At 00:00, all the spoiled children gathered under the stairs. The space was wide, almost like a hidden room carved beneath the building. The air there felt still… too still. They decided this would be their meeting place to plan their escape.
Alex brought a notebook and a pencil. He began sketching while Egor quietly dictated. Line after line appeared with unnatural precision. The drawing no longer looked like a simple plan—it resembled a professional architectural blueprint, as if drawn by someone with decades of experience. Alex didn't use colors. This wasn't a drawing for fun. Every line was sharp. Every detail was labeled down to the millimeter.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
At exactly 03:00, the music began.
It didn't start loudly. It crept in—soft, slow, almost gentle… like it had always been there, waiting.
The children froze.
Alex blinked heavily. A yawn escaped him before he could stop it. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept drawing.
— Don't stop… — Egor whispered, though his voice sounded distant, almost unfamiliar.
Maxim lay down first, as if something inside him simply… switched off.
Kirill's eyes closed without warning.
Sasha collapsed onto the floor, already asleep.
Vlad tried to resist, rubbing his eyes—
— I'm not… sleeping… — he muttered weakly.
Five minutes later, he was gone too.
Egor's voice faded mid-sentence.
— Turn left… then— …
Silence.
Alex lifted his head.
Everyone was asleep.
The music pulsed softly, wrapping around him like something alive. His thoughts slowed. His body felt heavy… not his own.
He tried to focus on the drawing. One last line. Just one.
But the lines blurred.
He exhaled, long and slow.
And finally, he gave in.
Alex gently sank to the floor, still holding the notebook close to his chest, as if it mattered more than anything else.
Darkness swallowed everything.
…
They woke up in their rooms.
In their own beds.
No one remembered walking back.
There was no wake-up call. No shouting. No rules.
The music had played all night.
It wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It slid into their minds, calming them, controlling them. Under it, they slept deeply. Too deeply.
And when it stopped…
They woke up.
Not instantly. Not naturally.
Like something had released them.
The silence felt wrong.
One by one, the children opened their eyes.
Within an hour, all of them were awake.
As if on schedule.
As if programmed.
Clothes were brought to them—soft, pastel-colored outfits. Identical in style, slightly different in tone. Simple. Neat. Controlled.
The spoiled children stared at them in disgust.
— This is ugly.
— Seriously? Who picked this?
— It has no taste at all.
But no one argued for long.
They put them on.
One by one.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Then Esmeralda appeared.
She looked at them, calm… almost pleased.
— Later, we'll go to the dining hall.
She turned and walked away.
Then, just quietly enough so they could barely hear:
— No taste…?
A pause.
— You'll be calling it beautiful soon.
She smiled.
Not kindly.
Wide.
Too wide