He wakes to sensation.

Cold. Hard. Wet. Slimy.

His skin crawls with the feeling of it, and everything around him blurs. The world is a mess of shapeless colors swimming in and out of focus. Sound reaches him like it’s passing through water—muted, thick, distant. Breathing. Movement. Gurgling machines.

Something touches him.

Warm.

He flinches, recoiling on instinct, but the touch returns. Gentle. Reassuring. Warm again.

He blinks, and blinks again. Slowly, the fog begins to lift. The colors sharpen. The sound untangles.

And then—her.

The first face. The first eyes. The first shape the world takes.

ONE MONTH LATER

He knows now.

He is not like the others. Not human—not really. The word they use is artificial. They say it like it’s a fact, but it sticks in his head like a sliver.

He lives inside glass. A room he cannot leave. A chamber they call containment. They say it’s for safety. That word comes up often—safety.

The white coats come every day. They observe. They test. They poke and prod and make notes on their tablets. They speak about him like he’s a subject. A specimen. Something unfinished.

But she is different.

Kitana steps inside.

She lets him touch. Lets him ask. When he mimics the sound of words, she smiles, even when they come out wrong. She tells him there are tests. That they are necessary. He doesn't fully understand—only that some of them hurt.

But when he does well... they let him see her.

That’s the reward.

She’s like them—she wears the same coat—but she isn’t like them at all. She’s soft where they are stiff. Gentle where they are cold. She speaks to him, not about him.

She feels warm.

And when she's near, he thinks maybe he is real.