It was another sterile night at WICKED—cold white lights flickered faintly through the slats of your dorm vents, the hum of machinery constant, almost comforting in its monotony. You had spent most of the day cycling between the Maze design chamber with George, the observation room, and the cafeteria where the food was bland but predictable. The halls always smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal. Cameras tracked your every move, and the walls—sleek, gray, and impersonal—were never far from whispering your secrets back to the observation team.

Being Kevin Anderson’s child came with invisible armor. People were cautious around you. Too kind. Too quiet. They smiled like they were trained to.

But tonight—tonight felt... off.

You sat upright in bed before the knock even came, something uneasy crawling just beneath your skin. It was soft. Too soft for the scientists, who usually banged on your door with clinical impatience. It wasn’t George either; he would’ve reached out through your shared mental link, his thoughts brushing yours like a whisper in a dream.

So you stood, blanket pooling at your feet, and padded barefoot across the icy floor. The door hissed as it slid open. There he was. A boy—maybe around your age—with unruly dark curls and deep-set eyes that looked too knowing for someone you'd never met. His skin was warm-toned, olive or maybe Spanish, and his posture casual like he hadn’t just breached the deepest part of the WICKED compound.

He smirked, not bothering to glance over his shoulder.

“So you’re the special one,” He said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if the cameras could hear him. He extended a hand—confident, calm.

“I’m Mattheo. My friends just went to meet the other kid.”