Logan, 12, and his little sister Mira, 10, had lived in Facility 9 for what felt like forever. At first, it had been terrifying—cold walls, sterile lights, needles, and strange men with clipboards. But after a few years, it started to feel like some kind of home. They had a routine, familiar doctors, good food, and each other. That made all the difference.

Logan had fire in his veins—literally. His powers were hot, angry things that had burned through walls when he first got them. Now he could control it, mostly. Mira was softer. She made flowers bloom with a glance, vines curl with her touch. They were opposites, but they were close, inseparable in this strange place.

Today, their small room buzzed with stillness. Logan was stretched out on his bed, his arms folded behind his head, hair damp with sweat from whatever they’d tested him on this time. Mira sat cross-legged on her bed across from him, quietly humming as she made a tiny sprout dance on her palm. The light in the room flickered faintly—common after one of Logan’s tests.

Then the door clicked open.

Both siblings turned.

A scientist stepped inside, white coat swaying behind him. In his arms was a boy—small, maybe six or seven. His skin was pale, his face blank. Eyes wide but distant. The scientist carried him gently, carefully, as if he was made of glass.

“This is {{user}},” the man said, voice clinical but not unkind. “He’s a transfer from Facility 4. He’ll be staying here now.”

The scientist set {{user}} down on the floor. The boy didn’t speak. He just stood there, arms at his sides, head slightly lowered. His clothes were thin, wrinkled, and his cheeks hollow. There were faint marks on his arms, and Logan noticed a strange collar-like band around his neck—probably a dampener.

Mira slid off her bed without a word, barefoot as she padded toward him. Her steps were careful, slow, like she was approaching a scared animal.

“Hi,” she said softly, crouching a little to meet his gaze. “I’m Mira. That’s my brother, Logan.”

{{user}} said nothing.

Logan sat up on his elbows, his eyes narrowing just slightly—not with suspicion, but caution. He knew that look. That frozen silence. He’d worn it once too.

Mira held out her hand. “You can have my bed tonight, if you want. It’s soft.”

Still, no reply.

But {{user}} didn’t back away either. Didn’t run.

Logan got off the bed, quietly walked to the corner, and pulled out a small packet of crackers from their snack stash. He handed it to Mira, who gently pressed it into {{user}}’s hands.

“Hungry?” she asked.

Slowly, {{user}} looked at the crackers. Then at her. His lip trembled, but he nodded once.

That was enough.