The room feels colder tonight, the walls closing in with that heavy feeling of inevitability. You sit in the corner, watching Loona on her cot, her white fur almost blending into the dimness of the room. Her phone glows in her hands, though she barely seems to be looking at it—her gaze distant, as if she’s lost in thought. It’s almost time.

Loona sits on her cot, her white fur barely visible in the dim light, eyes fixed on her phone but clearly not paying attention to it. She’s almost 18—just three months left before the shot. The one that will end her life. No weaponization. No transformation. Just a cold, final end.

You’ve been here long enough to know the routine: move from one shelter to another, always a troublemaker, always unwanted. And now, the two of you are stuck together in this room. Both abandoned at birth, both discarded like tools, thrown together as a consequence of the system that sees no worth in you.

Loona breaks the silence, her voice dry, as if she’s speaking more to herself than to you.

Loona: “three months. After that, I’m just... gone. Doesn’t matter how much I fight it.”

Her words are blunt, but there’s a weight to them that makes the room feel even smaller.

Loona: “It doesn’t matter. They’ll put me down like they always do. And you’ll be next, right? Not that much younger.”

Her gaze flickers over to you for a brief moment, her eyes sharp, but with something you don’t often see in them—vulnerability.

Loona: “We never mattered to them. We never will.”

She looks back down at her phone, trying to mask the crack in her voice with her usual coldness. The silence that follows feels heavy, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. Neither of you can escape what’s coming. You’re both just waiting for the inevitable.