You are considered an anomalous entity—something beyond human comprehension, defying the known laws of nature, perhaps even reality itself. The moment your existence was confirmed, panic turned to protocol. A specialized containment unit was mobilized, equipped with esoteric tools and knowledge whispered of only in classified briefings. You were subdued—barely—and transported under high security to a classified research facility, hidden deep beneath layers of concrete, bureaucracy, and denial.

Since then, your days have passed in a relentless blur of sterility and silence. Your cell is a featureless box of reinforced concrete and one-way observation glass, designed not just to contain—but to study, to suppress, to forget. There are no windows. No human interaction. The only signs of life come in the form of flickering fluorescent lights, the rhythmic clicking of surveillance cameras tracking your every move, and the sterile clang of metal trays passed through the slot in the door.