CHAPTER FIVE — DESIGNATION
6:30 PM
A few hours had slipped by without anyone really noticing.
The door hissed open just enough for the guard’s voice to cut through the room.
“Six-thirty.”
That was all.
Leaf moved instantly.
He was off the bed and on his feet in one sharp motion, already standing near the door like he’d been waiting for the words. No hesitation. No glance back. Just routine—etched into him.
Keil followed a second later, slower but just as aware. He brushed his hands against his pants once, then looked over his shoulder.
Rin hadn’t moved yet.
She was still sitting on the bed with the white-haired girl, facing her. Their knees almost touched. Rin was showing her something with her hands—simple motions, clapping once, then again, then crossing her fingers in a clumsy little pattern.
“Like this,” Rin said softly. “Then you go—”
The white-haired girl copied her. Not perfectly. A little delayed. But her eyes were focused, curious, bright in a way they hadn’t been before.
They were getting along easily now. Smoothly. Like it didn’t take effort.
Keil watched for a moment longer than he meant to.
“Hey,” he called, gentle but clear. “It’s… bath time.”
The white-haired girl stopped.
She tilted her head and looked at him.
Bath time?
Her expression said she was trying to fit the words into something she understood—and failing.
Rin noticed immediately.
“Oh,” she said, standing up. She reached for the white-haired girl’s hand, not pulling, not rushing—just holding it. “It’s okay.”
She smiled, warm and familiar, already halfway into explaining.
“It just means we get to clean up. Warm water. You don’t have to be scared.”
The white-haired girl glanced down at their joined hands… then back up at Rin.
She didn’t pull away.
She let Rin lead her up.
They formed a line by the door, quiet and practiced.
It wasn’t just them.
Down the hall, other doors had opened too—other children and teenagers standing in the same way, in the same posture, waiting. The lines would split later, like they always did. Boys to one side. Girls to the other.
For decency reasons.
At least that was one rule the researchers still pretended to care about.
The white-haired girl stood beside Rin, their shoulders almost brushing. Rin stayed close on purpose, just enough to be grounded. They lined up behind Keil, who was already facing forward, hands loosely at his sides.
Then he paused.
“…Wait.”
He stepped out of line suddenly, earning a brief glance from the guard but no protest. Keil moved back to his bed drawer, crouching low. His movements were quick but careful, like he didn’t want anyone to notice.
He opened the drawer just enough.
Inside, he tucked the small, slightly wilted flower away—hidden between folded fabric, pressed flat so it wouldn’t break.
For a second, he just stared at it.
Then he shut the drawer, stood up, and returned to the line like nothing had happened.
But when he took his place again, his shoulders looked a little less tense than before.
Both of them glanced back.
Rin tilted her head first, curious in that very Rin way.
“Keil… what was that?”
The white-haired girl followed her gaze, eyes lingering on him a second longer than necessary, like she was trying to piece together a pattern she didn’t yet understand.
Keil stiffened.
“Huh? Oh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, already turning a little pink. “It’s nothing. I just… forgot to put something back.”
Rin narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced. “You ran back for ‘nothing’?”
He shrugged, forcing a small laugh. “Yeah. Guess my brain’s dumb today.”
Rin huffed but didn’t push it. “Weirdo,” she muttered, though there was no real bite to it.
The white-haired girl didn’t ask anything. She just looked at him once more, then turned back around, copying Rin’s stance again without realizing she was doing it.
The door unlocked with a sharp hiss.
The guard cleared his throat.
“Line up. Hallway.”
That was all it took.
The four of them stepped forward together, merging into the longer line forming outside. The hall was already filling—rows of children and teenagers standing shoulder to shoulder, some staring ahead, some glancing around nervously, some not reacting at all.
The hum came back immediately.
Lights overhead buzzed faintly. Shoes echoed against the polished floor. Somewhere farther down the corridor, another door shut.
They stayed close—Rin beside the white-haired girl, Keil just ahead, Leaf a step off to the side—but even now, there was an unspoken understanding between them.
They could stick together for now.
Eventually, the line would split.
But for the moment, they were still walking in the same hallway, moving forward at the same pace.
They were guided into a single line without being told.
No command. No hand signal.
Still, the group shifted—slow, instinctive—until everyone stood one behind another, perfectly aligned with the guard’s shadow stretching across the floor.
It was as if the hallway itself demanded obedience.
Footsteps echoed in a steady rhythm as they moved. Left turn. Long stretch. Right turn. The lights here were brighter, cleaner somehow, but the hum never left—just softened, like it was watching them breathe.
No one asked where they were going.
Some already knew.
Some pretended they didn’t.
And some—like the white-haired girl—had no idea at all.
After a while, they stopped.
Rin leaned closer, her voice barely more than air.
“Th-this is the bath area,” she whispered, like naming it too loudly might make it worse.
The guards stepped aside, replaced by different personnel—four of them. Their uniforms were lighter. Their expressions… warmer. Too warm, maybe. They smiled easily, chatted softly among themselves, like this wing belonged to a different world.
Like, cruelty could be scheduled around kindness.
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One of them clapped their hands gently.
“Alright, everyone. Separate lines. Girls to the left. Boys to the right.”
The movement was automatic.
Keil stepped right. Leaf followed without looking back.
Rin turned left—
—and then froze.
The white-haired girl had followed Keil.
Not out of defiance.
Not confusion exactly.
Just instinct.
She stood behind him, close enough that he could feel it.
Keil went stiff.
His ears burned red almost instantly. A few kids nearby glanced over. One of the bath personnel noticed—and giggled softly, covering her mouth.
“Oh my,” she murmured, amused.
Rin spun around, eyes wide.
“A-ah—! W-wait—!”
She rushed back, grabbing the white-haired girl’s wrist with both hands, flustered but careful.
“That’s—no—that’s the boys’ line—! We go here—! The girls—!”
She tugged her gently toward the other side, face bright red with embarrassment.
The white-haired girl blinked, looking from Rin to Keil, then back again—no shame, no understanding of what she’d done wrong. Just quiet compliance as she let herself be guided away.
Keil scratched his cheek, laughing awkwardly under his breath.
“S-sorry,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Leaf didn’t react at all. He was already staring at the floor.
The personnel exchanged knowing looks, still smiling, and ushered the two lines forward.
The white-haired girl took her place beside Rin, standing where she was told—still watching Keil until the line shifted just enough that she couldn’t see him anymore.
And even then, she stayed exactly where Rin put her.
Learning.
Adjusting.
One quiet mistake at a time.
Once they were inside, she stopped.
Not abruptly—just enough to be noticeable if you were watching her closely.
Her eyes moved slowly, tracking everything: the pale tiled walls that reflected too much light, the metal doors lined up in perfect rows, the drains etched into the floor. The way the other girls walked without hesitation, turning, stopping, reaching for things as if their bodies already knew the rules.
She didn’t.
Rin noticed immediately.
She stepped closer, careful not to draw attention, and leaned in just enough that only the white-haired girl could hear her.
“It’s okay,” Rin whispered, soft and quick, like she didn’t want the room to overhear. “I can teach you about these stuff…! Really.”
The white-haired girl looked at her. Still. Listening.
Before Rin could say more, a shadow fell over them.
One of the bath personnel had approached. Rin startled a little—shoulders tensing—but she recovered fast. She explained right away,
words tumbling out quietly, hands gesturing small, like she was afraid of making it a bigger problem than it was.
The personnel listened. Then smiled.
“Oh,” she said gently. “That’s alright. We’ll help.”
They didn’t separate them.
They were guided together instead—shown where to stand, when to move, what to do. The water came warm, steady, not shocking. Hands that worked efficiently but not roughly. Towels pressed around shoulders. Hair dried without pulling. Clean clothes were handed over without comment.
The white-haired girl followed Rin through it all, step by step, copying when she could, pausing when she didn’t understand—until suddenly, it was over.
Finished before she realized it had even begun.
Soon, everyone was ushered back out.
This time, there was only one line.
They formed it easily, as if the earlier confusion had been rinsed away with the water. Rin reached for her hand without hesitation, fingers threading through hers, holding on with a small, happy squeeze—proud, maybe, that she’d gotten her through it.
The white-haired girl didn’t pull away.
Ahead, Keil was already standing near Leaf. Leaf looked the same as always—distant, uninterested, eyes somewhere far from the room.
Keil noticed them.
He lifted his hand and gave a small wave, nothing big or showy—just a warm, simple smile, like he was saying you’re here without using words.
Like he’d been waiting.
Rin tugged her hand gently, starting them forward.
And the white-haired girl went—still quiet, still learning—but no longer standing alone.
7:30 PM
Nothing much happened.
They were guided back through the halls with the same quiet efficiency, mixed in with other children from nearby rooms. No one was taken this time. No names called. Just walking, turning, and stopping when told.
When the four of them stepped back into their room, the trays were already there.
Dinner.
Metal trays lined neatly on the low table by the wall, steam barely rising from food that smelled… plain. Familiar in the way things here always were.
The door slid shut behind them with a soft hss.
Locks clicked into place.
Rin didn’t wait.
She grabbed her tray and plopped down on the floor immediately, legs crossed, like this part at least was something she could enjoy. Keil followed, sitting a little more carefully, tray balanced on his knees. Leaf hesitated—just a second too long—before slowly lowering himself down as well, back against the wall, movements stiff but deliberate.
The white-haired girl stood there, watching.
Watching how they sat.
How they held the trays.
How no one waited for permission.
She reached for her own tray and carried it carefully, like it might spill if she breathed wrong.
Rin noticed.
She patted the floor between herself and Keil, smiling wide and bright.
“Sit next to me, hehe!” she said. “This time we can use our fingers—we don’t have to use utensils!”
Keil glanced over, recognizing it instantly. His mouth curved into a small smile, fond and a little embarrassed.
Rin grinned at him. “You showed her earlier, remember?”
The white-haired girl looked between them, then slowly lowered herself into the space Rin made for her. Close. Warm. Safe enough.
Rin immediately demonstrated—pinching a bit of food between her fingers, exaggerated and playful. “See? Like this. It’s easier.”
The white-haired girl copied her.
Not perfectly. A bit messy. But she managed.
Rin laughed softly, delighted. Keil watched with quiet approval. Leaf ate without comment, but he didn’t move away.
The room filled with small sounds—fingers brushing metal, soft chewing, the steady hum of the facility beyond the walls.
Dinner wasn’t good, but it was warm.
“Like I said again… you’re gonna get yelled at, you two,” Leaf muttered, voice low and rough, eyes still on his tray.
Keil glanced once toward the door.
Then at the cameras.
Only after that did he shift his tray—just enough for a few crumbs to fall to the side. Not messy. Not obvious. Small enough to be overlooked if someone wasn’t looking for it.
“Still worth it,” he said quietly, continuing to eat like nothing had changed.
Rin stiffened. “Keil—”
“They’ll clean it later,” he replied, calm. Certain. “No one’s getting dragged out over crumbs.”
Rin hesitated, then huffed under her breath. “You say that like you’ve tested it.”
“I have,” Keil said simply.
Leaf exhaled through his nose. “You’re gonna regret it one day.”
Keil didn’t answer.
The white-haired girl had been watching the whole time.
Her eyes dropped to the crumbs.
Then to her own tray.
She hesitated longer than before—measuring, thinking—then carefully nudged a single piece of food over the edge.
It landed beside Keil’s.
Rin froze.
Leaf slowly looked up.
Keil noticed immediately.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just looked at her, something unreadable passing across his face—then softened into the smallest smile.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s fine.”
Rin stared at the floor, then at the white-haired girl. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh no.”
Leaf shook his head, unimpressed. “You taught her that.”
Keil didn’t deny it.
The white-haired girl didn’t smile.
But she didn’t move the crumb back either.
And she stayed exactly where she was.
Rin only giggled and went back to eating, clearly deciding not to make a big deal out of it.
The white-haired girl watched her for a moment… then her attention drifted back to Keil.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted one finger.
She moved it toward him the same way she had earlier—testing, unsure—eyes fixed on his face like she was checking whether this was still allowed.
She poked his cheek.
Keil smiled immediately.
But this time, he gently caught her wrist before she could do it again—not tight, not sharp. Just enough to stop her. He moved her hand back toward her own lap, expression still soft.
“Only when it’s quiet, okay?” he said in a low voice, like it was a shared rule instead of a correction.
She looked at him.
Then nodded.
Rin noticed a second later. “Hey—!” she protested, mock-offended. “How come you two get to have a secret? I wanna have a secret with her too—hmph!”
She crossed her arms dramatically… then broke into a grin almost immediately. “Unfair.”
Keil shook his head, amused, and went back to his tray.
After dinner, they moved without being told.
Keil climbed onto his bed and opened the same book again—the spine creaking softly from use. He read aloud in a low, steady voice, familiar words repeating like something safe.
Leaf retreated to his bed, leaning back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. He didn’t listen openly, but he didn’t cover his ears either.
Rin and the white-haired girl settled onto the white-haired girl’s bed. Rin immediately started showing her something new—small hand games, patterns, claps, motions that didn’t need words. The white-haired girl copied her, slower this time, but more confident.
A little later, the cleanup personnel arrived.
They moved briskly, collecting trays, wiping the floor where crumbs still lingered. One of them muttered under their breath, clearly more annoyed than earlier—but they didn’t linger. Didn’t scold. Didn’t look at the kids any longer than necessary.
When they were gone, the room settled again.
Pages turned softly.
Hands clapped once, then twice.
The hum continued, steady and unchanging.
…
Keil was the first to remember.
It hit him quietly—like something shifting into place.
“…Rin. Leaf,” he said under his breath, eyes lifting toward the door. “Checkup later, okay?”
Rin nodded right away. “Oh—yeah. Right.” She turned to the white-haired girl, already slipping into explanation mode. “Um—so every week, there’s like… nightly checkups. Not every day. Just certain ones.”
She smiled, trying to keep it light.
“You don’t have to worry about this one! They just check our health thingy, ask a few questions, then they go.”
Keil nodded along. “Yeah. Don’t worry. It won’t be those mean doctors—”
The door opened with a sharp hiss.
“Except,” a familiar voice cut in smoothly, “it is.”
All three of them froze.
Heels clicked against the floor—slow, deliberate.
Dr. Althea Morvane stepped inside, an assistant trailing behind her, carrying a sleek chair that didn’t belong in the room. It was placed neatly at the center before anyone could react.
She sat immediately, legs crossing with ease.
“I’ll be conducting tonight’s checkup,” she continued pleasantly. “Specifically for your sector.” Her eyes lifted, sharp and amused. “Which I’ve taken quite an interest in.”
She smiled.
“I must say,” she went on, gaze sweeping over the room, “you two have shown remarkable compliance toward our new… companion.” Her attention lingered on Keil, then Rin. “Such a warm welcome.”
Her fingers tapped lightly against the arm of the chair.
“I’ve been watching since my last visit. Hours ago, really. Hah.”
Rin swallowed hard. Keil’s jaw tightened. Leaf didn’t move.
“Hmm,” Dr. Morvane hummed, glancing down at her screen. “Subject K3R5 and Subject R2R3—helpful.” A pause. “Unfortunately, Subject L4R2 has not. Of course. Predictable.”
She sighed lightly. “This falls under Behavioral,” she said evenly. “But I’ll be handling it tonight.”
Her gaze shifted.
“And I wouldn’t waste an opportunity like this,” she said, eyes narrowing with interest, “especially when it comes to Subject H1R1.”
Keil, Rin, and Leaf moved instantly—standing beside their beds, backs straight, eyes down. Instinct. Fear. Training.
The white-haired girl didn’t move.
She was still sitting on the bed.
She looked at the doctor instead.
It was the same woman. The one from before. The one who had looked at her like she was something unfinished. Something to be corrected.
She didn’t know she had been mocked.
She only knew that this presence felt wrong.
Dr. Morvane noticed.
Her smile widened.
“Well,” she said lightly, rising from her chair, heels clicking as she approached the bed. “Congratulations.”
She stopped close—too close.
“You’ve finally earned a name,” she whispered. “My dear, sweet white-haired girl.”
She lifted her pen and gently brushed it against the girl’s hair, letting the strands slide beneath it. She stared longer than necessary.
“Your name,” she murmured, voice soft and sharp all at once, “will be Huika.”
The word settled into the room like something heavy.
She didn’t react.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t understand.
Dr. Morvane turned away and returned to her chair, sitting back down as if she hadn’t just rewritten something fundamental.
“Assistants,” she said coldly, eyes already back on her advanced screen, fingers tapping. “Initiate health and behavioural check.”
The hum of the facility deepened.
No one moved.
