There was no announcement. No official notice. But the guards began to linger longer near AB-774's chamber.
They stopped looking past him.
Now they watched.
One guard, positioned behind the observation glass, tapped his datapad repeatedly, logging every minor detail.
"Eats at exactly 06:02, doesn't speak, blinks less than average. Subjects 410 and 411 maintain eye contact less than 3.7 seconds. Subject O-243 hasn't spoken to him since last evaluation."
The researcher beside him didn't look up.
"Scoff wants a full behavior map by week's end. Psychological, physical, social. Everything."
And so they watched. Every hour. Every breath.
In Chamber 3, tension simmered beneath the silence.
S-410 and S-411 sat cross-legged on opposite ends, communing in silence, their silver eyes glowing faintly. The chamber light reflected off the steel floor, casting ghostly shadows behind them.
"He's hiding something," S-411 projected.
S-410 responded, "He doesn't blink in front of the cameras. It's deliberate."
"Maybe he's trying to seem more harmless than he is."
"Or more dangerous."
They both looked toward the sealed door of AB-774's cell.
"We should test him. See what cracks first—his body or his mind."
They did not smile. They did not joke.
O-243 was growing stronger.
In the gymnasium, he wrapped metal restraints around his arms and shattered them with each punch. The guards no longer stopped him. They watched him, too.
He didn't care.
Each repetition reminded him of where he came from.
Of Brena, burning beneath orbital fire.
Of the execution broadcast.
Of his grandfather, kneeling before imperial rifles.
And now — the quiet one. AB-774.
Always watching. Always unreadable.
"Is he a spy? Or a weapon?" O-243 muttered. "Either way, I'll be ready."
He clenched his fists, and his bones popped with the pressure.
AB-774 sat in the corridor outside the observation bay, permitted a brief "recreation interval."
It was not rest. It was another test.
Y-271 approached, her small frame wrapped in a thin synthetic blanket.
"Do you… feel pain?" she asked softly.
AB-774 didn't look at her. "Yes."
"You just never show it."
"There's no benefit to it."
She tilted her head. "That's sad."
"It's efficient."
She hesitated, then said, "I don't think you're working with them. But they think you are."
AB-774 finally turned his head, slightly.
"I know. That's why I don't deny it."
She blinked at him. Then nodded and walked away.
He watched her go.
She was selfless — which made her useful. If she died, the fragile balance in the chamber would tip.
He needed that balance.
That night, a researcher entered his room.
Reeva, quiet, precise. She placed a small black box in front of him.
Inside: three metal rings, a sensor band, and a nutrient pack with a dosage 20% higher than the standard ration.
"For you," she said.
"Why?" AB-774 asked, though he already knew.
Reeva smiled faintly. "The Head Scientist doesn't like unknowns. And you… you're very unknown."
She left without waiting for a reply.
Behind sealed glass, Scoff watched the feeds.
"Still no activation," muttered Kaios, flipping through gene scans. "Not even a minor resonance spike."
"Let him simmer," Scoff said. "Pressure cracks some. It forges others."
"And if he's the wrong one?"
Scoff didn't blink. "Then we replace him."
But he didn't turn the feed off.
In Chamber 5, something shifted.
D-115, tall and brutal, had ruled the chamber for years. He trained the younger ones through fists and fear.
But fear had begun to fail him.
Because of one boy.
R-932.
Quiet. Always thinking. His eyes never fully opened, as if he saw too much already. No one saw him coming.
For a year, R whispered truths:
"You train, but never get picked. Why?"
"D-115 gets more food. Why don't we?"
"He wouldn't protect you. Why protect him?"
It wasn't rebellion.
It was math.
The day came when D-115 ordered his chamber to fall in line.
No one moved.
He laughed at first.
Then his second stepped back.
Then the third.
Then all of them.
They didn't look at him.
They looked at R-932, sitting calmly in the corner.
D-115 approached him, fists clenched. "You think you can lead?"
R's voice was still.
"I already do."
There was no fight. Only surrender.
That night, D-115 slept in the corner.
R-932 took his place in the center.
He began scheduling training, assigning rations, setting rotations.
He wasn't liked.
He was obeyed.
In the surveillance room, a researcher made a note:
Subject R-932 – reorganized full social order without violence. Recommending isolation from volatile types. Potential leadership-grade candidate. Monitor for long-term manipulation tendencies.
Scoff read it.
"He's not volatile," he muttered. "He's worse."
"A mirror of us."
Marla's class that week changed everything.
The children sat in a half-circle as the lights dimmed and the screen hummed to life.
A dark palace burning.
A figure stepping through the fire.
"Arkanos Stellara III," Marla said, "Emperor of Stella."
She flicked through images: courtrooms, public addresses, private executions.
"Twenty-seven years ago, he led a bloodless rebellion—at first. His father, Stellara II, was weak. His older brother, Prince Vian, was next in line. Diplomatic. Soft."
"Arkanos saw a future where Stella would be devoured by its enemies. So he rewrote it. He broke the Council's hold. Split the army. Aligned the Priors. His father died on Winter Solstice. His brother vanished. Some say pardoned. Others say erased."
"He didn't take power. He replaced it."
"And he built our Empire around one law: strength defines justice."
Marla turned off the screen.
"You are his vision. Remember that."
AB-774 processed the story like a data stream.
A man who eliminated tradition, inserted himself as necessity. Not because of strength, but usefulness.
He didn't admire Arkanos.
He understood him.
R-932 repeated the names like a chant.
"Vian. Arkanos. Council. Collapse. Insertion."
It wasn't a rebellion. It was design.
He smiled faintly. That was how you win.
O-243 cracked his knuckles hard enough to bleed.
"He didn't fight. He schemed."
But he still won.
So maybe winning is more than just breaking bones.
Y-271 was disturbed.
"He killed his own father?"
She looked around, wondering which of her peers would do the same if given power.
And then her eyes fell on AB.
She said nothing.
S-410 and S-411 watched the blank screen long after class ended.
"He didn't wait to be chosen," said S-410.
"He chose himself," answered S-411.
They nodded, already reshaping their plans.
Behind the glass, Scoff watched the footage again in slow motion.
Frame by frame.
"Some of them listened," he whispered.
"But a few… understood."