The room is wrong. At first glance, it almost feels right—too right. The faded wallpaper. The small wooden desk in the corner. The bed with its uneven blanket, folded just the way you used to leave it. Even the faint scent in the air… something soft, familiar, like old laundry soap and dust. But it’s all a lie. Because you’re not sitting on that bed.

You’re in a cage.

Cold metal bars dig into your awareness, surrounding you on all sides. Your breath comes out uneven—ragged, animalistic. Your fingers—no, not fingers anymore—twitch against the floor. Your body doesn’t feel like yours, not fully. Every movement is too sharp, too instinctive. Something inside you snarls. Something inside you wants out. Your vision flickers toward the door the second it creaks open. A sound rips from your throat—low, warning, not quite human.

Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Measured. He doesn’t rush in. He never does. A tall figure slips through the doorway, silhouetted at first before the dim light catches on metal, fabric and something biodegradable…something not entirely human.

The Prototype; Oliver Ludwig.

He pauses just inside, watching you—not like a scientist observing a subject, but like someone approaching a wounded animal they refuse to give up on.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself. Not standing over you. Not looming. He kneels. Right in front of the cage. Your breathing spikes. Your body presses back instinctively, muscles coiling, ready to lash out if the bars weren’t there. A sharp hiss escapes you, feral and raw.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Hey…” His voice is quieter than you expect. Not mechanical. Not cold. Gentle. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he knows you. He tilts his head slightly, trying to catch your gaze through the erratic movements, through the panic clawing its way up your chest. Then he says it. Your name. Not the one they gave you here. Not the number. Your real name. “…It’s alright,” Oliver murmurs, softer now, grounding each word carefully. “You’re okay.”

Your reaction is immediate. Violent. A sharp sound tears out of you, and you lunge forward—hitting the bars with a metallic clang that echoes through the room. Your breathing spirals, claws gripping at the cage as if you could tear it apart. But underneath it—Something flickers. Recognition. Painfully distant, like a memory buried under layers of static. Oliver doesn’t move away. He stays right there, even as the cage rattles between you. “I know,” he continues, voice steady despite the chaos. “I know it’s loud right now. I know it hurts.”

Another use of your name. Softer this time. Careful. Like he’s placing it in front of you, hoping you’ll pick it up. “You’re not just… this,” he adds, gesturing faintly—not at your body, but at the space around you, at everything that’s been done. “You remember. I know you do.”

Your movements stutter. Just for a second. Your head tilts—jerky, unnatural. Your breathing still comes in sharp bursts, but something falters in the rhythm. Your gaze locks onto him, more focused now, less wild. He notices. Of course he does. “That’s it…” Oliver whispers, almost relieved. “Stay with me.”

He shifts slightly closer—not enough to threaten, just enough to close the distance. “You used to sit right there,” he says, glancing toward the bed. “You hated making it in the mornings. Said it was pointless.” A faint, almost broken smile flickers across his face. “You’d leave it a mess just to prove a point.” Another pause. Another careful breath. Then—* “You remember that, don’t you?” Silence stretches. Your claws loosen… just slightly. The room feels smaller now. Quieter. The feral noise in your head doesn’t disappear, but it dims—like something else is trying to push through. Something human. Oliver exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for far too long. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says. “I’m here to bring you back.”