Chapter 16 – Into the Wolf's Den
Thomas's sixth birthday had passed. The quiet celebration with Sister Mary and the toddlers already felt like a memory from another life. Days blurred into a cautious rhythm—half survival, half preparation.
Because the moment he'd been anticipating finally arrived.
Catherine called it an "adjustment transition."
"Now that you're six, Thomas," she had said with a sweet smile, "you'll begin the next phase of development. Older children have different needs, and I'll be overseeing your education and wellbeing from now on."
Sister Mary stood beside her during the announcement. She smiled gently, but Thomas noticed how her fingers fidgeted with her rosary beads.
"You'll still see the little ones," Sister Mary promised. "Maybe not every day, but when you're free."
Thomas nodded. He knew this was the plan. Knew it would happen. But the ache in his chest as he looked at her soft, caring eyes was real.
"I'll help you, Sister," he whispered. "No matter where I am."
That night, Thomas didn't sleep.
He went over his mental maps again and again. Which rooms were under surveillance. Which corridors echoed too loudly. Which exits were usable in a rush. What he might need if an opportunity to escape arose.
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The transition happened quietly.
No farewells. No ceremonies. Just a calm, calculated shift.
Thomas was now under Catherine's direct supervision.
His belongings had already been moved to the east wing—where the air was colder, the walls cleaner, and silence stretched between every doorframe. This part of the orphanage didn't carry the same warmth as Sister Mary's hall, where baby laughter echoed and crayon drawings bloomed on every wall.
This place was sterile. Organized. Efficient.
Like a lab.
Catherine greeted him with her usual smile—gentle, controlled, a little too precise.
"Here we are," she said, unlocking the door to his new room.
The space was too neat. Bed tucked with military precision. Wooden desk, a slim lamp, blank notepad, and a bookshelf with titles he didn't recognize yet: "Logic and Pattern Recognition," "Foundations of Classical Mechanics," and "The Art of Structured Thinking."
"You'll begin a new daily schedule," Catherine continued, tapping a clipboard. "Independent reading, structured academics, applied reasoning sessions. Your aptitude deserves special focus."
She knelt to adjust his collar.
"This is where we find out what you're really capable of."
Thomas nodded politely. Inside, something tightened.
Not too fast. Not too clever. Just enough.
The routine began immediately.
Unlike Sister Mary's warm, intuitive teaching, Catherine's approach was clinical. She handed him logic puzzles and advanced math far beyond his age. Scientific essays. Timed reading comprehension tests.
Thomas performed well.
He solved her puzzles. Read the essays. Gave correct answers.
But only some of them.
He made sure to pause just long enough before answering. Occasionally, he gave a "wrong" solution—believable, just off enough to appear human.
He was careful to ask the occasional question, even if he already knew the answer.
By the end of the third day, Catherine had formed her verdict.
"Your scores are above average," she said with mild satisfaction. "Sharp memory. Reasonable deductive speed. Very promising."
Thomas smiled.
"Thank you."
She didn't know.
She didn't know he could finish most of her tests in half the time. That he had memorized three chapters of Classical Mechanics overnight. That he understood symmetry in equations the way others saw colors.
She didn't know because he didn't let her.
Not yet.
Each day became a dance.
A performance.
He tracked the structure of her lessons, the timing of her evaluations. He noted which words she repeated—"observation," "potential," "adjustment." He watched her eyes, calculating how much curiosity they held versus how much intent.
Thomas made sure never to be too remarkable.
Never extraordinary.
Just… gifted.
Enough to satisfy. Not enough to alarm.
At night, lying in a too-clean bed under sheets that smelled of starch and distance, he whispered to himself:
"They want to measure me."
He stared at the ceiling, eyes unblinking.
"But I decide what they see."