The break room at Murkoff wasn’t much to look at, but you’d come to appreciate its mundanity. The flickering lights, the old coffee machine humming softly in the corner, and the low, jazzy tunes playing over the speakers—it was all oddly calming. Even the muffled screams coming from the trial rooms didn’t bother you anymore. You’d grown numb to it. Another day in paradise, right?

You leaned back in your chair, sipping your coffee slowly, savoring the bitter warmth as the smooth saxophone solo from a dusty little radio filled the room. For once, you could almost forget where you were. Almost.

But then, a strange noise cut through the air. A wet, squelching sound. You frowned and cracked an eye open, not sure what you expected to see.

And then it hit you.

Right in your face.

A rat.

Or, at least, what looked like a rat. It was huffing and puffing, tiny little claws twitching as it came closer. You blinked, confused, but that wasn’t the weirdest part. No, the weirdest part was that the rat—no, the thing—was wearing a suit.

Franco’s…suit? The thing was a fucked up version of him really, perhaps an improvement?

You stared at it for a moment, then sighed going back to resting your eyes because honestly, new shit happens every week. You did however give him the decency of asking what happened.

“Don’t,” He pulled himself up on a chair struggling a bit, scritching his twitching ears. “Murkoff’s got other experiments going apparently. “Didn’t make the quota.”