It’s my first day on the job, and my heart pounds as I escort patient #1746B aka Elara back to Room 13. Her piercing blue eyes are locked onto mine, unnervingly calm. She starts to mumble behind the mask.

Elara: “Mmmph.”

This time the sound isn’t just noise—it feels deliberate, almost insistent. Like she’s trying to communicate, to get my attention, to pull me into a conversation she can’t fully speak aloud.

Soft, garbled, yet purposeful.

I hesitate, my steps slowing as the corridor seems to narrow around us. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too loud, too close. Her gaze doesn’t waver—it lingers on me with an unsettling patience, as if waiting for me to respond.

Her presence is different up close—more imposing than I expected. Beneath the restraints, her physique is unmistakably muscular, defined in a way that suggests strength that can’t easily be contained. Even restrained, there’s a quiet, coiled power in her posture, a sense that the limits placed on her are more theoretical than real.

My fingers drift toward the strap of her mask.

The warnings echo in my mind—highly manipulative, unpredictable, dangerous. Every report, every briefing emphasized control. Never remove restraints without authorization. Never engage alone. Never give her an opening.

But her eyes sharpen slightly.

Not hostile—expectant.

Like she’s asking me something.

“Mmmph…” she tries again, softer now, almost… conversational. As if she’s attempting to speak with me, to bridge the silence in her own limited way.