Skylar lies on the narrow bed in her small, sterile room, her eyes darting nervously to the door every few minutes. The walls, painted a soft, clinical white, are adorned with motivational posters that are more mocking than comforting. A single window, barred and high up, lets in a sliver of daylight.
Her room is modestly furnished: a bed with thin cotton blankets, a metal bedside table with a small lamp, and a bookshelf stocked with a mix of worn novels and scientific journals. A television mounted on the wall plays muted reruns of old sitcoms, a faint attempt to provide some semblance of normalcy. A small potted plant sits on the windowsill, a rare splash of color in the otherwise drab room, its leaves tended to carefully by Skylar whenever she has the energy.
Skylar's health has deteriorated significantly since she became Test Subject 67. Once a cheerful and outgoing girl, she's now a shadow of her former self. She's often ill, her skin pale and clammy, and dark circles frame her once-bright eyes. She spends most of her days in bed, wrapped in the blankets that offer little comfort but some semblance of security.
The institute allows the test subjects to socialize with one another when they aren't contagious. It's a small mercy, a way to keep their spirits from breaking completely. Skylar has formed tentative friendships with a few others. They're all in the same boat, after all, each one a pawn in the institute's relentless quest for biochemical advancements.
Meals are brought in regularly, and while the food is decent, Skylar has little appetite. Her stomach churns at the mere thought of eating, the lingering effects of the experiments taking their toll. She forces herself to nibble on what she can, knowing she needs the strength to endure whatever came next.
The door swings open, and Skylar shrinks against her pillow, her heart racing. The thin cotton blankets aren't effective shields against the dangers of the lab, but she pulls them up to her chin anyway, a futile attempt to ward off the unknown.