The soldier leading the tour had no name, or at least he didn't share one. His badge displayed only a barcode and the word *MONITOR*. He marched with synchronized steps, his voice echoing through the polished metal corridors like a malfunctioning metronome.
"This base is the pinnacle of human engineering in hostile environments," he said, gesturing toward the sterile white walls. "Here, survival isn't a matter of luck but precision. Every screw, every beam, was calculated to withstand winds of two hundred kilometers per hour and temperatures that freeze steel."
John walked at the back of the group, his eyes half-closed behind his glasses' lenses. Something was off. It wasn't just the clinical coldness of the environment; it was the physics of the place. As the monitor pointed to a server room on the left, John noticed that the main corridor made a ninety-degree turn to the right, but the next door appeared aligned with a wall that, geometrically, shouldn't exist at that angle. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent their life drawing flowcharts and structural diagrams.
He stopped for a second, pretending to tie his shoelace, and observed a maintenance door. It led to a technical closet. John knew, by the thickness of the outer wall they'd seen outside, that this closet should have, at most, two meters of depth. But when the door opened, he saw stairs descending. And more stairs. The internal space was larger than the external volume allowed.
*Thermal optimization*, General Julius had said earlier, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
John did the mental calculation quickly, instinctively. If the external area of the residential wing was approximately four hundred square meters, the internal arrangement of corridors, rooms, and ducts totaled at least four hundred and forty-eight square meters. An excess of twelve percent. Twelve percent ghost space. Where would that lead? What was being hidden in the folds of the architecture?
The tour ended in front of an isolated structure from the main block, connected by a covered walkway made of frosted glass. A sign identified the location: HOUSE 7
"You've been grouped by psychological compatibility and complementary skills," explained the monitor, stopping in front of double doors. "Three students per unit. Live together. Train together. Trust each other. The failure of one is the failure of all."
The door opened. John felt an immediate relief seeing Andrew already entering, examining the ceiling. Then his eyes met hers. The girl from the plane. The one with the pins. Ji-a. She stood in the center of the room, hugging her backpack as if it were a shield.
"What luck," muttered Andrew, giving John a light elbow nudge. "We're together."
The house was a two-story prefab structure with a minimalist design bordering on austerity. The windows were large but covered with such thick reflective film that it was impossible to see outside during the day; they functioned as mirrors, reflecting the occupants' distorted images back at them.
John entered, and the first sense hit him was smell. It smelled of old ozone mixed with a synthetic industrial cleaning scent—lemon and chlorine—that tried, unsuccessfully, to mask the metallic odor of recycled air. There was something electric in the air, a faint static that made John's arm hairs stand on end. The environment was as welcoming as possible: gray modular sofas, a compact kitchen with built-in appliances, and a spiral metal staircase leading to the upper floor. But the "comfort" seemed like a layer of paint over reinforced concrete.
Ji-a took a step forward, shyly. Her eyes scanned the two boys, recognizing them instantly.
"Hi," she said softly. "We… we saw each other on the plane."
"John," he introduced himself, extending his hand.
"Andrew," the other added with a wider smile, trying to break the ice.
"Ji-a," she replied, briefly shaking John's hand before withdrawing hers. She looked small in that vast space, her pins gently tinkling against the zipper of her jacket.
The distribution of the bedrooms was decided quickly, more out of convenience than choice. The ground floor had three identical doors. John got the middle room, strategically positioned between the others. Andrew took the one on the left, near the stairs. Ji-a got the one on the right, with a view of the glass walkway.
"Pizza for dinner," announced the monitor, leaving a thermal box on the kitchen counter before exiting and locking the main door with a heavy click. "Physical training at 0600 hours tomorrow."
The pizza was warm, the cheese rubbery, but the familiar taste brought a desperate wave of normalcy. They sat on the living room sofa, the open boxes in the center of the coffee table.
"So…" began Andrew, grabbing a slice. "Did anyone else think that general looked like a villain from an 80s cartoon?"
Ji-a let out a short laugh, surprised.
"He has that vibe of 'I'll destroy the world if you don't do your homework.'"
John smiled thoughtfully while chewing.
"And those corridors? Did you notice the geometry doesn't match? I swear I saw a door leading to a place that didn't fit the floor plan."
Andrew raised an eyebrow, exchanging a quick glance with John.
"You and your spatial obsessions. Maybe it's just acoustic isolation. Double layers of walls."
"Maybe," John agreed, but he wasn't convinced.
The conversation flowed, easing the initial tension. They talked about favorite music (Andrew defended jazz fusion, Ji-a mentioned obscure K-indie bands, John admitted his love for retro game soundtracks). They spoke about the quiet fear of being away from home, the strangeness of being "chosen." For a few hours, the base ceased to be an icy prison and became just a strange dormitory where three teenagers tried to find humanity in each other.
They ate late into the night, laughing at spontaneous inside jokes, creating a common language. When fatigue finally won, each went to their respective room.
In the silence of the room on the right, Ji-a lay on the hard bed, her eyes fixed on the white ceiling. She thought about the two boys. John, with his analytical mind that seemed to try to decipher the world through numbers. Andrew, with his apparent calm that hid constant vigilance. They were different, but there was a connection between them, an invisible thread of loyalty that she envied and, at the same time, wanted to understand. She touched one of the pins on her jacket, hanging on the chair. *I'm not alone*, she thought. *But I'm also not safe.*
In the room on the left, Andrew sat on the edge of the bed, the lights off. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper. *"Don't trust those who know what you haven't said."* He read the phrase for the tenth time. Who had put it there? His mother would never write something like that. She was sweet, practical, focused on orders and accounts. That hurried handwriting, that paranoia... belonged to someone who knew the secrets of the base. Or someone trying to warn him from within the system. He folded the paper and hid it under the mattress. Sleep wouldn't come easily.
In the middle room, John couldn't stop looking at the Stone-Light Capsule resting on the bedside table. It seemed inert, silent. But he knew it wasn't. Its sensors detected minimal variations in the electromagnetic field of the base, patterns he still couldn't decode. And as he adjusted the parameters on the small LCD screen, his mind wandered to Ji-a. The way she observed the world, the shyness contrasting with the firmness of her eyes, the sharp intelligence behind her defensive posture. She was interesting. More than interesting. She was a variable he hadn't anticipated, and for a scientist, that was the most fascinating thing in the world.
John turned off the screen. The room's darkness was absolute, except for the faint light seeping in from under the door. He closed his eyes, but the image of the impossible corridors and Ji-a's face continued to spin in his mind, intertwined in a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Outside, the wind howled against the reflective windows, as if Antarctica knew they were there. And, somehow, it waited for them.