. She was a girl only slightly older than Simel, holding in her hands a neatly folded uniform.

  “Get dressed.”

  With a lightning-fast motion, she throws the clothes at Simel and shuts the door. Everything happens so quickly that the boy barely manages to catch them.

  “Around here, apparently, saying good morning is optional.”

  Simple words said loud enough to be heard from the other side.

  After a few seconds, Simel steps out of the room wearing the new uniform. A long black fabric coat with silver buttons that reached a bit past his ankles, silver-colored gloves, black pants also with buttons, and boots with thick, heavy soles.

  Along with the clothes, there was also a sterling silver arm guard; dense and solid, with an engraving of an amphitheater on its surface. Simel placed it on his arm, and at that exact moment, the silver piece adhered to the fabric of the uniform, almost like a magnet. Observing it, he began to perceive a peculiar mechanism within it.

  He clenched his fist, and the curves leading toward his wrist extended.

  SWISH!

  Sharpening, they formed a broad dagger blade.

  “A system activated only through Sciarra, allowing the use of a blade similar to that of an ox-tongue blade, granting functionalities akin to a katar, but with increased mobility.” the boy thought to himself, stroking the edge of the weapon in fascination.

  Taking a relaxed breath, the tip of the blade began to dull again, returning to a simple arm guard.

  “Weirdo.” says the young girl who had handed him the clothes. “Follow me.”

  And without waiting any longer, she begins walking down the long corridor. In a few moments, they finish the dark tunnel and pass beyond, entering the interrogation room.

  “I… I don’t really like passing through here…” Simel says, a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Swallow the horse and step over it; you’ll be coming through here very often,” the girl replies cynically. Her tone irritates Simel, though he tries to brush it off, as they move past the interrogation room and reach the main camp.

  As he walks through the camp, Simel can’t help but notice the low local population.

  “Where are the soldiers, and the other medics?” he asks.

  “Areo and his soldiers left an hour ago. How did you not hear the commotion? Right now, you’re the only qualified medic. The other candidates have been sent to smaller outposts to improve their skills, or sent back to their regions to face the local supreme court.”

  The mere thought of the fate of his companions makes Simel’s heart ache deeply, yet the name Areo makes his whole body boil with hatred.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” he asks, now slightly agitated.

  But the girl rolls her eyes upward and huffs.

  “So many questions… You’ll have to wait for the wounded to return, and in the meantime, examine some corpses we’ve collected to study the Sciarra. The dead have no rights, so do as you please with them.”

  They reach a medium-sized tent. Entering it, Simel can’t help but appreciate the upgrade from the small room where he had spent the past nights.

  “Sleep here and do as you wish,” the girl continues, yawning. “If you have problems, you can find me in the next tent, but try not to have any—or it’s more work for me. Bye-bye.”

  Even before finishing her last words, the girl is practically already leaving, leaving Simel alone in his new home.

  “Severe acromotrichia caused by stress, passive-aggressive and direct tone. Isolating tendencies but responsible. What a person.”

  Simel remains still, staring at the tent’s exit for a few seconds before turning to his right and noticing a table covered with a cloth, which concealed a humanoid shape.

  “Let’s see these corpses.”

  Approaching the body, Simel removes the dark veil. His eyes widened in shock, under his gaze… a brown haired young man with pale skin, brown hairs and clean empty eyes...