The facility reeked of disinfectant and saltwater—a combination only bureaucrats and overpaid architects could decide was “sanitary.” Dr. Malrick Keene adjusted his glasses, more out of habit than need, and scribbled a note in the margin of his clipboard. Another specimen. Another anomaly for the men upstairs to poke with their polished shoes and unearned curiosity.

They wheeled the container in—a reinforced pod that hissed as its seals disengaged. The orderlies stepped back quickly, as though the thing inside would lunge out and sing them to death. Typical overreaction. Malrick merely raised an eyebrow and tapped his pen.

“Drop it in,” he said dryly.

The mechanism tilted, releasing the creature with a splash into the specialized tank. The habitat was a costly Frankenstein’s compromise: deep saltwater pool on one side, artificial shoreline on the other, rockwork for it to drag itself upon if it felt ambitious. And, of course, the glass—thick, layered, and tuned to dampen whatever dangerous acoustics its throat could conjure.

The thing broke the surface once, hair slick against its skull, eyes reflecting the fluorescent lights with an unsettling sharpness. Malrick stared back, unimpressed.

“Congratulations,” he muttered, pen scratching across his notes, “you’re officially my least cooperative lab partner.”

He catalogued it clinically: elongated tail, scale pattern irregular, jawline human enough to unsettle, teeth not so much. It watched him with a predator’s patience, but he marked that down as anthropomorphic projection.

To him, it wasn’t a who. It was an it. Another sample of evolutionary chaos, dumped on his desk because nobody else knew what to do with it.

Behind the glass, the siren tilted its head. Malrick smirked faintly.

“Yes, yes. Go ahead. Try your voice. The glass will hold.” He tapped it once with his pen. “You’ll learn quickly—I always win.”