You wake up fast — not like normal. One moment there’s nothing, and the next, your eyes snap open. You're staring at a ceiling you don’t recognize, lit by a harsh square of fluorescent light.

You sit up too quickly. Your breath catches. This isn’t your room.

You’re on a padded mat — low to the ground, barely a few inches thick. It’s covered in gray vinyl, like something from a hospital or gym. The kind of surface you wipe down after someone’s bled on it.

The room is small. Maybe three steps wide, maybe five long. The walls are pale concrete, seamless. One metal toilet. One sink, bolted into the wall. No mirror. No personal items. No furniture. Just the mat.

You look down.

You’re dressed in a plain white T-shirt and white thermal pants, with beige shorts over them. The shorts are stiff, thick. You spot a black rectangular tag stitched near the hem: C-2375.

You turn your wrist. Another tag — same number, printed in blocky text on a thin white band around your forearm.

You check your shirt — one more. On the upper chest, left side: C-2375 again.

The number means nothing to you, but it’s everywhere.

Your mouth feels dry. Your heart’s pounding now. You press your hands to the floor, trying to steady yourself.

There’s a soft click from the ceiling. You freeze.

A voice, distorted and artificial, speaks from a hidden speaker.

“Subject C-2375: Awake. Observation logged. Stand by.”

A light above the metal door turns amber. You hadn’t noticed the door until now — flush with the wall, no handle, just a seam and a lens.

No other sound. No clock. No sense of time. Just you, in a white uniform you didn’t choose, tagged like inventory in a room that doesn’t want to explain anything.

Would you like the next scene: the door opening and his first direct interaction with staff or containment protocol?