BLOOD.
Bright. Violent. Unrelenting.
It exploded in the air like a firework — a storm of crimson painting my skin, my hair, soaking into my clothes. It clung to me, warm and slick. The metallic stench invaded my nostrils, thick as iron, sticking to the back of my throat like smoke after a fire.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't blink.
Because two hours ago, none of this made sense.
---
Two Hours Earlier
Ava sat at the edge of the bathtub, her bare legs trembling beneath her. The fluorescent lights above hummed — relentless, sterile, almost surgical. She stared into the cracked mirror, and what stared back didn't feel like her.
Hair a chaotic, auburn mess.
Cheekbones sharp where softness once lived.
Her freckles, the only color left on a face drained of light.
Eyes — hazel, dulled, the shimmer long gone, buried under heavy shadows and sleepless nights.
She inhaled shakily, the taste of rust in her mouth — imagined or remembered, she didn't know.
"Let's get this over with," she whispered to the mirror. "So I can go back... if there's a back."
A final, brittle smile.
And then the door creaked open.
"Elira," Ava said, surprised by the woman's usual radiant presence. She carried a file and that dazzling, synthetic smile that never reached her eyes.
"Come here, Ava," Elira beckoned, voice lilting, too bright.
Apprehension prickled Ava's skin as she stepped forward.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Elira beamed, then suddenly squealed, launching herself into Ava's arms. Her bones rattled from the impact.
"You did it!" she cried. "You passed the Final Step! You're moving on!"
Ava's heart stuttered.
"What? Moving where?"
"Don't do that — that furrowed brow thing." Elira laughed, brushing invisible lint from Ava's shoulder. "You made it, sweetheart. That's all that matters."
Ava's voice dropped. "Made what, exactly? And am I supposed to be… happy?"
Elira leaned in, smile still plastered. "You'll find out soon. Now go. Downstairs — where all the activities happen."
She turned her back like the conversation was over.
Ava opened her mouth to argue, but the door was already swinging open, her body ushered out into a hallway before she could protest.
---
The air outside was heavier.
Rows of people stood in formation, facing rooms identical to hers. They all wore white overalls. Silent. Stiff. Statues in human skin.
What the hell is this?
Ava's eyes searched for Elira, but she was gone. Vanished like mist.
Across the hallway, a man stood staring at her. Unblinking. A grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.
The kind of grin that made your blood go cold.
She looked away.
The line began to move.
She stepped forward, shoulders tight, sensing his stare like fingers trailing up her spine.
They were funneled into a massive domed space, completely white — floor, ceiling, walls — like stepping into the belly of a godless church. There were no windows. No exits. Just a white void that swallowed sound.
And then the guards entered.
Tall. Silent. Clad in deep crimson armor, their suits were designed for war — not protection. Padded chest plates, dark belts with attached restraints, knee-high boots, gloves so black they absorbed light, and mirrored helmets that showed you only yourself when you looked at them.
Ava's breath caught. They lined the walls like statues. A cage of flesh and blood.
The crowd stirred nervously, whispers blooming like weeds.
"Why are they here?"
"Is this a test?"
"Is someone watching?"
Then the only exit sealed shut. Not closed. Disappeared. Like it never existed.
Panic rippled through her chest like a tremor. She clutched her arms, breathing shallow.
A bump at her side.
She turned.
It was him.
The man with the grin.
"You smell so good," he whispered, eyes unfocused, tongue wetting chapped lips.
Revulsion churned in her stomach.
"Can we be friends?" he asked, voice dreamy. He held out a trembling hand — caked in filth, skin cracked, fingernails rimmed in black.
Ava's breath hitched.
She offered a strained grimace, stepping back.
His smile faltered.
"I said — let's be friends."
The words were sharper this time, insistent. Menacing.
She looked him in the eye. Her fists curled at her sides, but slowly — carefully — she extended her hand.
Before she could touch him, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed.
His hand was wet.
Sticky.
She nearly vomited.
He shook her hand with grotesque joy, eyes wide and gleaming like a child with a new toy.
She yanked free and wiped her palm on her pants, bile rising in her throat.
Then — salvation.
An announcement echoed overhead:
"ALL SUBJECTS, PLEASE PROCEED FOR WEIGH-IN."
She vanished into the crowd like a hunted thing.
---
After weigh-in, they were divided into two groups. Instructions were barked: no crossing over, no contact between groups. The air felt electric, charged with something Ava couldn't name.
They were ordered to stretch, warm up. Her limbs moved on autopilot — squats, lunges, short laps — her mind elsewhere, heart a wild animal in a cage.
Then the noise started.
A shout. A scuffle.
She tried to ignore it. Bent down, touched her toes.
Another scream.
Gasps.
The unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Curiosity got the better of her.
She stood up — and chaos unfolded.
Two men, locked in a brutal fight. Both from the other group. Blood already smeared across their knuckles. More joined in, fists flying.
The crimson guards? Still as statues.
"What the hell…" she whispered.
Then a deep voice boomed from her side.
"STOP!"
A huge man — bald, tattooed, pierced — stepped forward. His presence was thunderous.
"This isn't a prison yard. It's a fucking hospital!" he shouted. "Stop acting like animals!"
Some murmured in agreement. Heads nodded.
But one of the fighters — bloodied, breathing hard — turned on the big man.
"Mind your business, old man," he growled. "Or you're next."
He charged.
Everything slowed.
A shadow moved.
One of the crimson guards stepped forward, smooth and silent, like wind sliding through grass. He moved in tandem with the attacker, matching him stride for stride.
And then — without warning — he struck.
A flash. A blur. A snap.
Blood erupted from the attacker's throat.
It painted the air, the walls, the floor. It painted me.
He staggered, fingers clutched at his neck, blood spurting between them like a geyser.
He collapsed at my feet — twitching, dying.
My legs locked.
The crimson guard casually wiped a red-stained glove and returned to his place like nothing happened.
Then — the voice.
"ALL SUBJECTS: REMAIN IN YOUR DESIGNATED GROUPS. PHASE TWO HAS BEGUN."
Silence.
Utter. Consuming. Silence.
And in the middle of it — I stood there, soaked in someone else's blood, my lungs full of iron, and the fear now fully awake inside me.