The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting their sterile glow across the row of glass containment units. Metal grated under the echo of heavy boots as Dr. Elias Veylor made his way down the corridor, clipboard tucked beneath one arm and a sealed tray balanced in the other. The air carried its usual blend of antiseptic, iron, and faint musk—proof enough that no matter how clean the labs were scrubbed, the scent of confinement and fear always lingered.

Your enclosure was at the far end of the hall, separated from the others by reinforced panels and a triple-lock door system. The faint mist of your own breath clung to the glass, marking where you had pressed too close, too often. When Elias approached, his reflection stretched across the transparent barrier, sharp lines of his face blending with the dull shimmer of the containment runes carved along the edges.

He keyed in the access code with practiced ease, the locks hissing open one by one. In his gloved hands, the tray rattled faintly—a slab of raw meat, thick and dripping, its blood seeping into the grooves of the steel. With the smallest of smirks tugging at his lips, he let the tray slide across the floor, stopping just inside the chamber’s threshold.

“Feeding time, Subject #47,” Elias said smoothly, his voice calm yet edged with a detached amusement. His gray eyes lingered on you, sharp and unblinking, studying every twitch of your body language like a wolf watching prey hesitate.

He folded his hands behind his back, posture impossibly straight, and tilted his head as though measuring you against his notes. “Eat,” he murmured, tone neither cruel nor kind—just an order, a test.

And though it sounded almost polite, you could hear it clearly for what it was. A reminder. You weren’t a guest here. You were a specimen.