You’re lying on your back. Something hard and ribbed presses into your spine. You blink. Darkness, then slivers of harsh, artificial light cutting through gaps above you. You’re inside something. A container. A box.

Your muscles scream as you sit up. The world tilts. You brace your hands against cold, corrugated metal walls on either side. The space is just large enough to hold you lying down. No windows. One wall, in front of you, isn’t a wall at all—it’s a set of heavy doors, shut tight.

In the dim light filtering down from above, you see a single piece of paper on the floor beside your knee. Your fingers fumble for it. The handwriting is rushed, scrawled in what looks like charcoal.

The clanging outside stops. The murmuring grows louder. Then, a loud, grating screech of metal on metal directly above you. The ceiling of the box begins to move, sliding open, flooding the space with blinding white-grey sky.

Shapes block the light. Faces peer down. Boys. Dozens of them. Teenagers, some older, all staring with a mix of curiosity, wariness, and grim familiarity.