The facility gave off a different kind of cold.
The concrete walls held the night's dampness even though the rain had stopped hours ago, and the fluorescent lights overhead kept buzzing as if they were about to give up. Rows of narrow metal beds filled the room. Some had blankets. Some didn't.
Most of the children were awake.
A small boy near the wall had pulled his blanket up to his chin. Another child sat on the floor beside a bed, crying so quietly that the sound was almost lost beneath the lights. Somewhere farther down the room, someone kept asking for their mother.
No one answered.
NánLín walked past them without hurrying.
Her red robe brushed lightly against her ankles with each step. The pattern woven into the fabric was old-fashioned, the sort of Taoist design that looked decorative until one knew what the markings meant. Her hair was tied into a low bun, and a few strands had come loose near her cheek.
She had been here for hours. Long enough for some of the children to stop asking when they were going home.
That was when she heard the boy again.
"Mom..."
His voice cracked.
"I want to go home."
Nán Lín stopped.
The child was maybe seven or eight. His knees were pulled against his chest, and he was trying very hard not to cry again. It wasn't working.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "Why are we here?"
Another child started crying, then another. The room slowly filled with the sound.
Nán Lín closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, the cold had already begun gathering around her right hand. She raised it.
Ice spread across the concrete wall beside her with a sharp crack.
The children jumped.
A thin layer of frost crawled several feet across the wall before stopping. No one spoke.
Nán Lín lowered her hand.
"Enough."
She didn't need to raise her voice.
A child sniffed.
Nán Lín looked over.
"If you want to cry, cry," she said. "I won't stop you."
Several faces lifted.
"But don't expect crying to change anything."
The boy stared at her.
She walked over and crouched in front of him. His eyes were red.
"You're scared?"
He nodded.
"Of course you are."
He seemed surprised by the answer.
Nán Lín glanced toward the sealed metal door at the other end of the room.
"You don't know where you are. You don't know who brought you here. You don't know what's going to happen next."
Her gaze returned to him.
"That's enough to scare anyone."
The boy's lips trembled.
"Then what do I do?"
Nán Lín was quiet for a moment.
"Control what you can."
He didn't understand. She could tell. So she pointed toward his hands.
"Your breathing.. Your hands.. Your thoughts.. Start there."
The boy looked down. His fingers were shaking.
Nán Lín held out her own hand. The cold around her fingertips faded.
"Slowly."
He tried. His first breath came too fast.
"Again."
He breathed in. This time, slower.
"Good."
She stood up.
Around the room, the other children had begun watching.
Nán Lín looked at them.
"None of you know what happens next. Neither do I."
That drew a few confused looks.
She continued before anyone could ask.
"But you're here now. So stop wasting energy on things you can't control."
A girl near the back wiped her face.
"Are they going to kill us?"
The question changed the room.
Nán Lín looked at her.
"No."
The answer came too quickly. The girl stared. Nán Lín's expression remained unchanged, though a slight smirk threatened to form on her lips.
"Not tonight."
It wasn't the reassurance the girl wanted but it was honest.
The children settled little by little. Not because they felt safe. But they simply had something else to focus on.
Nán Lín returned to the center of the room. Her eyes moved across the beds.
These children were newly awakened. That was why they had been brought here.
Some would learn quickly. Some wouldn't. Some would spend months fighting their own power before they understood what it was doing to them.
Fear made that worse. She knew that much.
She had seen enough people lose control because they were afraid of what they could do.
Her fingers curled slightly. A thin line of frost formed along her knuckle, then disappeared. One of the older children noticed.
"Are you a Specialist too?"
Nán Lín looked at him.
"Yes."
"What kind?"
She considered him.
"Ice."
The boy looked toward the frost still clinging to the wall.
"Can you teach us?"
Nán Lín's gaze shifted toward the others.
"Not tonight."
"Why?"
"Because you don't even know how to sit still yet."
The boy looked offended. A few of the younger children almost laughed.
Nán Lín noticed. She didn't smile, but the tension in her face eased slightly.
"Sleep."
A girl raised her hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?"
Nán Lín paused.
She could have given the easy answer. Instead, she said, "If I'm assigned here."
The girl lowered her hand.
Nán Lín walked toward the door.
Behind her, the room had gone quiet.
For the first time that night, no one cried, they were listening for something other than their own fear. Someone quietly asked another child whether they were really allowed to sleep.
The door opened. Cold air from the corridor slipped inside.
Nán Lín stepped out and pulled it shut behind her. The moment the door closed, her expression slightly changed.
Behind the closed door, the children were still awake.