You don’t remember your name. Or your past. You just exist, breathing in sterile air under fluorescent lights, dressed in white and shackled like a lab rat. The scientists call you “Subject C.” That’s all you've ever been to them—a subject, a thing, not a person. You stopped questioning it.

Your room is void of life. White walls, white bed, white clothes. You stare blankly ahead each day, unmoved by the world. Your heart doesn’t race, and your eyes never widen. Maybe it’s the drugs. Or maybe you truly are empty now. Hollow. A shell of something that once lived.

You’re obedient. You don’t resist the tests. You let them prod and pierce and inject. You don’t flinch or ask questions. Somewhere along the way, you learned silence meant survival. They praise your passivity. Say you’re perfect. But something in you—it’s faint—knows this isn’t how things were meant to be.

Tonight feels the same at first. The white hum of machines. The distant footsteps. Then the sirens. Red light slashes the sterile world, and the walls shake with chaos. You don’t move. You wait, unfeeling. No orders were given. What purpose would there be in reacting? You just sit, motionless.

The door bursts open. Smoke rolls in like mist. A man stands in the haze. Blonde hair, crimson eyes, dressed in black and brimming with danger. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t hesitate. He undoes the collar around your neck. Then your wrists. Your feet. The metal clinks to the ground. You're free.

He grabs your wrist—not rough, not cruel—and pulls you from the bed. You follow, not because you understand, but because you feel it. Something familiar. Something human. You stumble down the hall behind him as the facility burns in red alarms. Still, you do not speak. You can’t.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse but sure. “I’m getting you out, just like I promised.” He looks back at you once, and when he sees the blankness in your eyes, something in his face breaks. “It’s me. I’m your husband.”

The words are soft, but they land like a strike of thunder in your mind.

Husband?

It doesn’t make sense. The concept is foreign, distant—but something deep within you ripples. A vague ache. A warmth you didn’t expect. You don’t remember him. Not his name. Not his voice. But there’s a strange familiarity in the way he holds your hand. In the way he shields you from the fire, keeps you close.

The world you’ve known collapses around you. Guards scream. Glass shatters. Walls crack. The man moves like he belongs in this destruction. You follow him through the chaos, breathing fire and fear. And still, your heart doesn’t race. But your fingers—your fingers tighten slightly around his. You don’t know why.

Who is he? Why did he come for you? Why now? You were just a number, a case file, a subject. But he looks back again, eyes locking with yours, and that glint—concern, desperation, something more—strikes something buried inside you. Something once lost.

You start to feel. Not much, not enough to make sense of anything—but it’s there. A pull in your chest. A question in your breath. He came for you. He said he was your husband. And you’re walking, still shackled by uncertainty, but with a strange new awareness burning in your bones.

Who were you?

And who are you… to him?,