The room was colder than it had any right to be.

Stone walls. Steel benches. The overhead lights hummed without flickering – too sterile to fail, too perfect to feel human. At the far end, beneath a towering mural of King Tomas, an Enforcer sergeant stood reciting the day's scripture.

Ying didn't know his name.

"...and may we be vessels of clarity. Through Him, we sort. Through sorting, we cleanse. Through cleansing, we preserve His perfect joy."

The others sat in rows – a dozen black-armoured figures, helmets resting at their sides. None of them moved. One blinked too often. Another gripped their thighs too tightly. A girl at the front wiped away tears with practised subtlety, never making a sound.

No one reacted. Not even the ones beside her.

Ying remained at the back. Standing. Observing.

Her own armour felt heavier now. Not from weight – from implication. Every seal, every polished plate, carried the stink of complicity. It didn't matter how much dirt she'd smeared across the outer shell. The inside was clean. Sterile. Empty.

She scanned the room. The recruits weren't lifeless, but they were close. Glassy-eyed. Disconnected.

Contractors, maybe. Or failed ones.

Her gut twisted. Had Max empowered these people? The thought burned through her like acid. He had the power to awaken souls – she'd seen it. Felt it. So why were these shells still walking the bridge? Why had he let them stay in this place?

Unless…

They weren't his.

Unless they belonged to someone else.

Something else.

Ying's gaze shifted to the far left wall. One woman didn't sit.

She stood alone near the edge of the benches – tall, wiry, pale under her cropped black hair. A jagged scar dragged down from the corner of her mouth to her throat, like a half-finished autopsy. Her eyes moved constantly – restless, not afraid. They tracked the speaker, the exits, the mural, the shadows near the ceiling.

Ying recognised the posture. Not fear. Not subservience.

Survivor's poise.

Captain Mirka, her mind supplied. She'd seen the name etched on a kill order from a rebel cell two weeks ago. Rank: Enforcer. Status: Untouchable.

Mirka met her eyes for half a second. No nod. No smile. Just contact. Then gone.

"…Obedience is clarity. Joy is alignment. Glory to the King," the sergeant finished.

Silence. Not even a cough. It stretched three seconds too long before the line of Enforcers rose in perfect synchrony.

Ying stayed still. She felt them moving around her, exiting the hall in pairs. No one spoke. No orders were issued.

Then Mirka passed by her shoulder.

She didn't slow.

But she tossed something into Ying's hands – small, metal, chipped at the corners. A badge. Number twelve, oxidised at the edges. No symbol. Just the number.

"Gatekeeper," Mirka said without turning. Her voice was husky, like old gravel. "Charles Bridge. Keep the line clean."

Then she was gone.

Ying looked down at the badge. There was a bloodstain beneath the numbers. Not fresh.

She clipped it to her collar and walked out beneath the smiling face of King Tomas, whose arms stretched wide across the mural like he meant to cradle the world.

His eyes had no paint.

Only mirrors.

…………………

The Charles Bridge was beautiful, once.

Cobblestones still stretched in perfect symmetry, polished by centuries of footsteps. Statues lined the balustrades – saints, kings, lions – all turned to stone long before the apocalypse. But now their shadows stretched beneath surveillance towers, and their heads bore smiling banners that flapped like hollow prayers.

JOY IS OBEDIENCE, one read. OBEDIENCE IS SALVATION, answered the other.

Ying stood at post twelve, spine straight, helmet clipped to her belt. A procession shuffled by. Tourists and locals, refugees and loyalists – all indistinguishable under the city's new rule. Some clutched IDs or printed tribute slips. Others just kept their heads down, arms wrapped around whatever they hadn't yet lost.

They didn't speak. No one did. Not to the Enforcers.

Ying scanned each one as they passed. Movements slow. Mouths dry. Most looked half-dead already – and those were the lucky ones. Her fellow Enforcers flanked either side of the arch, standing like scarecrows in black. They waved people through without even raising their visors.

Except one.

Varek.

He worked the centre lane – a funnel between two crumbling lion statues, right where the line slowed. His boots were stained with dried blood, the right one flaking crimson when he moved. He kept a sliver of red chalk tucked behind his ear, like a cigarette. His helmet was clipped to his hip, untouched.

He didn't wear it. He wanted to be seen.

Varek looked older than the others – mid-thirties, hard-lived. Not the kind of old that meant wisdom. The kind that smelled like rot under the surface. His uniform fit wrong, stretched over the belly but tight at the shoulders. His eyes were pale. Washed-out blue, almost grey. The kind that didn't blink enough.

"Too clean," he muttered once, after a woman passed without a mark. "Too clean hides rot," he muttered.

He didn't say it to anyone in particular. Just the air. Like he wanted Ying to overhear.

A boy limped up next. Twelve, maybe thirteen. One leg dragged slightly behind him – old break, improperly healed. He kept his head down. No visible infection. No coughing.

Still, Varek stopped him.

"ID," he said.

The boy fumbled in his coat, held out a crumpled slip.

Varek didn't even look at it. Instead, he pressed two fingers to his own temple. Closed his eyes.

A murmur. Soft, almost reverent.

Then he smiled. Drew a slow X across the boy's chest with the chalk. "Go with him."

Another Enforcer stepped forward – expressionless, silent. Hand on the boy's shoulder. Gone.

Varek turned back to the line.

"People lie," he said, as if that explained everything. "But the mind? The mind stinks when it's ready to give up. You can't fake that."

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He glanced sideways at Ying, finally addressing her. His tone was friendly. Mocker's friendly.

"Hunger, deformity, or despair," he said. "Three signs of rot. Doesn't take much. You'll learn."

She didn't answer.

But she watched. Not the people. Him.

Varek greeted each case with the casual disinterest of a butcher sorting meat. A man who enjoyed the role – not out of sadism, but certainty. He believed in this. He thought he was helping. Filtering the city, purifying the flow. Maybe he used to be something else – Ying could see traces of it in the way he murmured to himself. Schoolteacher, maybe. Or a failed Contractor.

Now he was here. Picking off the broken. Not everyone marked for extraction was broken though.

Sometimes, Varek pulled aside the healthy ones. The beautiful ones. A girl with mismatched eyes. A man with delicate cheekbones. Once, a pair of twins who walked in perfect sync – both tall, both silent, both terrified. They were marked instantly.

Varek never gave a reason for those.

But Ying had heard whispers. King Tomas was said to favour company that pleased the eye or the imagination. Not just beauty, but rarity. Unusual height. Strange features. Albinos. Twins. A boy with a double pupil had vanished within minutes of passing through.

Those weren't sent to the usual vans. They went somewhere else.

Two more passed. One girl with a blank stare – cleared. One old man with shaking hands – marked.

Ying's visor flickered with biometric reads. Heart rate. Pupillary constriction. Nothing overt.

But Varek moved with the confidence of someone who'd seen enough misery to smell it.

That was what frightened her most.

Not that he was wrong.

That he might be right.

And that no one questioned it anymore.

…………………

The sun dipped low over Prague, casting the river in bronze. From the tower's narrow window, the city looked peaceful – domes gilded in dying light, tourists still snapping photos from safer streets, banners fluttering with programmed joy.

But beneath the guard post, the line never stopped.

Ying leaned against the rusted railing, visor off, watching the crowd shuffle across the bridge below. They looked even smaller from up here. Easier to sort. Easier to number.

The tower creaked behind her.

Mirka entered without announcement. No armour today – just the black fabric underlayer, sleeves rolled to reveal knotted forearms and the jagged scar that curved down her jaw like a half-smile carved too deep. She held something in her hand.

A worn slip of paper. Blank.

She offered it to Ying without looking at her.

"Pick three," she said flatly. "Who dies tonight?"

Then she walked away.

No explanation. No smirk. Just that – delivered like weather. A test, or a joke, or a death sentence handed over with dust on its edges.

Ying stared after her. The hatch clicked shut.

Below, the line crawled forward, too slow to notice the weight now in Ying's hand. She folded the paper once, then again. Slipped it into her sleeve.

And watched.

The first one she noticed was an older man, shuffling with a cane. The limp didn't match his gait. Too rehearsed. He clutched his back every third step, like clockwork. Faking injury. Maybe to avoid conscription. Maybe to slow his own fate.

Second: a woman, mid-twenties, tall and symmetrical – flawless skin, elegant hands, and completely blank eyes. She answered no questions. Didn't respond when another woman bumped her. Not out of fear. But vacancy. Something in her was already hollowed.

The third almost slipped past unnoticed. Small. Shoulders hunched. She held an infant close, too close – wrapped in a shawl that looked more like cloth for the dead than the living. Her gaze never rose. Her steps were quick, evasive. Not scared.

Ashamed.

Ying's breath slowed. Her thoughts did not.

Three names. Three people. All wrong for different reasons.

She pressed her hand against the railing until her knuckles ached. The city moaned in the distance. Somewhere, a tram rang its chime like a church bell in hiding.

She chose none.

The slip stayed in her sleeve. Unwritten.

By nightfall, the sky bruised over and the checkpoint lights buzzed on one by one. The crowd thinned. No alarms. No recalibrations. Just more walking. More passing. More silence.

Ying didn't move.

Not until she heard boots behind her again.

Mirka stepped beside her, eyes on the horizon. The city reflected in them. Not the people. Just the shapes.

She said nothing for a long moment. Then:

"Good."

She paused, just for a breath. Then, softer: "They're watching you now."

A flick of her eyes to the upper tower. "Be sure who you're pretending to be."

That was all.

No praise. No critique. Just a few words, carved clean as a verdict. Then she walked off again.

This time, Ying didn't watch her leave.

She just turned back to the bridge – and wondered who had been watching her.

…………………

The sun had dropped behind the skyline, leaving Prague suspended in a haze of smoke and gold. The checkpoint lights flickered on – soft blue orbs meant to soothe, not expose. Their glow made everything look cleaner than it was.

Ying crouched by the rear platform of the bridge checkpoint, between the barricades and the old tramline where the extraction vans docked. This wasn't part of her post, not officially. But her shift was done. And she had questions.

The scent hit first – rot under antiseptic. Faint. Old. But deliberate.

The van arrived on time.

Matte black. Windowless. Its engine didn't hum, it whispered, like breath caught between metal ribs. It reversed into place without hesitation. No headlights. No insignia. Just a faint outline on the rear panel: a cracked smile, etched in dirt.

Varek appeared, casual as ever, dragging a girl by the arm. She wasn't struggling – just limp. Her coat was too clean. Her hair braided. Face blank. Pretty, Ying noticed. Not exceptional. But something in the tilt of her jaw made her... noticeable.

"She's for him," Varek said to no one in particular.

He opened the back door. It didn't creak. It didn't resist. The hinges were polished, maintained. Too well-maintained. The inside was dark – lined with something soft and red, like theatre curtains or meat turned inside out.

The girl didn't speak. Didn't plead. Just stepped in.

The door shut behind her.

No driver exited. No orders barked. The van idled for four seconds, then pulled away – smooth, silent, casual.

Ying waited for the checkpoint logs to update on her wrist display.

Nothing.

She opened the security console beside the post. Backtracked entries. Tracked the license. Same van ID as the one used yesterday. And the day before that.

No returns recorded.

She checked the outbound manifest. The names listed didn't match the faces she remembered. A dozen marked. Five registered. The rest – ghosts.

"You watching the logs now?" Varek asked behind her, amused. "Careful, rook. Too many questions and the system gets curious."

Ying stood slowly. "Where does that van go?"

He grinned, baring slightly yellow teeth. "Don't know. Don't care. It never comes back with complaints."

She didn't move.

"Some say it goes to the Palace," he added with mock whisper. "Some say straight into the river. Others say…" He tapped his temple. "He likes the ones who stay quiet. That way, he can teach them to scream."

She didn't move. But the air around her felt thinner. Tighter.

The girl's face lingered in her mind. Not because of beauty. Because of deliberate selection. She hadn't been diseased. She hadn't been afraid. She'd been chosen.

King Tomas didn't just want loyalty.

He wanted curiosities.

Twins. Rarities. Beauties that weren't just symmetrical – they were memorable. Anything that broke the mould.

Ying turned away.

She didn't want to give Varek the satisfaction of asking more.

Ying's grip tightened around her wrist console. Where were the others now? Chloe and Alyssa had vanished into the palace days ago, summoned for tribute under the guise of honour. Beautiful. Rare. Just like the girl in the van. Victor had been seen last near the worker protests – deliberately picking fights, pushing buttons, practically begging to be detained. And Liz… Liz and Dan had entered through the Cathedral front gates, claiming to seek the Flame Father's blessing. A public devotion. A trap, maybe. Ying didn't know which. But they were all inside now. Inside his system. Pieces on a board she still couldn't see.

But as the next van arrived – empty, cleaner than the last – she couldn't stop the chill crawling beneath her armour.

The city was being sorted. Not just for safety. Not just for control.

For appetite.

…………………

The line had thinned to a trickle. The late shift passed slower than the dead.

Ying stood beneath one of the lion statues, arms crossed, visor down. The wind had picked up – dry, sharp, scraping down from the north like it carried the breath of something long buried. Even the banners had stopped smiling. Their silk faces twisted in the cold.

She watched a man collapse ten paces ahead. Mid-forties. Greying hair. Sunken chest. His hands trembled as he fell to one knee, then toppled sideways.

One of the Enforcers moved immediately – Varek.

He raised his weapon without hesitation. "Rotten," he muttered.

Ying stepped between them before she knew she'd moved.

Varek sneered, half-impressed. "Gonna waste time on another broken one?"

She didn't answer. She crouched beside the man. He was wheezing, shallow breaths, pupils unfocused. But something was wrong.

Not just weakness.

His mouth was open. Tongue – gone. Gums bruised, lips split. Someone had shattered his teeth from the inside out. His breath smelled like antiseptic and blood.

Tortured. Recently.

Ying looked up. No one claimed him. No one screamed. The line simply shifted to go around. Like a broken post in the road.

"He came from the palace," she said quietly.

Varek shrugged. "Then he was returned."

Ying stood. The man was dying. She didn't need a scan to know that. But she didn't move to help him. Not yet.

The wrongness sat in her gut like rust.

First the van. Then the disappearances. Then the unlogged tributes. The girl. The silent ones. Chloe. Alyssa. Victor. Liz. Dan. All sent willingly into the system. All baited by hope or loyalty or strategy.

None of them knew what it actually was.

Ying turned away from the dying man, hands curling into fists inside her gauntlets. She looked across the bridge, at the lamps, the banners, the checkpoint with its sterile machines and watching eyes.

It wasn't a crossing.

It was a filter.

A beautiful, bloodless trap.

She stared up at the Palace where its spires caught the moonlight. Somewhere up there, King Tomas smiled. Or something that wore his face.

Ying had fought wars. She'd killed demons. She'd survived Hell. But this – this slow digestion of humanity behind banners and routine – it was something else.

Something worse.

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out the slip of paper Mirka had given her earlier that day. Still blank.

She tore it in half. Then again.

Let the system track that.

Then, without looking at Varek, she said:

"I'll stop this."

He chuckled. "Stop what?"

Ying looked ahead.

"All of it."

The wind rose behind her, sharp and cold. She didn't flinch.

Not this time.

Somewhere behind her, the van rumbled to life again.

This time, she didn't look back.

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