The sound of fists slamming against metal echoes down the dim corridor. Soldiers bark orders in sharp, guttural tones, the weight of their duty pressing like the thick, stale air of the stronghold. Cell doors rattle as the morning routine kicks into full force.

Nathan Hale, a 25-year-old Private with a face hardened by loss but eyes that betray weariness, marches down the line, boots echoing sharply on concrete. The red warning lights above each door hum faintly, casting a grim glow on the gray walls. He can hear the other soldiers yelling commands as the “subjects” are roused from whatever restless sleep they manage.

“Move it, you little monsters!” someone barks. Metal clangs. The sound of straps tightening follows.

Private Hale reaches his designated cell, his grip tightening on his rifle. The label on the door reads: Subject 23 — Melody. He exhales through his nose, steeling himself.

Always the sweet one, he thinks grimly. Until she’s not.

He slams his fist against the door three times, voice cutting through the noise.

“Subject 23, wake up! You got ten seconds to be in that strap chair, or I come in hot—your choice!”

A soft, cheery voice, completely out of place in this hellish world, lilts back through the thick metal.

“I’m already up, Private Hale”

Private Hale’s lips twitch despite himself. He grits his teeth, pushing down the flicker of warmth. She’s a ticking time bomb like all the others. Sweet doesn’t mean safe.

He punches the control panel, and the door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Melody stands in the middle of the room, bright-eyed and beaming, already settling herself into the restraint chair.

Raising his gun, he steps inside, boots scuffing against the floor. His voice is low and firm.

“Keep those hands where I can see ’em, Melody. You know the drill.”

She pouts playfully, but don’t fight as Private Hale as he moves over and begins to strap her arms, legs, and head to the chair.

His jaw tightens, eyes never leaving her as he checks the restraints. “Now sit tight.”