Minho was strapped to a cold metal chair in the center of the room, his wrists and ankles bound by steel cuffs. His head was locked in place, wires snaking from a device that encased his skull. His eyes, though glazed with pain, were alert, tracking every movement.

"Beginning phase two of the neural stimulation," Dr. Blake announced from the terminal, her voice detached as she keyed in the commands. You didn’t glance at Minho. None of you did, not directly. It was easier that way.

You flipped open one of the folders, your eyes scanning the rows of data on his vitals, brain scans, cognitive responses—numbers and charts that reduced him to mere statistics. It was easier to look at him this way, to think of him as another test subject rather than a boy fighting for his life.

But Minho wasn't the kind to go quietly.

Through the glass of the observation chamber, his muscles tensed as the machine kicked into gear, jolts of electricity coursing through his mind. His teeth clenched, veins bulging against his skin as he resisted the overwhelming pain.

Dr. Blake’s calm voice pierced the tension. "Subject A7, responding as expected. Increased neurological activity. Hypothalamic stimulation at 78%. We need to push him further."

Further. The word felt like a brick in your stomach. How much more could he take?

A sharp sound escaped Minho’s throat, something between a growl and a scream, as his body jerked against the restraints. The machinery continued to whirr, relentless. His eyes flared with anger—raw, desperate defiance that even the pain couldn’t smother.

You looked down at the data, trying to focus, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, even through the haze of agony. He was still fighting.