No.441 woke before the bell.
He didn't know why. Something in him had learned to rise early — maybe fear, maybe habit. His bones ached. His shoulders were tight. But he moved anyway. Same as always.
By the time the others stirred, he was already at the quarry's edge, waiting to be ordered in.
The day began like any other. The same tools. The same dust. The same guards standing above them like vultures in armor.
Then the shouting started.
"Line up!"
"Drop everything and move!"
"Now!"
No.441 blinked. His pick hit the stone once more before he realized they were serious. Around him, the other slaves dropped their tools and straightened up, backs stiff, eyes forward.
He did the same.
The guards formed a line along the upper ridge. One stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Do not speak. Do not move. Anyone who disobeys will be put down."
No one spoke.
A few heartbeats later, she appeared.
Small. Slim. Her steps were sharp and precise, each one echoing against the quarry stone. Her boots were clean — so clean they didn't look like they belonged here. A crimson ponytail swung behind her with every step.
She didn't look at the guards. Just the slaves.
Her eyes moved like knives — slicing through the line, measuring everything. Faces. Shoulders. Posture. She walked slowly, the dust making way for her without permission.
No.441 didn't dare look up.
Then she stopped.
Her voice was calm, cold, direct.
"I want this one. Bring him by tonight. Make sure he's clean."
No one moved until she did. She turned without another word and vanished into the sun.
The guards exchanged a glance, nodded, and broke formation.
No.441 was still frozen.
His heart beat faster now. Not from exhaustion, but something else. Something sharp. Unfamiliar.
Did she mean him?
He couldn't breathe properly.
She looked right at me… didn't she?
His thoughts swirled. Why? What did she see? Am I being sold? Am I being taken? Killed? Am I… free?
No.
No, not free. That wasn't possible. There was no freedom here. Just work. Just days that looked exactly the same.
He stared at the stone beneath his feet.
For the first time in years, his hands shook.
The guards came at dusk.
They didn't say his name — just a number. "Four-Four-One. Get up."
He rose without asking questions.
The others kept their heads down. No one looked at him. Not out of cruelty, but habit. Getting noticed meant risk. Attention meant pain.
One guard grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the barracks. They didn't take him toward the quarry. They turned right, toward the upper levels. He'd never been that way before.
The hallway was lit with lamps that didn't flicker. They glowed a steady, pale blue — likely powered by the same Star Essence he'd been mining. For a moment, he wondered what it felt like to live near clean light.
They brought him to a stone chamber. Inside was a wooden basin, a bucket of water, and a rough cloth. Another guard tossed a bar of something at him — soap, old and cracked.
"Clean up. Don't waste time."
They stood outside while he washed.
The water stung. It was cold, and the cloth tore at his skin, scrubbing away layers of dust, blood, and sweat. He'd never cleaned like this before. Not with purpose. Not with urgency. He didn't know what part of his body to start with.
He finished quickly. The guards returned and gave him a shirt and trousers — plain, but not torn. The fabric felt strange. He kept expecting it to fall apart.
Then they walked him down another corridor.
It was quiet. The deeper they went, the less it felt like a mine and more like… something else. There were no chains on the walls here. No shouting. Just the sound of his own breathing, and the distant click of the woman's boots still echoing in his memory.
They stopped at a heavy door.
One guard stepped forward and knocked once.
From inside, a voice answered.
"Bring him in."
The door creaked open.
Warm light spilled into the hall, soft and golden — too soft for this place. For a moment, it reminded him of stories whispered among the slaves. Of mansions. Of sunlit rooms. Of freedom.
The guard pushed him forward.
Inside, the chamber was cleaner than anywhere he'd seen. The floor was tiled. A table sat at the center with two chairs, polished and unbroken. Curtains hung over the windows, though no sunlight reached through them.
She stood near the far wall, arms folded, eyes on him.
The same red hair. Same sharp gaze.
But without the dust, the noise, the guards yelling, she looked… normal. Still cold, but not cruel. Not yet.
"Sit," she said, motioning to the chair across from hers.
He hesitated. She raised an eyebrow.
He sat.
She poured a glass of water and slid it toward him. Real glass. Real water. Clear, cold, and full.
He didn't touch it.
She watched him for a long moment.
"You're cleaner than I expected," she said, voice smooth but distant. "Still filthy underneath, of course. That takes time."
No.441 said nothing. He wasn't sure if he was allowed.
"Do you know why I chose you?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Because you looked like you had something left in you. A little spark, maybe."
He blinked. "A spark? "
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, Four-Four-One… did you think this was freedom?"
His throat tightened.
"You stood so still when I walked by," she said, "like a dog trying not to be kicked. But your eyes — I noticed. There was something there. Some stupid little hope."
She smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"I like breaking those."
Before he could speak — before he could move — her hand lashed out, No.441 felt his ear start to ring and a burning sensation on his face
He didn't cry out. Just flinched.
She laughed.
"I'm going to enjoy this," she said, rising to her feet.
She stepped toward him.
"Let's see how long that lasts."