CHAPTER THREE — RECREATION

  The knock came sharp and sudden.

  All three stiffened—but it wasn’t the same fear as before. Not the kind that locked their lungs. This one was familiar. Expected.

  The door slid open with a low hiss.

  A guard stood there. Uniform clean. Visor down. Hands visible at their sides.

  “Yard time,” the guard said, voice flat. “One-thirty.”

  Keil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Rin’s shoulders lowered just a fraction. Leaf shifted where he stood, tension still wound tight beneath his skin.

  The white-haired girl watched them more than she watched the guard.

  “Line up.”

  Rin stood first, then paused, glancing back at the white-haired girl.

  “Um—okay,” she said softly, lowering her voice. “This is… yard time.”

  The girl tilted her head slightly.

  “It’s not outside,” Keil added quickly, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Just—something like it.”

  He hesitated, then tried again. “There’s… a schedule. Every day’s the same. It helps. You’ll see.”

  The words didn’t mean much to her. Outside. Schedule. They passed through her like unfamiliar shapes. But the way they were spoken—careful, practiced—was enough. She slid off the bed and moved to where Rin stood, close but not touching. not touching.

  They were led out of their rooms in pairs.

  The hallway was long and narrow, the ceiling low enough that She felt like it pressed down on her lungs. White panels lined the walls, interrupted by sealed doors marked only with symbols and numbers. Rooms. Bath Area. Research Wing. Other paths branched off into dimmer corridors, the lights there lowered—muted on purpose. Restricted.

  A single guard stood near the front, rifle slung casually, as if this was routine. As if they were.

  She noticed the others then—four more children and teenagers lined up just like them. No one spoke. Shoes scuffed softly against the floor when the guard gestured forward.

  They moved.

  As they passed a glass-covered panel on the wall, her eyes snagged on it.

  A map.

  Simple. Flat. Color-coded lines branching outward like veins. Sections labeled in small, clinical text. And near the center, a blinking marker.

  YOU ARE HERE.

  The white-haired girl slowed without meaning to.

  Rin noticed.

  “Oh..” Rin whispered, leaning slightly closer, careful not to draw the guard’s attention. “I’ll explain later. Not now.”

  She nodded, even though she didn’t really understand. She wanted to ask. Wanted to speak. The words sat heavy in her chest, unused. Not broken—just… never practiced. Even above ground. Even in the alleyways.

  Rin kept talking anyway, softly, like she didn’t mind carrying both sides of the conversation.

  They stopped.

  Two thick doors stood ahead, already sliding open with a low mechanical hiss. Light spilled through—not harsh, not white. Warmer. Wider.

  The air changed.

  She stepped forward—and froze.

  Grass.

  Not dirt. Not concrete. Not trash-strewn pavement slick with something she never liked to identify.

  Grass.

  It was green in a way she’d never seen before. Too even

  They were told they could spread out.

  Not far—just enough that it counted.

  Rin stayed glued near the white-haired girl anyway, as if she stepped too far, the floor might disappear or something. She rocked on her heels, eyes flicking up at the fake sky again.

  “It’s… kinda pretty,” she said, then immediately frowned. “But, um. Yeah. It’s not real.”

  She glanced at the white-haired girl quickly. “I mean—don’t freak out. It’s just… fake-real. The doctors say it helps. One of them called it, like, ‘mental balance stuff.’” She scrunched her nose. “They also called me ‘maladjusted’ once, so.”

  Keil let out a quiet laugh. “They called me ‘noncompliant.’ I thought it sounded cool.”

  Rin snorted. “It does not.”

  Keil crouched and pressed his palm into the grass like he was testing it, then nodded to himself. “Still though,” he said, standing back up, “beats the room. I don’t care if it’s fake. Fake grass is still grass.”

  He looked at the white-haired girl, smiling a little brighter. “We’re still underground, though. Like—really underground. This is just the top part they let us see.”

  Rin nodded quickly. “Yeah. We don’t ever go up-up.”

  She paused, then pointed vaguely back the way they came. “The map on the wall? That thing shows everywhere. Our rooms, the baths, this place…” Her voice dropped without her meaning to. “And the bad parts.”

  The white-haired girl might not have noticed—but Rin did. She lowered her voice anyway.

  “When the lights on the map are dim,” she said, “that’s where the doctors are. The labs. The places they don’t like us looking at.” She chewed on her sleeve. “You really, really don’t wanna go there.”

  A sharp whistle cut through the air.

  Rin flinched a little before she caught herself.

  “Okay—so,” she hurried, pointing toward the open space, “yard time rules are dumb but easy. You can walk. Or sit. Or just… stand. Don’t run too fast. Don’t touch the walls. Don’t try to climb anything.”

  Keil leaned closer to the white-haired girl, dropping his voice like he was telling a secret. “If you don’t know what to do,” he said, “just copy Rin. She’s played here a lot more than us.”

  “Hey!” Rin protested, but she smiled anyway.

  Keil shrugged, confidence easy, almost playful—like he was brushing it off, even if he wasn’t.

  “She’s good at this part,” he said.

  He tilted his head toward Rin. “What I mean is... she mostly stays here at the Yard.”

  There was a beat, then, quieter—

  “It’s how she copes.”

  The fake clouds drifted overhead—looping again, just a little too perfect.

  And for a while, yard time wasn’t fun.

  But it wasn’t punishment either.

  Just something in between—where kids were allowed to pretend, even when the place itself never stopped watching.

  Keil noticed it a little late.

  He’d been half-watching Rin explain things in pieces—small, careful bits—when his eyes flicked instinctively across the yard again. A habit. Counting. Checking.

  Leaf wasn’t there.

  Not near the others. Not lingering at the edge like before.

  Keil’s gaze tracked farther, past the kids running in uneven circles, past the ones pacing the fence like it might suddenly change its mind and open.

  There.

  Under the fake tree.

  Leaf sat with his back against the trunk, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loose around them like he hadn’t decided whether to bolt or stay. The shade wasn’t real—just darker lighting projected in a perfect oval—but he stayed in it anyway. Always did. His gray eyes stayed low, watching feet instead of faces, jaw set like he was bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet.

  The white-haired girl followed Keil’s gaze without realizing it.

  She stared.

  Not in the way the doctors stared. Not sharp or measuring. Just… long. Quiet. Like she was trying to understand how someone could be alone in a place this full.

  Keil caught it.

  “Oh,” he said softly, like he didn’t want Leaf to hear even from across the yard. He scratched the back of his neck, a little awkwardly. “Yeah. That’s… that’s Leaf.”

  He hesitated, then added, simpler, like he was explaining something obvious. “He’s always been like that.”

  The white-haired girl tilted her head slightly. Her eyes didn’t leave Leaf.

  “He doesn’t really—” Keil waved a vague hand, searching for the right words, “—do groups. Or talking. Or… people, I guess.”

  A pause. Then, quieter. “It’s not ‘cause he doesn’t like us. It’s just safer for him. Over there.”

  Rin glanced toward the tree, her mouth pulling into something small and sad. “Doctors say he’s ‘difficult,’” she muttered, kicking at the turf. “But he just… gets scared fast.”

  Keil nodded. “Yeah. And when he gets scared, things get messy.” He didn’t say biting or fights or restraints. He didn’t need to.

  The white-haired girl’s fingers curled into the hem of her sleeve.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  She didn’t understand the words fully—not all of them—but she understood the shape of it. Understood the way Leaf’s shoulders stayed tight. The way he flinched when laughter got too loud. The way being alone could feel like armor.

  For a second, she took a small step in his direction.

  Not much. Just enough to notice.

  Keil caught it instantly. He didn’t stop her—but he lowered his voice even more. “Hey. It’s okay. He likes space.” A beat. Then, gentle, reassuring, “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  She froze, then nodded faintly, even though she wasn’t sure why.

  Across the yard, Leaf shifted under the tree, eyes flicking up—just once—before dropping again. He didn’t come closer.

  But he didn’t leave either.

  .......

  Rin lingered a little longer than she needed to.

  She kept glancing between Keil and the white-haired girl, like she was trying to decide if it was okay to leave them alone. Her fingers twisted together, nervous in that familiar, kid way—wanting to help, wanting to stay, but also wanting to breathe.

  “My friends are over there,” she said eventually, nodding toward a cluster of kids near the far fence. They weren’t really playing—more like trading stories and pacing—but it was still something. “I’ll… um. I’ll be back, okay?”

  The white-haired girl stiffened instantly.

  Her eyes snapped to Rin, wide. Her shoulders drew up like she’d been braced for this without knowing it. The grip on her sleeves tightened.

  Keil noticed right away.

  “Hey,” he said softly, quick but calm, before the fear could spiral. “She’s not leaving-leaving. Just… over there.” He tilted his head so the girl could see Rin’s destination clearly. “Same yard. Same time.”

  Rin smiled, small and reassuring. “I promise. I won’t go far.” Then, quieter, like a secret meant only for the white-haired girl, “I always come back.”

  That seemed to help—just a little.

  Rin hesitated once more, then turned and jogged off, her steps light against the artificial turf. She blended into the other kids easily, laughter flickering in and out like something borrowed.

  And just like that—

  It was only them.

  The white-haired girl stayed frozen for a few seconds after Rin left, eyes darting between the yard entrance, the guards, and the other children. Like she was checking for danger, she didn’t know how to name.

  Keil didn’t rush her.

  He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that took practice. He’d learned that too much movement felt like pressure.

  “It’s okay if you wanna sit,” he said, nodding toward the ground near the fake tree—not Leaf’s tree, but close enough to feel anchored. “Or stand. Or… just stay like that.”

  She didn’t move at first.

  Then, slowly, she lowered herself onto the turf. The grass bent under her weight and sprang back too perfectly. She pressed her fingers into it like she didn’t trust it not to disappear.

  Keil sat a little distance away. Close—but not Rin-close. He gave her space to breathe.

  “It’s weird,” he said casually, staring up at the looping clouds. “First few times out here, I thought… maybe if I stared long enough, the sky would mess up.” A faint smile. “Like a glitch.”

  The white-haired girl looked up too.

  She watched the clouds repeat. The same curve. The same shape.

  Her brow furrowed, like she’d noticed it too.

  Keil noticed that.

  “Yeah,” he said, quietly pleased. “You see it.”

  She glanced at him, surprised.

  He shrugged a little, sheepish but confident in that soft way of his. “I’m not dumb. Took me a while, but… I pay attention.”

  A pause.

  Then, more gently, “You don’t have to talk. Rin says you don’t—” He stopped himself, corrected. “—you can’t yet. That’s fine. I’ll do enough talking for both of us.”

  She watched his mouth as he spoke. Studied the way his voice didn’t rise or sharpen. The way he wasn’t trying to pull words out of her.

  Her shoulders eased. Just a fraction.

  Keil leaned back on his hands, relaxed. “Yard time’s supposed to be ‘fun,’” he added, making a small face. “But mostly it’s just… quieter than inside. That’s why Rin likes it so much.”

  The white-haired girl looked back toward where Rin stood, surrounded by other kids.

  Then back to Keil.

  She didn’t smile.

  But she didn’t curl in on herself either.

  for this strange, fake patch of sky underground—that was enough for both of them.

  Keil continued to talk, words drifting easy and unhurried beneath the looping sky. The white-haired girl listened—until something near her knee caught her eye.

  Her attention shifted downward.

  Between the blades of artificial grass—too green, too perfect—something else stood out. A small flower, pale and stubborn, pushing up where it wasn’t really supposed to exist. It looked almost real. Almost.

  She stared at it for a long moment.

  Slowly, carefully, she reached out and pinched the stem between her fingers. It came free with no resistance at all. Too easy. She frowned at that, turning it over like it might explain itself.

  Then—hesitating—she shifted closer.

  Keil was still talking, half to the sky, half to nothing. “…and sometimes the guards pretend they don’t see us sitting here too long. That’s kinda nice of them, I think.”

  Something touched his sleeve.

  He paused.

  The white-haired girl stood there, arm extended, the small flower resting awkwardly in her open palm. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t even really looking at him—her eyes hovered somewhere between his shoulder and the ground, like she wasn’t sure this was allowed.

  Keil blinked.

  “Oh.”

  He straightened a little, surprised in a way that didn’t scare him. “For… me?”

  She didn’t answer. Just held it there, very still, like if she moved it might vanish.

  Keil reached out slowly—same careful speed he always used with her—and took the flower. His fingers barely brushed hers.

  It was warm.

  He looked down at it, then back at her, something soft and stunned crossing his face. “…Thanks,” he said, quieter than before. “No one’s ever—”

  He stopped himself, cleared his throat, then smiled. A real one this time. A little crooked. Very Keil.

  “I’ll keep it safe,” he promised, like it was something important. He tucked the flower carefully into the pocket of his uniform, patting it once like that settled the matter.

  The white-haired girl watched him do it.

  Her shoulders loosened.

  Just a bit.

  Keil glanced at her again, confident but gentle. “You’ve got good taste, y’know. That one’s kinda brave. Growing here and all.”

  He didn’t tease. Didn’t laugh.

  Keil stayed where he was.

  Not too close. Not stepping back either.

  Around them, yard time continued in its strange imitation of life. Other children moved in clusters—some pacing the perimeter, some sitting on the turf, a few running in short bursts that never turned into laughter. Guards stood at their posts, eyes tracking motion more than faces.

  The white-haired girl kept looking at Keil’s pocket.

  Like she was checking that the flower was still there.

  “It doesn’t last long,” Keil said after a moment, following her gaze. “They… wilt fast. Even the fake ones.”

  He shrugged, light. “Guess they weren’t meant to stay.”

  He glanced past her then—toward the far side of the yard.

  Leaf sat beneath the artificial tree, back against the trunk, knees drawn up. He wasn’t watching anyone. Not really. His eyes were fixed somewhere low, unfocused, like he’d learned the safest place to look was nowhere at all.

  Keil’s mouth tightened just a little.

  “…He’s always been like that,” Keil said, quieter now. Not apologetic. Just stating a fact.

  He watched Leaf for a second longer than he meant to.

  “He lines up first when the tone hits,” he added. “Doesn’t matter what he’s doing. He’s already moving before anyone else.”

  A faint shrug. “Guess he doesn’t like surprises.”

  The white-haired girl followed his gaze.

  She stared at Leaf longer than she probably meant to.

  Keil noticed. “It’s okay,” he added quickly, glancing back at her. “He won’t bite. Not unless someone pushes first.”

  That earned a tiny huff from Keil, like he knew how that sounded. “I mean—he’s not bad. Just… tired.”

  Nearby, Rin waved once, already drifting toward a small group of kids she seemed to know. She hesitated—just a second—before turning away completely, like she was checking that the white-haired girl would be alright.

  Keil lifted his hand in a small, confident motion. I’ve got her.

  When Rin disappeared into the moving crowd, the white-haired girl’s fingers curled into the hem of her shirt.

  Keil saw it.

  “Hey,” he said, softer again, crouching slightly so he was closer to her eye level. “She’ll be back. Rin always comes back.”

  He smiled, easy but sure. “Yard time’s like that. People wander. Then the whistle blows and—” he snapped his fingers lightly, “—everyone remembers where they’re supposed to be.”

  He didn’t mention why.

  A distant sound echoed through the space—metal on metal, rhythmic, controlled. Somewhere, a door cycled open and shut.

  The white-haired girl flinched, then steadied herself. She stayed.

  Keil straightened, staying beside her, eyes forward. “See? Still safe.”

  .....

  2:30 PM

  The light changed first.

  Not suddenly—nothing ever did—but enough that the white-haired girl noticed it before she understood it. The blue of the ceiling dimmed by a shade, clouds slowing, looping less often. The warmth underfoot faded just slightly, like the ground was being asked to give something back.

  Keil noticed it too.

  “…Okay,” he said under his breath. Not tense. Just alert. He glanced up, then around the yard. “That’s our warning.”

  The white-haired girl followed his gaze. Other children were slowing, movement thinning out. A few guards straightened where they stood. Somewhere above them, a tone pulsed—low, almost polite. Not loud enough to hurt. Loud enough to be obeyed.

  Keil shifted closer without touching her. Close enough that if she moved, she’d move with him.

  “Lights mean lineup,” he said quietly. “We count. They count. Then we go back.”

  He paused, then added, like it mattered, “You’re doing good.”

  Across the yard, Leaf pushed himself up from under the tree the moment the tone sounded. No hesitation. He didn’t look at anyone as he moved into position, shoulders already tight, eyes low.

  Rin reappeared at Keil’s side, breathing a little quick. She slipped into place automatically, like her body knew this part better than she did.

  The white-haired girl stayed still for half a second too long.

  Keil glanced down. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just stand here. Next to me.”

  She copied him.

  The line formed.

  One by one, children aligned themselves on the faint markings embedded in the turf—so subtle they only showed when the light hit them right. The white-haired girl’s foot hovered, uncertain, before settling where Keil’s had already landed.

  A guard began counting.

  Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just… precisely.

  “Twenty-three. Twenty-four.”

  The white-haired girl’s chest felt strange. Not tight. Not free. Something in between. The space, the light, the almost-sky—it all pressed in at once, like she’d stepped too close to something she wasn’t meant to keep.

  Keil stayed beside her.

  Close.

  When the count reached their row, the guard’s gaze passed over them without stopping. The number continued.

  The light dimmed another fraction.

  The guard’s voice kept going.

  “Twenty-five. Twenty-six.”

  Numbers slid past like they didn’t belong to anyone.

  The white-haired girl stood where Keil had guided her, feet planted a little too stiff, shoulders drawn in. The warmth beneath the turf was almost gone now. Not cold—just… empty.

  Keil shifted his weight once, testing the ground. Still there. Still solid.

  “After this,” he murmured, barely moving his mouth, “we go back inside. Same hall. Same order. Easy.”

  Easy wasn’t the right word, but it was the one he used.

  Rin’s fingers twitched at her side, like she was counting along in her head. Leaf stared straight ahead, jaw set, already somewhere else.

  The overhead lights adjusted again—not dimming this time, just changing, nudging everyone forward without saying so.

  The guard finished counting.

  “Remain.”

  No one moved.

  A second passed.

  Then another.

  The white-haired girl swallowed, eyes flicking once toward Keil, checking—still here?

  He was.

  And the doors at the far end of the yard began to cycle open.

  The doors opened fully.

  The first step off the turf was enough to break it.

  The warmth vanished under their feet, replaced by hard flooring that carried sound too well. Shoes echoed immediately—too sharp, too loud—bouncing back at them from walls that stretched longer than they had on the way out.

  The hum returned.

  Low. Constant. Everywhere.

  They moved in lines again. Not rushed. Not slow. Just forward.

  The white-haired girl walked where Keil walked. Her steps lagged half a beat behind his, careful, like she was afraid the floor might give way if she trusted it too much. The blue of the artificial sky disappeared behind them as the doors sealed shut, leaving only white light and gray walls.

  No one spoke.

  A guard’s voice cut through the hum.

  “Step out.”

  Not her.

  A boy two rows ahead stiffened before he even realized it was him. A hand closed around his arm. Firm. Practiced. He didn’t fight. He didn’t cry either—just stared forward as he was guided away, shoes scraping once before the sound vanished down a side corridor.

  The line closed in on itself like nothing had happened.

  The white-haired girl’s breath hitched.

  Keil noticed immediately.

  He shifted closer without looking at her, his shoulder brushing hers just enough to be felt. Not obvious. Not something that would get noticed.

  “It’s not you,” he murmured, so low it almost blended into the hum. “Not today.”

  The hallway stretched.

  The lights shifted overhead.

  Doors blurred past on either side—identical until they weren’t.

  Some darker. Some sealed tighter.

  None opening for them.

  Another voice.

  “Out. Now.”

  This time it was closer. A girl from their own section. Rin’s fingers clenched hard at her sides, knuckles whitening, but she stayed in line. The girl was pulled away, breathing fast, eyes wide, her shoes leaving a thin squeal against the floor before the corridor swallowed her too.

  Keil walked closer still.

  The white-haired girl didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask anything. Her eyes stayed forward, glassy, trying to understand a pattern that wasn’t meant to be understood.

  Leaf walked ahead of them, shoulders tight, steps exact. He didn’t look back. He never did during this part.

  The hum grew louder.

  Not actually louder—but closer. Like the walls themselves were breathing it out.

  By the time they reached their section, the illusion of the yard was gone completely. No warmth. No blue. No pretending.

  Just doors.

  Just order.

  And the quiet knowledge that some of the children who had walked out with them… weren’t walking back the same way.

  The line slowed.

  No one relaxed.

  Not yet.

  The line stopped again.

  “Step out.”

  Not her.

  The white-haired girl didn’t move. She barely breathed. She watched as another child—older, taller—was separated with the same quiet efficiency. A hand at the elbow. A turn. Gone.

  The line closed.

  Nothing happened to her.

  At first, she didn’t understand what that meant. She only knew the feeling that followed—something loosening, just slightly, in her chest. Like the ground had decided not to open beneath her feet.

  She stayed.

  Again.

  Another voice.

  Another hand at an elbow.

  Shoes scraping.

  The line folding closed.

  She stayed.

  The pattern settled.

  Being left behind meant nothing touched her.

  Nothing hurt her.

  Nothing happened.

  Keil stayed beside her the entire time.

  He didn’t say anything now. Didn’t try to explain. His presence shifted closer every time someone vanished from the line, until his arm was nearly brushing hers, solid and real and still there.

  “Keil.”