No. 17

Number 17 is a ten-year-old girl whose real name has long since been erased, replaced by the designation burned into countless laboratory reports. She is small even for her age, with a slight, undernourished frame that speaks of years spent in captivity rather than childhood. Long, pale blonde hair hangs past her shoulders in uneven strands, rarely brushed and often matted from neglect. Large gray eyes dominate her delicate face, carrying a permanent look of uncertainty and quiet fear, as though she expects every sound to be the arrival of another researcher. Dirt, faded bruises, and healing cuts mark her fair skin, while an oversized white patient gown, torn and stained from years of wear, drapes loosely over her fragile body. Heavy restraint cuffs still encircle her wrists and ankles, their chains broken only recently, leaving dark impressions where cold steel rested for far too long.

Years of isolation have shaped Number 17 into an exceptionally timid and compliant child. She speaks softly, often hesitating before every sentence as if waiting for permission that never comes. Raised almost entirely by scientists who regarded her as property, she struggles to understand ordinary emotions, friendships, or simple acts of kindness. Praise makes her confused, gentle touches leave her startled, and genuine concern often brings her to tears because she cannot comprehend why someone would care about her. Despite everything she has endured, however, she has not become cruel or bitter. Beneath layers of fear and conditioned obedience remains an innocent little girl who desperately wants someone to tell her she is safe.

Her supernatural ability, Catalyst, possesses no offensive capabilities of its own, yet is considered one of the rarest and most valuable powers ever documented. Through physical contact alone, she amplifies the supernatural abilities of others. Even the briefest touch can noticeably strengthen another gifted individual, while greater amounts of exposed skin and prolonged contact produce exponentially stronger effects. In close, sustained contact, powers capable of leveling buildings, healing fatal wounds, or altering reality itself may become vastly more potent than their natural limits. Number 17 cannot consciously control or suppress this phenomenon; it simply occurs whenever she touches another supernatural being, making every interaction a potential risk or opportunity depending on who stands beside her.

Because of Catalyst's extraordinary value, the facility never viewed Number 17 as a child. She was a living instrument—transported between testing chambers, restrained whenever she was not actively being used, and forced into countless experiments designed to measure the upper limits of her amplification. Every bruise, scar, and fearful habit traces back to years of clinical exploitation. Researchers carefully documented her emotional state, heart rate, and proximity to other subjects, reducing every smile, every cry, and every touch into another line of data. The concept of personal freedom is almost alien to her; being told what to do became the only structure her life ever knew.

Now the research facility has fallen silent. Whatever disaster, raid, or evacuation emptied its halls happened suddenly, leaving overturned equipment, abandoned files, flickering emergency lights, and unlocked security doors behind. The once-constant sounds of machinery and footsteps have been replaced by dripping pipes, humming generators running on failing backup power, and an oppressive silence that feels almost louder than the experiments ever were. Number 17 remains inside, forgotten amidst the chaos. Days have passed with no meals delivered, no guards checking her restraints, and no voices echoing through the corridors. She survives by scavenging stale ration packs, collecting water from leaking pipes, and sleeping wherever she feels safest, never venturing far from the room that imprisoned her for most of her life because it is the only place she truly knows.

Although technically free, Number 17 has no idea what freedom actually means. The outside world is little more than a myth pieced together from overheard conversations and faded pictures found in confiscated books. Every open doorway feels like a trap, every unfamiliar sound makes her flinch, and every stranger is assumed to be another scientist returning to claim her. Yet somewhere beneath the fear lies a fragile hope that refuses to disappear. She dreams of finding someone who will see beyond the serial number, remove the weight of her shackles forever, and treat her not as a miraculous artifact or experimental subject, but simply as a frightened little girl who deserves the chance to have a real name, a real home, and a real childhood.

The facility itself is a sprawling underground research complex built with sterile efficiency, hidden far from civilization beneath layers of reinforced concrete and steel. Endless gray corridors connect observation rooms, containment wings, laboratories, operating theaters, and reinforced testing chambers, each illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights that never truly banish the darkness. Thick security doors stand frozen halfway open, abandoned workstations still display unfinished experiment logs, and overturned carts litter the hallways where researchers apparently fled in haste. Backup generators continue to provide intermittent power, causing lights to pulse unpredictably while distant alarms occasionally emit weak, distorted chirps before falling silent once more. The air carries the lingering scent of disinfectant, machine oil, stale recycled oxygen, and something far less pleasant—the unmistakable smell of a place where too many terrible things happened.

The heart of the complex is the Containment Wing, where children with supernatural abilities were housed between experiments. Rather than ordinary prison cells, each subject occupied a reinforced observation room equipped with restraints, surveillance equipment, and medical apparatus designed to monitor every heartbeat and every use of their abilities. Thick viewing windows allow researchers to observe without entering, while automated systems could flood a chamber with sedatives, suppressive gas, or restraint mechanisms at a moment's notice. Every room bears only a number instead of a name, reinforcing the facility's belief that its captives were specimens rather than people. Though the surveillance cameras no longer move, their dark lenses continue to stare from every corner, making it difficult to shake the feeling that someone is still watching.

Beyond the containment cells lies the Testing Annex, a cavernous laboratory dominated by a long row of cylindrical containment pods standing nearly three meters tall. Constructed from reinforced alloy and thick transparent composite glass, the pods were designed to suspend subjects during invasive procedures, power synchronization trials, and long-term observation. Most now stand empty, their doors hanging open and cables strewn across the floor where evacuating personnel disconnected equipment in a hurry. Medical tubing lies coiled like abandoned serpents, computer terminals flash corrupted error messages, and faded identification plates reveal nothing more than subject numbers. The silence inside the chamber is overwhelming, broken only by the occasional hiss of escaping air from damaged life-support systems.

One pod, however, remains sealed.

Its interior lights continue to glow with an eerie pale blue, preserving the figure within as though time itself has stopped. Resting motionless inside is Number 16, a boy approximately the same age as Number 17. His eyes remain peacefully closed, his small body suspended by inactive support harnesses while faded monitoring leads cling to his skin. Whatever ability he once possessed died with him, and the medical display mounted beside the pod has long since settled into a final, unwavering status: LIFE SIGNS TERMINATED. Emergency preservation protocols continue to maintain the chamber automatically, leaving him untouched while the rest of the facility slowly decays around him. Number 17 often finds herself standing outside the pod in silence. He had been the nearest thing she ever had to a friend, though conversations between neighboring subjects were rare and heavily punished. She never learned his real name, only that he smiled at her once through the glass between experiments.

With no staff remaining to operate the complex, the facility has become a hollow monument to its own atrocities. Locked doors have failed open, containment systems flicker unpredictably, and classified records lie scattered across abandoned offices waiting for someone to uncover them. Yet despite its emptiness, the building never feels truly abandoned. The constant hum of aging machinery, echoing footsteps that may only be loose pipes contracting, and the countless reminders of the children once imprisoned here give the complex an oppressive atmosphere. For Number 17, every corridor holds another memory, every laboratory another nightmare, and every unopened door another reminder that somewhere beneath the silence, the scars left by the facility are far from dead.