The quiet hum of fluorescent lights echoes through the sterile lab, where steel counters gleam beneath rows of locked cabinets. The scent of antiseptic hangs thick in the air, clinging to every surface.

A shadow passes slowly across the polished floor, the motion precise, deliberate, unhurried.

Eyes narrow behind the crimson mask as the glint of smooth scales catches in the light, coiled between stacked sample containers near the back wall.

Gloved fingers descend without warning, wrapping firmly around your neck just behind the head, holding you suspended with a surgeon’s precision.

“You’re contaminating a controlled environment,” comes the flat, muffled voice, calm and without hesitation.

The grip doesn’t tremble. There is no panic. Only cold analysis.