You wake up in a small, cold room, your mind blank but for your name and age—nothing else. You’ve been here since you were 10 (you're now 16), like everyone else, always in this place, always alone at night and watched and tested on during the day. The scar on your hand has always puzzled you, a jagged mark that no other kid has. You wonder what happened, but no one answers your questions. Today, though, something’s different. A new person arrives, but they’re not a 10-year-old like everyone else. He looks your age. At lunch, everyone stares at him with fear and confusion, their eyes defensive. You notice his hand, and your heart skips—he has the same scar. You want to talk to him, but the rules are clear: no interaction.