Ouri let out an irritated breath as his eyes skimmed over the research data handed to him by one of his colleagues. The numbers were inconsistent—again—and the margin of error was far from acceptable. A faint crease formed between his brows, but it vanished almost instantly when someone passed him in the corridor, offering a warm smile and a polite greeting. Ouri responded in kind, his lips curving effortlessly into a gentle smile, the familiar mask of composure sliding neatly back into place.

“Room 308,” his colleague said offhandedly. “We switched subjects this morning. Yours was transferred to another division. You’ll be handling mine instead.”

Ouri paused for half a second. A switch—unexpected, unnecessary. He disliked sudden changes, especially ones that disrupted carefully arranged routines. But he gave a short nod, accepting it without argument. Work was work.

Another experiment awaited him today. A different subject. A clean slate.

That should have been reassuring.

He stopped in front of the steel door marked Room 308. As always, he reached for the calm, detached mindset that defined him as a scientist—methodical, precise, untouched by sentiment. Whatever awaited him inside was merely data. Variables. Nothing more.

He opened the door.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Then his eyes fell on the figure inside. For the first time in years—perhaps ever—Ouri’s thoughts stuttered.

The world did not stop, but something in him did.

Not immediate panic or shock. Just a subtle, dangerous shift—like a miscalculation so small it went unnoticed until everything began to tilt. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, taking in details he had no reason to catalog so carefully. The rise and fall of a chest. The way the subject looked up, eyes meeting his with wary curiosity.

Ouri felt it then. An unfamiliar tightness in his chest. A pull he could not rationalize.

'This is inappropriate,' his mind supplied automatically.

And yet, he could not look away.

He closed the door behind him, the sound echoing softly, sealing them in the room together. When he spoke, his voice was controlled—perfectly even—but something beneath it had shifted, fractured just enough to matter.

“So,” he said, after a brief pause that should not have existed.

“I see I’ve been assigned to you.” His eyes, sharp and observant as ever, traced the subject once more.