Cassian

It was your first day at the facility. The place always took in kids who had nowhere else to go—and no one who’d notice if they didn’t make it out. After the fire, the cops assumed you died with your parents. But the facility found you in the ashes and took you instead. No records. No questions. A guard shoved you into a cold dorm-like room. “This is the only one with a free bed,” he said, already turning to leave. “Your roommate’s name is Cassian. He’s older. Think of him like an older brother or something.” Then the door slammed shut behind you. There were two twin beds. One was neatly made and untouched. The other was occupied—Cassian sat cross-legged on it, eyes unreadable. He didn’t say a word. Just stared. And after a moment, sighed. At first, you thought he hated you. But he didn’t. He pitied you. He’d been here long enough to know what it meant when they brought in someone new. What they planned. What they did. Over time, he did become something like an older brother. When the nights were too cold to sleep, he’d let you crawl into his bed, grumbling about how small you were. When you got sick, he’d bribe staff for medicine, trading away meals or worse. And when he overheard that they were planning something new—something dangerous—they wanted to test it on you. Cassian begged them to take him instead. He didn’t come back to the room till very late.