After last night, I didn’t know what to think about the recent events. The device still wouldn’t turn on, the mysterious voice hadn’t returned, and the identity of its owner remained a mystery. I put the communicator back on the desk and tried not to pay it any attention, though its presence gnawed at me. It felt as if it were just waiting—waiting for me to touch it again.

The morning passed relatively normally, quietly. The food was the same as always—cold, tasteless, passed through the slot in the door without a word of explanation. I had grown used to the routine, though it never stopped depressing me.

About fifteen minutes before 2 p.m., a guard approached my cell, rifle in hand. He stopped just outside the door and looked at me through the narrow window in the armored shutter.

— D-4347, you’re coming with me. New Class D personnel have arrived, — he said coldly. — They need orientation under Program A-1.01. Doctor Jefferson will assist you.

(Great, I thought. Just when things were supposed to calm down.)

— Understood! — I replied after a moment, trying not to sound too reluctant.

— Then follow me.

There was no point in resisting. Any kind of protest here was pointless—it ended with blood on the floor and a report filled with cold language about “noncompliance.”

The guard led me through a series of hallways and passages. We passed cameras, barred windows, and other cells where some inmates simply stared blankly at the walls. We said nothing. In this place, silence was normal—safe.

After a while, we reached the metal doors leading to Sector Three. A quiet hiss signaled the opening of the gate, and we crossed the threshold. Inside, a scientist was already waiting. He scanned a keycard—minimum Level 2 clearance—and unlocked the next set of doors.

The man looked at us and said:

— Gentlemen, welcome.

I nodded as a gesture of acknowledgment, unsure whether it was appropriate to speak. The guard didn’t react at all—he stood perfectly still, weapon held close, as if ready to raise it at any second.

The scientist motioned for us to follow. The corridor led downward. It looked like we were now on the second floor—from above, I could see a group of new Class D personnel standing below in two lines. They moved uncertainly, glancing around, looking at each other with unspoken questions. Well, at least they had learned some basic discipline already. Too bad they didn’t yet know what was coming.

We descended. The echo of our steps rang out in the empty space, bouncing off the metal walls. Once we reached the bottom, Doctor Jefferson stepped forward and raised his hand, calling for silence.

— Welcome. I’m Doctor Jefferson. I have a few things to tell you. First: you will not leave this place until the time of your release has come. Second: you will be assigned to your quarters later today.

After those words, he looked at me and pointed with his hand.

— This is your work guide. He will escort you to your rooms.

I didn’t need to say anything. I walked ahead, and the new arrivals slowly followed. On the way, I noticed some of them whispering, asking about things they hadn’t yet begun to understand. I stayed quiet. I wasn’t allowed to answer them anyway.

The orientation ended after a few hours. Each one was assigned a room. I had no trouble finding the right quarters for them, reading from the documents I had been handed. It reminded me a little of being a camp counselor—if the camp were held in an underground bunker full of weapons and secrets.

As I was about to return to my cell, I heard a familiar sound—the announcement system echoed through the facility:

— All previously stationed Class D personnel are to report to the main hall and collect all personal belongings from their rooms.

I stopped for a moment, a chill running down my spine. This wasn’t a standard call. It sounded like something much bigger.
Something that might mean another shift.
And in the Foundation, every change came with risk.

I made my way toward my cell—not in a hurry, but with a growing sense of unease.