“What the—” I whispered, sitting up fast.

Before I could even process the thought, my door opened. Not gently. Not normally. It *swung open* so fast it slammed into the wall.

And there he was.

A huge man—quiet, built like a damn tank—stood there, blocking the light from the hallway. His shoulders looked like they could break the doorframe. I froze, still sitting halfway up in bed, my hand clutched around the thin blanket.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked at me.

For a second, I thought maybe I was dreaming. Maybe this was still part of that weird dream where the orphans chased me with mop handles. But no—his eyes moved. Cold. Steady. Real.

“Um… morning?” I said carefully, my voice catching somewhere between polite and terrified.

Nothing.

He just tilted his head slightly, as if judging whether I’d run or faint first.

I chose option three—I *bolted*.

Grabbing my boots with one hand and my ID card with the other, I scrambled off the bed and practically ran out the door, brushing past him before my brain could catch up with my legs. I didn’t even bother closing the door behind me.

The hallway was freezing, and my breath came out in quick bursts as I ran, looking for any sign of life that wasn’t seven feet tall and silently homicidal. My hair was a mess, my shirt was half-tucked, and I probably looked like I’d escaped from a mental ward—but at least I wasn’t alone anymore.

Outside, the wide field behind the main building was full of people—*kids*, actually. Around thirty of them, all in matching uniforms, stretching, jogging, and doing push-ups in perfect rhythm. The air smelled like iron and soap.

Morning exercise, apparently.

I slowed down, trying not to look suspicious—like I hadn’t just sprinted away from a human gorilla.

That’s when I heard a voice.

“Well, look who finally crawled outta bed.”

I turned and saw him. Michael.

Tall, messy-haired, annoyingly confident, and grinning like a cat who’d caught a mouse. He had that look people get when they know something you don’t—but really want to rub it in.

“Don’t start,” I muttered, tucking my shirt properly.

“Oh, I’m already starting,” he said, crossing his arms. “You missed the first whistle. And you look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Worse,” I said under my breath. “A human mountain walked into my room.”

Michael blinked. “You mean Briggs?”

“Who’s Briggs?”

“The enforcer,” he said casually, as if that explained *everything*. “Big guy, bald head, doesn’t talk much, loves scaring newbies. You’re fine. He’s harmless.”

I gave him a look. “Harmless? He looked like he could break my spine with a pinky.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, smiling wider, “but he won’t. Unless you talk back. Or breathe too loud. Or blink funny.”

I glared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Totally,” he said, smirking. “Probably.”

I groaned. “Great. I got adopted by Satan’s gym instructor.”

He laughed—an easy, genuine laugh that made a few others glance our way. “Relax, Twelve. You’ll get used to it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

He shrugged. “That’s your name now, isn’t it? Twelve. Has a nice ring to it.”

“It sounds like a robot model,” I shot back. “Or a prison number.”

“Exactly,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Welcome to the prison, robot girl. Now drop and give me twenty.”

I stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” he said with a mock stern face. “You’re late. And here, that means push-ups.”

I groaned again but dropped to the ground anyway, because the last thing I wanted was more attention from Mr. Briggs. My arms protested halfway through the first five.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.

Michael crouched beside me, pretending to count. “One, two, three—oh, wow, you’re slow.”

“I’m new!”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“Shut up, Michael.”

He grinned. “You’re sweating already. How cute.”

I shot him a glare that could’ve set fire to his hair. He just laughed harder.

By the tenth push-up, my arms were shaking. By the fifteenth, I wanted to strangle him.

When I finally collapsed flat on the ground, gasping, Michael crouched down again, leaning close enough to whisper, “See? Not that bad.”

I glared up at him. “You’re evil.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, helping me up.

The rest of the morning was torture disguised as “training.” Running laps, climbing ropes, push-ups, squats, you name it. The instructors barked orders like we were army recruits, not teenagers. My muscles screamed, and my lungs felt like they were about to explode.

“Keep up, Twelve!” one of the trainers shouted.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, dragging myself along.

Michael, of course, ran beside me effortlessly, grinning the whole time. “You call that running?”

“I call it surviving.”

He laughed so hard he nearly tripped. “You’re gonna fit right in.”

“Into what? A torture camp?”

“Pretty much,” he said with a shrug. “Welcome to Haven, the happiest place on earth.”

By the time the whistle blew to signal the end, I was drenched in sweat, my legs felt like jelly, and my arms might as well have fallen off.

Michael walked past, patting my shoulder. “Not bad for your first day, Twelve. You didn’t puke.”

“Yet,” I muttered, bending over.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “Breakfast time.”

I perked up at the word *breakfast.* Food. Actual food. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.

The cafeteria was massive—long tables, trays lined up, guards watching like hawks. The smell hit me first—warm, buttery, almost like pancakes. My stomach growled so loudly Michael smirked.

“Smells good, huh?” he said.

“Smells heavenly.”

We grabbed our trays and joined the line. I tried not to stare too hard at the others—they moved too perfectly, too quietly. No chatter, no laughter, just… silence.

When it was my turn, the cook dropped a lump of something brownish on my tray, followed by a scoop of what looked like mashed potatoes. I frowned. “Uh… thanks?”

He didn’t even blink.

Michael nudged me forward. “Don’t question the food. Just eat.”

I followed him to a table in the corner and sat down. The second I picked up my spoon, I hesitated. The “mashed potato” looked… off. It had a weird greenish tint.

Michael was already halfway through his plate. “You gonna eat or admire it?”

“I’m trying to figure out if it’s food or science experiment,” I said.

He grinned, mouth full. “Only one way to find out.”

I sighed, scooped a small bite, and shoved it into my mouth.

The taste hit instantly.

My eyes flew open wide. “What in the *heavens* is this?!” I coughed, grabbing my cup of water and nearly choking.

Michael burst out laughing so hard he had to clutch his stomach. “Welcome to breakfast, Twelve!”

“It tastes like someone murdered a potato and forgot to bury the evidence!”

He was laughing so hard tears rolled down his face.

I glared at him between coughs. “You could’ve warned me!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he managed between laughs.

I dropped my spoon dramatically and pushed the tray away. “I swear, if this is what they call food, I’m starting a hunger strike.”

Michael just smirked, still chuckling. “Trust me—you’ll get used to it. Everyone does.”

I gave him a look. “Or they die trying?”

He winked. “Exactly.”

I slumped in my seat, rubbing my temples. My first morning here had already been insane—blood drips, muscle pain, silent gorillas, and whatever-the-hell this food was.

And deep down, I couldn’t shake the thought:

If this was just day one, what the hell would day two look like?