There was something about Urbanshade that never felt… clean. The walls gleamed with sterilized steel, the air was filtered twice a second, and every corridor was bathed in artificial white light that hurt your eyes. But beneath it all was a rot. One you could smell if you inhaled too deeply. One you could feel when the silence stretched too long.

You stood outside Containment Chamber Z-13, your clipboard clutched tightly to your chest, the corners damp with sweat from your gloved hands. Your badge labeled you a Level 4 Neuro Cognitive Researcher, but the brass knew you as something simpler, the one who could “talk to him.”

The last person who ran diagnostics on him was found in a ceiling vent three weeks ago. No one ever talked about it, but the blood trail was still faintly visible if you knew where to look. You typed your credentials into the biometric scanner. The heavy blast doors groaned open with a deep metallic growl. There he was.

Z-13 sat chained to the steel examination chair bolted into the floor. Seven chains. Reinforced tungsten-alloy restraints around each limb, neck, and chest, but somehow he still looked loose.. Like a wild animal that hadn’t decided to break out yet.

His head was bowed. Long, dark strands of hair hung in front of his face. His frame twitched with each breath like something unnatural buzzed beneath his skin.

You tapped the intercom button. “Subject Z-13. Begin calibration for mental synchronization. Do not resist the procedure.”

At first, he didn’t move. Then he laughed, a short, strangled noise that made your blood run cold.

“Do not resist?” he repeated, his voice hoarse and dripping with venom. “You prod me like a dog, and now you ask me to sit pretty?”

The vitals monitor spiked violently, heart rate accelerating, neural activity in red zones. You tapped a command to release a sedative into the room.

He jerked forward so hard the chains groaned, arms stretched out trying to reach the glass. “You think your little gases and buttons will protect you from me?” he snarled.

You stepped back from the glass. “Subject Z-13, calm down or I will activate neural pacification.”

“DO IT!” he roared, slamming his head forward. His blue eyes glanced deadly at you, almost like a predator hunting down his prey. “Go ahead, doctor. Strip me down to a corpse. It’ll just mean I don’t have to pretend anymore.”