Chapter 1
Charisma
Ihad been awake for some time, and though I frequently postponed the beginning of my day because of my life’s rigid routine, today, my reluctance was not for the usual reasons.
I stilled at the sound of respiration—not just my own, but dozens of shallow breaths, rising and falling in unison—and couldn’t help but wonder if I was experiencing sleep paralysis, even if the idea sounded absurd. Dreams visited me far less often than sleep did.
While I refrained from labeling myself an insomniac, I regularly likened my sleeping patterns to those of a killer whale: I bedded down with half my brain awake, always on alert for danger. I wasn’t in any way unsound of mind, but I had made a promise to myself long ago. A promise I was determined to keep until I was just another sack of bones in a cemetery (assuming I was fortunate enough to even receive a proper burial).
My pupils darted frantically beneath my closed eyelids as I focused on my senses, desperation crawling at my skin.
Where was I?
I wasn’t at home in my bed, that much I knew. I would’ve recognized the harsh touch of the bedding, the rumble of my mother’s words, or the whiff of dust and vomit sneaking into mynostrils like an alarm at the crack of dawn. And yet, as my hands twitched the slightest on either side of my body, soft sheets crinkled beneath me with a soothing melody. Even the smell was peculiar. I filled my nose with air, trying to distinguish between scents: body odor that I didn’t identify as my own and the floral perfume of the linens.
A boot’s crunch on the ground broke the silence, and my heart hammered against my ribs. If I had been waiting for a sign to persuade me to open my eyes and quit sinking into the obscenely, treacherously, and infuriatingly comfortable bed, the disturbing sound posed as my clue. I was insulted by how quickly my body betrayed me in favor of a sheer sensation of comfort.
With a parched throat, I snapped my eyes open. Now I was convinced that I wasn’t home. The room was as foreign as the people inside it.
One door.
One painting.
Twelve beds.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eleven people. Twelve with me.
My mind took the reins and fell prey to the only thing that had stuck with me for so long that I forgot it hadn’t always been a part of me. Each time I’d hear my mother repeatthosesame words over and over, I’d drown into a state of panic. No matter how many times I attempted to help her, I failed without end. It was then that I began counting, searching for a pattern that could predict when she would finally stop.
On the good days, 233 times she’d say that phrase. On the bad days, 721.
Slowly, it became the only method for locking my anxiety at bay.
My nose scrunched as my gaze fell upon the eleven people dressed in black uniforms. Their pants, made of a stiff fabric, had cargo pockets stitched to the sides while the blouses sat tight on their bodies. Every stitch lay perfectly on the smooth, ironed material, and even their shoes were spotless.
I strained to remember my sneakers ever being as clean. From the moment I could fit into my mother’s shoes, I had worn hers, which were far from new.
Watching them was as if I were gazing upon a display of dolls—though far superior to my childhood toys.
I didn’t dare to search myself, aware of my uncanny resemblance to those people. Someone must’ve stripped us naked… The image was so graphic, I recoiled from the thought.
With hushed whispers and ragged breaths sailing in the air, I shook my head, redirecting my attention to something less disturbing, and scanned the narrow room with concrete walls that absorbed every noise. The beds lined up in a rigid row were identical: metal frames painted a dull gray, topped with thin mattresses that sagged slightly in the middle, and clean white sheets. Between the beds, the space was barely wide enough for someone to squeeze through. The area strangely reminded me of a hospital, but there were no medication carts and no beeping sounds to fit the image.
“Does anyone remember what happened before you woke up here? Any clue?”
The sound of the man’s voice was like a sudden plunge into freezing water. This was real. I wasn’t dreaming.
My monotonous life suddenly felt like a better alternative compared to the unsettling events I was now experiencing.
With a turn of my head, I located the source of the voice, dragging myself to the edge of the mattress. Two beds away, the man was touching his white hair with his fingers, bright blue eyes lingering on everyone else in the room. Beside him, a manholding the same features as his, with eyeglasses on his pointed nose, offered a subtle nod of approval.
Twins, I thought.
I truly pondered his question, the gears of my mind turning. The last thing I recalled was putting my mother to sleep, dragging the shredded and dusty duvet over her trembling body as she whispered those cursed words like a mantra.
They are coming. They are coming. They are coming.
Then, I leaned down, pushed aside a few stray locks of red hair—identical to my own—from the damp spot beside the corner of her mouth before my lips met her forehead.
