The change didn't come with an announcement.
It came with silence.
For the first time since Keith had been brought below the streets, the routine broke. No chains dragging him out. No hands forcing him upright. No measured pain followed by artificial healing. The lights stayed on longer than usual, casting a dull, steady glow across the chamber.
That alone was enough to make his chest tighten.
Places like this thrived on patterns. When the pattern changed, it meant someone higher up had noticed something.
The door opened.
Not guards this time—at least, not the same ones. These wore darker uniforms, cleaner, marked with faint sigils etched into the metal plates at their shoulders. Their movements were efficient, almost bored, like this was just another task on a long list.
Keith was pulled from the cage and led down a corridor he hadn't seen before.
Wider. Cleaner. Fewer stains.
He kept his head lowered, body loose, breathing shallow. The pain had taught him what tension cost. The healing had taught him what endurance earned.
They stopped before a room sealed with layered barriers—metal, glass, and something else he couldn't see but could feel faintly pressing against his skin.
The door slid open.
Inside, the air was warmer. Controlled. The floor was polished stone instead of rusted metal. A table stood at the center, thin and black, its surface reflecting the light like still water. Several figures waited beyond it, faces partially obscured by masks that hid everything except their eyes.
Keith was guided forward and made to stand.
No restraints tightened. No pain followed.
That was worse.
A soft hum filled the room as a slate activated above the table, lines of information scrolling too fast for him to read. One of the masked figures tilted their head slightly, as if listening to something only they could hear.
"Subject survived full conditioning cycle," a voice said calmly. "Minimal psychological degradation."
Another voice followed.
"No manifestation detected."
A pause.
Keith felt it then—a pressure sweeping over him, subtle but invasive, like invisible fingers pressing against his skin, his bones, his breath. He didn't react. He let it pass through him, or at least pretended to.
Inside, he crushed everything down.
Whatever faint presence stirred within him was forced into stillness.
The pressure lingered, then withdrew.
"Baseline confirmed," the first voice said.
One of them tapped the slate.
"Reassign classification," another said. "Remove from discard pool."
Discard pool.
Keith kept his face blank.
They weren't deciding whether he lived.
They were deciding how he'd be used.
The figures conferred quietly, their words clipped and impersonal. Terms drifted through the air—labor efficiency, durability index, compliance probability. Keith understood enough to know this wasn't a judgment of who he was.
It was a calculation of value.
The door opened again behind him.
Someone else was brought in.
Keith didn't turn his head, but he didn't need to. He felt her the moment she crossed the threshold. Not as power. Not as pressure. As presence—tight, controlled, held together by sheer will.
She stood a short distance away.
Silence stretched.
"Both subjects remain unregistered," a voice said. "No recorded lineage. No external claims."
"Convenient," another replied.
The slate updated.
"Paired reassignment approved."
Keith's pulse skipped, just once.
Paired.
The pressure returned briefly, sweeping over both of them this time. He sensed her react—not outwardly, but inwardly, like a tightened coil.
Then it was over.
"Transfer them to holding," the voice concluded. "Preparation for sale."
Sale.
The word settled heavy in the room.
They were escorted out together, not touching, not speaking. The corridor beyond branched into paths he hadn't seen before, leading upward this time. The air grew slightly fresher with every level they climbed, though the smell of blood never fully disappeared.
They were placed in a shared holding cell.
Larger than the cages below. Cleaner. No restraints on the walls.
That, too, was a calculation.
The door sealed shut behind them.
For a moment, neither moved.
Keith leaned back against the wall slowly, careful not to show weakness. His body ached—deep, structural pain that healing hadn't fully erased. Every muscle protested. Every breath reminded him he was still alive.
Across from him, she sat down with her back to the opposite wall, knees drawn up slightly. Her posture was composed, but her hands trembled faintly before she stilled them.
They were alone.
Not safe.
But alone.
Time passed—minutes, maybe longer.
This place distorted it.
Keith stared at the floor, mind racing through possibilities. Sale meant exposure. Exposure meant variables. Variables meant mistakes.
Mistakes were opportunities.
A faint sound broke the silence—the door mechanism activating again. Footsteps passed by without stopping. Voices murmured outside, discussing numbers, schedules, routes.
Routes.
That mattered.
Eventually, the footsteps faded.
The cell lights dimmed to a softer glow.
Keith exhaled slowly through his nose.
This wasn't the end.
It wasn't even the beginning of the end.
It was a pivot.
Somewhere in the structure above them, a decision had been made. They had crossed an invisible threshold—from expendable to usable.
Property didn't get tortured without purpose.
Property got moved.
He closed his eyes briefly, committing every detail to memory—the timing of the lights, the sound of the mechanisms, the cadence of the guards' steps.
Across the cell, she shifted slightly, her breathing steady but alert.
Whatever came next would test more than endurance.
And whatever this place intended to make of them—
It hadn't succeeded yet.