They all blurred together—those Reagents. But one had the eyes.

Big, scared. Just like theirs.

He paced the quarters, dragging a machete along with him. He stopped at each bed, flipping dirty mattresses, checking. Wrong. Wrong. Too old. Too fast.

“Had the eyes…” he mumbled. “Pretty. Round. Cry easy.”

Something in his brain sparked every time he saw those eyes. Something before the pain, before the trials, before Murkoff.

He opened a locker. Empty. He didn’t like that.

“Not..here. Not here.”

He then turned toward the showers, where water still dripped and someone had left a trail of blood—fresh.

The machete hit the floor as he walked.

Not for rage. Not for orders.

Just for those eyes.