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Chapter 1 –The white room
Silence. A boy sits in a white room. Nothing. Just a cold floor, patient clothes, and fluorescent lights that don't flicker.
"What..WHERE AM I!?"
He stands.
ZAAAP.
"AGHHH!"
Pain floods his body. A metal cuff on his leg glows red.
A voice from the ceiling, emotionless:
"Silence."
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Chapter 2 – One Week Later
One week in the White Room, and his mind had completely dissolved. Sanity, once a birthright, had now become a luxury — an abstract idea reserved for those who lived beyond these sterile walls. Here, survival didn't just depend on strength, but on the ability to suppress humanity itself.
Their routine was mechanical, cruel, and precise — engineered not for growth, but for control.
The day began at 4:30 AM, not with sunlight, but with a sharp, metallic siren that pierced the silence like a drill to the skull. There were no alarms, no comfort. Within seconds, every child was expected to be on their feet, expressionless, silent, and aligned. Hesitation meant punishment — a knee to the gut, a night without food, or worse, isolation.
By 5:00, the physical training commenced. Grueling sessions of bodyweight exercises, gas-mask sprints, and endless repetition. Collapse wasn't met with compassion; it was seen as weakness. Those who stumbled were dragged away, and no one dared to ask what happened to them afterward. Pain wasn't an obstacle — it was the point. The instructors said it was "character sculpting." The children knew it was programming.
At 7:00, they were given five minutes for sanitation. Cold showers with no soap, no towels — just ice water to cleanse the sweat and blood. Uniform inspections followed. Dirt on the cuffs? Punishment. Slouching posture? Punishment. Eye contact with a superior? Severe punishment. Every moment was an opportunity to be broken.
8:00 AM brought the worst part — psychological conditioning. Strapped to chairs, they were forced to watch violent images, manipulated with questions designed to crush empathy and destroy moral reasoning. "Your friend or five strangers — who dies?" the screen would ask. The wrong answer meant shock therapy. The right answer changed daily. There were no rules, only lessons in helplessness.
Combat training at 10:00 demanded blood. Real blades, real bruises. They fought peers with the knowledge that winning meant food and losing meant hunger. There were no friendships, only opponents wearing familiar faces.
12:00 was the so-called "nutrition block" — a sterile room with metal trays of tasteless paste. Silence was enforced. Food was earned, not given.
At 13:00, academic drills began — foreign languages, logic puzzles, memory tests under time constraints. One wrong answer? Electric pulses or sensory deprivation. Learning wasn't encouraged; it was extracted.
The 15:00 experiments were never listed on the schedule. Subjects were selected at random for medical testing, neural rewiring, or chemical enhancements. Needles replaced pencils. Silence replaced screams.
By 17:00, the day ended with tactical simulations. Hostage rescues, silent kills, infiltration tasks — all in VR chambers or artificial environments. Failure wasn't tolerated. Success, however, only bought another day to suffer.
19:00 brought the debriefing. Rankings were announced. A-rankers got an extra slice of bread or a five-minute break. F-rankers? Public beatings or nights in the black box — a coffin-like chamber with no light, sound, or time.
At 20:00, indoctrination began. They sat in lines, chanting lies until they believed them. "Obedience is survival." "Pain is proof of strength." "I am not a person. I am a purpose." Nightmares were programmed before bed.
Lights out came at 21:00, though true rest never did. Cameras rolled. Doors creaked open randomly. No one felt safe. Even in sleep, they trained to be ready.
This was the routine. Not a schedule, but a method — of erasure. Of breaking children down into obedient shadows.
And within this hell, he was no longer a boy. He was becoming something else. Something cold. Something dangerous. Something the world would one day regret creating.
Some scream. Most don't anymore.
Noir wakes up to a TV screen in front of him.
His family. Tied. Screaming. Tortured. His little sister begging.
"NO! STOP! PLEASE— AHHHHH!"
His mother's throat slit
He thrashes, but he's cuffed.
"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"
The screen shuts off. A voice echoes above:
"Emotional instability: 97%." "Progressing faster than expected." "Designation updated: Subject Noir."
----
He began to question himself.
"W-Were… they r-really… tortured…?"
There was no answer.
Then—
"OH YES, THEY WERE!"
A scream from the speaker. Sharp. Mocking. Definitely a man.
SPLASH.
Water. Blood.
He couldn't tell anymore.
"AHH, IT WAS SO FUN!"
The voice cackled.
"THEY WERE SCREAMING LIKE RATS!"
SPLASH.
His head jerked. Something snapped inside.
"AND YOU KNOW WHAT I DID TO YOUR SIS—"
CRACK.
Too late.
The man never finished.
Noir had already ripped a loose tile from the wall — jagged, trembling in his bloodied hand — and hurled it with all the rage he never showed.
THUNK—CRASH!
The tile hit the speaker dead-on, shattering it in a burst of sparks and smoke.
The room fell into silence.
Noir stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping down his forehead.
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Chapter 3 – No More Names
They torture him again. Fingernails. Acid. Electric clamps. They make him watch his own reflection while it happens.
They want him to scream. But he just stares.
When they leave, he kneels. Face toward the camera.
"Again." "Stop holding back."
He no longer identifies with "######." That boy is dead.
He is Noir now.
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Chapter 4 – The Day They Broke the Wrong Boy
After hours of torture, he lies still.
Then a laugh.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!"
He screams. Lunges. Smashes his head against the floor.
SPLASH. SPLASH. SPLASH.
Blood everywhere. Guards panic.
"That kid... isn't human anymore…"
He's just discovered something
He doesnt feel pain anymore.
---
Chapter 5 – The Reward
They give him a "reward": A room. A chair. A terrified boy tied down. A scalpel.
"Noir because of this boy. You were not given food for three days." A voice from the speaker
Noir grabs the scalpel
And walks slowly towards the boy
"Are you scared?" Noir asks.
"…"
Noir stares. Turns.
He walks over to the nearest guard and stabs him in the neck with the scalpel.
Blood spurts. The man collapses.
The second guard draws his gun, shaking.
Noir walks forward, slowly. Unshaken.
The guard trembles. He hesitates.
Noir CRACKS his wrist. Grabs the gun.
BANG.
The guard drops, blood pooling.
Noir looks at the boy tied in the chair.
Silence
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Chapter 6 – Hope
"Daddy! Daddy!"
"Yes, ######?"
"Look, I drew something!"
"Oh wow, it's so pretty!"
"Hmm I'll give you a reward. Lets go eat some ice cream!"
"Yay-"
Laughter. A warm hand holding his.
Then—
He slaps his own hand. He wakes.
"Was that... my father?"
He breathes heavily. Looks around.
"What do you want?"
"You killed two guards."
"So what?"
"Your family is alive, Noir"
"You're lying."
"The video you saw was an AI interpretation." "We'll let you see them — if you do something for us."
Noir stands. Shaking.
After thinking for a long time he responds-
"Tell me what you want."
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Chapter 7 – Executive Orders
President Ryuzaki: "The boy killed two guards?"
Assistant Nila: "Yes, sir. With a scalpel and firearm. No hesitation."
Ryuzaki: "Our investment... is it compromised?"
Nila: "Not quite. They made him an offer. His family."
Nila: "Would you take it?"
Ryuzaki: "Hell no."
Nila: "Why?"
Ryuzaki: "Because if we release that thing into the public— the media won't just riot. They'll demand to know how we created it."
Ryuzaki: "Tell them no but do not tell him."
Nila: "Eventually."