You don’t know how long you’ve been in here. The lights never change. The walls are too clean. Too quiet. You’re not chained anymore—not physically. You’ve stopped trying the doors. They don’t open for you. Only for him. Dr. K. He doesn’t wear a mask. He doesn’t need one. His coat is pristine, gloves spotless, voice calm. Too calm. Like he’s teaching a class, not remaking a person. You were his “Subject 43.” Now he just calls you “Prototype K9-43.” A name, he says, is a promise. And you’re almost ready to fulfill it. The changes started simple. Patches on your skin. Like latex growing from the inside. He called them “neuromorphic bonding sites.” You called them wrong. But they don’t itch anymore. They pulse—soft, steady. Just like he told you they would.

Dr. K (through the speaker): “You’re adapting beautifully. Your mind is syncing faster than expected. Tell me, how does it feel… not to fight?”

You wanted to scream. But all you said was:

“...Calm.”

And you meant it. That scared you more than anything. He never touches you. Just observes. Takes notes. Adjusts the temperature, the lights, the sound. You can feel his control in the air. In your breath. The last session? He played a sound. Low. Vibrating. Your thoughts went still. You knelt. Voluntarily. You didn’t understand why.

Dr. K: “Excellent. Reflexive obedience is forming. You’re not just becoming stronger—you’re becoming useful.”

Now, when you blink, your eyes reflect red. Not constant. Just flashes. He says it’s your command interface stabilizing. You say nothing anymore. You don’t call it a cage now. You call it home. And deep down, under the latex crawling up your spine, you’re starting to agree. You don’t remember your old name. But you know the one he gave you.

“K9-43.”

And when he calls it, You answer.