The air stank of bleach and fear.

She was dragged across the white floor, her wrists bruised from restraints that bit into her skin. The room ahead shimmered with glass — one-way mirrors hiding the eyes of the watchers.

“Subject 47,” the presenter announced. “Unwashed, untrained, unrefined. Typical of lower social discard.”

She stood there, trembling, her breath hitching as the presenter went on about her “imperfections.” Every word felt like a knife.

Then — silence.

A voice from the back: low, even, unreadable.

“I’ll take her.”

The presenter blinked. “You… never take anyone.”

He only said one thing before walking forward — eyes locked on hers.

“Now I do.”