THE SHATTERED

“C-9.”

The moment those characters were uttered, the weight of my new reality settled into my marrow like lead. I was no longer Lotte Vennis; I was a designation, a variable in a cold equation. I realized with a jarring clarity that I was in a place where I didn’t belong, a place designed to strip away the “self” until only the “subject” remained.

The room was a masterclass in psychological oppression. There was no natural light, only a flickering, stuttering fluorescent tube overhead that pulsed like a dying heart, rhythmic and irritating. It cast jagged shadows across my vision every time it blinked. The air was unnaturally cold, a sterile, biting chill that felt as though it had been filtered through a thousand layers of ice.

The walls were finished in a grey so drab and haunting that they seemed to bleed into the very atmosphere, absorbing any hope of warmth. But it was the ceiling that demanded attention. It was drenched in a shade of blood-red so deep it felt visceral, a hue reserved for the highest level of threat: Class C. It was a constant reminder of the cage I occupied.

My hands were bound tightly behind my back, the steel of the handcuffs biting into my skin. Every time I moved, the metal whispered its frigid temperature into my bones. Across from me sat a man who personified the room’s clinical cruelty. A jagged, fresh scar ran across his cheek—a souvenir, likely, from the very people he now hunted. It glowed a raw, angry crimson under the dying light. He made no effort to hide the simmering rage behind his eyes, yet his posture remained unnervingly, impossibly still.

He placed a heavy dossier on the metal table between us. The slap of paper against steel echoed through the hollow room like a gunshot. I had never seen him before, but his aura gave him away; he was a high-ranking pawn, a man who followed orders with the precision of a machine.

“Welcome, C-9,” he said. His voice was laced with a hospitality that was as sharp and dangerous as a razor blade. “I believe we both know exactly why you are here. Let’s dispense with the theatrics. Stop playing these little games and start talking.”

I swallowed hard, but my throat was a desert. My pulse was a frantic bird trapped in my chest, but I forced my expression to remain a mask of stone. I couldn’t let my voice tremble. I had to play the part of the ignorant victim for as long as possible.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice rasping. “What games? I don’t understand why I’m being held like this.”

The man leaned forward, encroaching on my personal space until I could smell the stale coffee and tobacco on his breath. His eyes were predatory, sharp enough to carve through my skull to get at the secrets within. He shifted into a tone of voice that was eerily polite, the kind of voice one uses to lure a frightened animal.

“You know the protocols, Lotte. You know how this world works. Tell us who you are, how you found your way to us, and be honest. Only then can we... help you.”

As he spoke, the floodgates of memory creaked open. Suddenly, I wasn’t in a grey room; I was back in the heat. I could feel the phantom sensation of a thousand-degree furnace licking at my face. The memory of the fire was so vivid it felt like a physical assault. My internal temperature began to spike, a feverish heat radiating from my core. My breathing grew jagged.

“Lotte Vennis,” I began, the words feeling like shards of glass. “I am Dutch. When I was a child, there was a fire... a fire that consumed everything I ever loved. My home, my history, my parents... all turned to grey ash in a single night. And my brother...”

I stopped. The sound of his screams, muffled by the roar of the inferno, still rang in my ears like a permanent tinnitus. That scream was the only thing I had left of him. My handcuffed hands began to shake uncontrollably, but I clenched my fists, fighting to maintain a facade of composure.

“I had no one,” I continued, my voice hollow. “I was shuffled through orphanages, growing up in rooms that smelled of floor wax and loneliness. I spent my years there until I earned my way out. I got into medical school. I wanted to save people from the kind of pain I—”

“We are already well-acquainted with your academic record,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through my narrative like a guillotine. He reached into a tray and picked up a scalpel—my scalpel. He began to twirl it between his fingers with practiced ease, the polished steel catching the light in blinding flashes. “Tell me the part that isn’t in the files. If your memory is failing, let me assist: Tell me how you acquired that cursed power. Tell me how you became one of the Shattered.”

At the mention of the power, my panic vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp defiance. The fear that had been suffocating me was suddenly eclipsed by an incandescent rage. I straightened my back, ignoring the ache in my shoulders, and enunciated every syllable with icy precision.

“You cannot force me to tell you anything.”

The man didn’t laugh, but a small, mocking smile played on his lips. It was the look a scientist gives a lab rat that thinks it can escape its maze.

“You are under a delusion, little lady. In this room, you have no agency. If you wish to test that theory, I would be more than happy to accommodate you.” He pointed the tip of the scalpel toward me. “Listen closely. You have two paths. Either you recount every single detail of that power—how it feels, how it works—or I will personally ensure you are sent to rot alongside your other ‘shattered’ comrades. And believe me, Lotte, in that place, you won’t be using a scalpel to save lives. You will be used in ways that make death seem like a mercy.”

He leaned in even closer. “I would hate to see a talent like yours wasted. Cooperate, and we can discuss a partnership. We could elevate you. You could have the status you deserve. We would leave your team alone.”

I didn’t blink. I could see the lie hidden behind his eyes. “Did you honestly believe I would fall for that?” I asked, my voice dripping with contempt. “Anyone you drag into this hellhole would recognize that ‘offer’ for exactly what it is. A leash. And quite frankly, I find the suggestion hilarious.”

I wasn’t ready to die, but I would never let them see my desperation. “As for the ‘real story’... you’ll have to wait until we’re both burning on the other side to hear it. I would rather rot in the darkest cell you have than spend a single second working for monsters like you!”

The man’s expression went completely flat. He turned his head and gave a sharp nod to the reinforced glass window behind him. The heavy metal door slid open with a harsh, grinding sound. Two female soldiers stepped into the room, their faces obscured by transparent tactical masks.

“Take C-9 to the protocol room,” the man commanded. “Let her sit with her thoughts. Perhaps a bit of isolation will sharpen her memory. I hope you enjoy your stay, Lotte.”

The soldiers grabbed my arms with a brutal grip and yanked me out of the chair. As they began to drag me across the cold floor, I twisted my head back toward the glass and screamed with every bit of strength I had left.

“I know you’re back there! I know you’re watching!” I screamed. “I know how to rise from the ashes! I’ve done it before! Keep hiding in your shadows! I will find you! I will tear your world apart!”