You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue. It is thick and old, a metallic tang that coats the roof of your mouth and refuses to wash away. You are in the dormitory. The air is stale, recycled, smelling of damp wool and the faint, sweet rot of the nutrient paste they serve. You sit up. Your body aches, a deep, structural pain in the joints, as if the bones have been replaced with lead. You look at your hands. They are steady. They have always been steady. That is the first lie you tell yourself.

The room is small. Gray walls. A bunk. A desk. There is no window. There is only the light, the pale, sterile hum of the fluorescent tubes that never flicker, never dim. You stand. Your boots are already laced. You do not remember lacing them. You walk to the mirror on the back of the door. Your face is gaunt. Your eyes are sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. You are Elias. You are a Warden. You know this because the badge on your chest is there, cold against your sternum. The insignia is a shield with a broken chain. It means you hold the line. It means you break the others.

You leave the room. The corridor is long, straight, and silent. Other Wardens walk past you. They do not look at you. They do not speak. You are a ghost in your own uniform. You walk toward the mess hall. Your stomach growls. It is a violent sound, a demand that shames you. You are a man who should not need food. You are a man who should be pure. But the hunger is there, a pit in your gut that pulls at your insides.

The mess hall is crowded. The sound is a low roar, a constant murmur of chewing and swallowing. You take your tray. The food is gray. A block of protein. A cup of water that tastes like chalk. You sit at a table. Across from you sits a boy. He is young. Too young. He is no older than sixteen. His face is pale, his lips cracked. He is eating slowly, methodically. He looks at you. His eyes are wide, filled with a terror that is not for you, but for the food. For the act of consuming.

"Is it safe?" he asks. His voice is soft, barely a whisper.

You do not answer. You eat. You chew the gray block. It is dry. It crumbles in your mouth. You swallow. It sticks in your throat. You drink the water. It is cold.

The boy watches you. He waits for an answer. He wants you to say it is safe. He wants you to say that the hunger will pass. He wants you to say that this is what it means to be strong. You say nothing. You finish your meal. You wipe your mouth. You stand up. You leave the tray on the table. The boy is still there, staring at the half-eaten block.

You walk out of the mess hall. The air in the corridor is cooler. You feel a sudden lurch in your stomach. A nausea. You grip the wall. Your knuckles turn white. You lean forward. You vomit. It is not food. It is bile. It is yellow and sour. It splatters on the floor. You are shaking. You are afraid. You wipe your mouth with your sleeve. You straighten your jacket. You continue walking.

You are assigned to Sector Four. It is the deepest level. The air is thick here. It smells of earth and decay. You walk down the stairs. The concrete steps are worn smooth. You walk alone. There is no one else. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums.

At the bottom, there is a door. It is metal. It is cold to the touch. You place your hand on it. You wait. The door opens. You step inside.

The room is small. There is a table. There is a chair. There is a man sitting in the chair. He is bound. His wrists are tied to the arms of the chair. His mouth is gagged. He is not fighting. He is still. He looks at you. His eyes are closed.

You stand in front of him. You wait. You do not know what to do. You are a Warden. You are supposed to interrogate. You are supposed to extract. But you do not know how. You do not remember how. You look at your hands. They are shaking. You pull out your weapon. It is a small device. A baton. It is black. It is smooth. You hold it in your hand. It feels heavy.

The man opens his eyes. They are gray. They are like the water in the mess hall. They are like the walls. He looks at you. He does not fear you. He looks at you with a sadness that is so deep it makes you want to weep.

You raise the baton. You swing it. It hits him in the shoulder. He does not flinch. He does not move. You swing again. It hits him in the ribs. He does not cry out. He looks at you. His eyes are steady.

You stop. You lower the baton. Your arm is trembling. You are breathing hard. Your heart is pounding in your chest. You look at the man. You see the bruise forming on his shoulder. It is purple. It is spreading. You realize that you have hurt him. You realize that you have broken him. You realize that you are the monster.

You drop the baton. It clatters on the floor. You back away. You walk out of the room. You do not look back.

You return to the mess hall. You are hungry. You are still hungry. The hunger is worse now. It is a burning in your belly. You take your tray. You sit down. You eat. You chew. You swallow. It is easy now. It is clean.

The boy is still there. He is eating faster. He is eating with a desperation that makes your stomach turn. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a small, sad smile. It is the smile of a child who has learned to survive.

You finish your meal. You stand up. You walk away. You do not look back.

Days pass. They are the same. You wake. You eat. You work. You sleep. The hunger never goes away. It is part of you now. It is your fuel. It is your strength. You are a Warden. You hold the line. You break the others. You are strong. You are pure.

One day, you wake. The taste of copper is on your tongue. It is thicker than before. It is darker. You sit up. Your body aches. It is a sharp pain. It is in your chest. You cough. You spit. It is blood. You look at your hands. They are red. You are bleeding. You are dying.

You walk to the mirror. Your face is gray. Your eyes are closed. You do not move. You do not breathe. You are still.

The door opens. A nurse enters. She is young. She is kind. She looks at you. She sees the blood. She sees the stillness. She runs to you. She shakes you. She calls for help.

You do not move. You do not wake. You are gone.

They take you away. They put you in a coffin. They bury you. The ground is soft. The earth is dark. You are in the dark. You are alone. You are free.

The hunger is gone. The pain is gone. You are nothing. You are dust. You are memory.

In the mess hall, the boy sits at the table. He is eating. He is eating slowly. He looks at the empty chair. He looks at the tray. He looks at the food. He picks up the gray block. He puts it in his mouth. He chews. He swallows. It is clean. It is easy.

He stands up. He wipes his mouth. He walks away. He is a Warden now. He holds the line. He breaks the others. He is strong. He is pure.

The light is pale. The hum is constant. The walls are gray. The cycle continues. The hunger remains. The blood flows. The truth is hidden. The lie is told. The wheel turns.

You are gone. You are remembered. You are forgotten.

The story ends. The silence returns. The dark is absolute. The light is gone. The breath is stopped. The heart is still. The end is here. The end is now. The end is everything. The end is nothing.

You are Elias. You are a Warden. You are dead.

The hunger is gone.