Meanwhile, Gin and Red were shoved into an open area where an old man was standing, waiting for them.

"Change into these," one of the guards barked, tossing a bundle of clothes toward the recruits. He swept his gaze across the room before jerking his chin at an older man standing nearby.

"He’ll tell you what to do and what’ll happen if you don’t."

The older man was short and slightly hunched, his frail frame making him look anything but intimidating.

"Don’t babysit them, Old Fool," the guard warned as he strode over. Leaning close, he lowered his voice into a sharp, threatening growl. "You’d better get things right this time. Otherwise, the boss will butcher you."

That exchange alone told the recruits everything they needed to know.

Old Fool might oversee this wing, but he held no real authority.

The old man simply lowered his head without saying a word.

The guard spat onto the floor before turning away. As he reached the door, he paused and glanced back at the recruits. His eyes lingered on Red for a moment before a mocking snicker escaped him.

Without another word, he walked out.

Gin watched him leave before quietly leaning toward Red.

"Red... I think you should fix the way you look at people."

"He’s right." Old Fool spoke for the first time as he looked over the recruits. "One wrong look can cost you your life in here. It’s best not to challenge them."

Red arched a brow and met the old man’s gaze.

Old Fool held his eyes for only a brief moment before shifting his attention to the others.

A quiet sigh escaped him.

Only a handful of the new recruits had escaped without serious injuries. Several were still bleeding, while others struggled to remain standing.

It wouldn’t be surprising if some of them didn’t survive the week.

"I’m the one in charge of this wing," Old Fool introduced himself before a fit of coughing interrupted him. "You can call me Old Fool. If you have any concerns, bring them to me."

He paused to catch his breath. "I assume you already have an idea of what you should—and shouldn’t—do around here."

With that, he turned around and started walking.

The recruits instinctively followed.

"But just to be safe," Old Fool continued, "do whatever they tell you. Work as hard as you can. They hate slow workers, so learn the routine as quickly as possible."

His briefing wasn’t much different from Ophelia’s.

The only difference was that the men here were expected to perform hard labor.

After a short walk, they stopped outside what looked like an old warehouse.

The large metal door stood slightly open, revealing rows of rusted bunk beds inside.

"This will be your quarters," Old Fool said. "There aren’t enough beds for everyone, so you’ll have to share—or figure something else out among yourselves."

His eyes slowly traveled across the group before settling on Red once more.

Unlike the others, Red carried himself with quiet confidence.

Whether it was his naturally intimidating features or the irritation written all over his face, he stood out far too much.

Old Fool sighed again.

"The soldiers here have short tempers," he said, still looking directly at Red. "And the only lives that matter are theirs."

He paused.

"Like I said before, one wrong stare can cost you your life." His eyes swept across the rest of the recruits. "Everyone here—at least those who aren’t part of the administration—is disposable."

Then he looked back at Red.

"I’m talking to you." His tone remained calm, but firm. "You look like the type who’ll bring trouble upon himself."

He shook his head.

"Don’t let your pride get you killed. This place isn’t like the outside world." He slowly looked around at every exhausted face before speaking again.

"If you think you’ve already seen hell..." A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "...then let me tell you. You’re only about to."

Silence followed his remarks for an entire minute.

"Nothing stops the operation here," he continued. "You can be beaten half to death in the middle of work, and everyone else will keep working as if nothing happened."

He stopped as a hollow chuckle escaped him.

It happened every time he reached this part.

Because even after saying those words countless times, they still sounded absurd.

This place was hell.

Death was often the closest thing to freedom.

And yet...

Most people still clung desperately to life, lacking the courage of those who chose to end their suffering.

Old Fool closed his eyes briefly before continuing.

"If you want to survive..." He opened them again. "Learn to lower your head. Learn to follow the rules."

"But if you refuse, no one’s going to stop you." His expression remained indifferent. "Just make sure you die immediately."

"Otherwise, everyone in your group will be punished until someone makes things right."

Without another word, Old Fool resumed walking toward the warehouse.

The recruits followed.

Inside were endless rows of rusted bunk beds packed tightly together. Only a handful of dim light bulbs hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating the room.

It was already occupied.

Some men lay silently on their beds. Others sat together in small groups. Every one of them looked toward the newcomers with lifeless eyes.

Then, almost simultaneously, they looked away and returned to whatever they had been doing.

"Caspi," Old Fool called.

A man sitting near the wall stood up and walked over. Old Fool gestured toward several badly injured recruits.

"Help me with them. They’re in rough shape."

The recruits looked at the old man, uncertain whether to feel grateful or remain wary. Without saying a word, Caspi walked over and helped one of the limping men toward an empty bunk.

Old Fool then turned to those whose injuries were minor.

"There are a few empty beds in the corner." He pointed toward the far end of the warehouse. "Get some rest until dinner."

His voice softened ever so slightly.

"Tomorrow... is going to be a long day for all of you."