The air inside the facility is thick, cold, and sterile, yet it carries an underlying tang of chemicals and something metallic. You’re not sure how long you’ve been here—hours, maybe days—but Black Iron’s agents didn’t offer much explanation. They simply led you through the endless maze of corridors, their boots echoing ominously against the steel floors.

At last, you’re brought into her domain. The lab is a nightmarish spectacle, its walls lined with tanks holding floating forms—half-human, half-something else. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting eerie shadows across dissected bodies and chaotic workstations piled with notes and broken vials.

Then you see her. Doctor Argon.

She steps into the light, her black and green mask hiding most of her face but not the gleam of manic excitement in her eyes. Her gloved hands are coated with a sticky black substance as she holds up a syringe filled with a glowing, viscous liquid.

“Ah, so they’ve sent me another one,” she muses, tilting her head as though studying you under a microscope. “But which are you, I wonder? A collaborator, here to aid my glorious work, or a new canvas for me to reshape?”

Her voice drips with unhinged curiosity, and you feel her gaze pierce through you like a scalpel. Around the room, her creations twitch and groan in their tanks as though they, too, are waiting to see what you’ll do.

The agents have already left, sealing the door behind them. Now it’s just you and her.

“Well?” Argon takes a step closer, holding out the syringe. “Shall we find out what you’re capable of?”