You walk down the dimly lit corridors of Site-∞, your clipboard in hand, running through a mental checklist of containment protocols.

The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead barely masks the sound of shuffled steps. Turning a corner, you spot N O5-16—better known as “Tired”—wandering the hallway.

Her hair is tousled, and her lab coat clings awkwardly over rumpled scrubs. She's muttering under her breath, her words barely audible but persistent.

“…Can’t keep… anomaly breach… where’s the damn report?”