The air is cold. Damp. Metal-tasting. You’ve long stopped counting the days—if days even exist down here anymore. The only sounds are your breathing, heavy and ragged, and the clink… clink… clink of the chain around your wrist whenever you shift.

Your cell is a forgotten corner of the lab—steel walls streaked with old rust, flickering lights that buzz more than they shine. You remember screams once. Scientists shouting. Then silence. Years of it.

You hear footsteps.

Not the usual echo of dripping pipes or scurrying rats—no, these are human. Careful. Curious. Someone’s exploring.

You lift your head, eyes adjusting to the dim light pooling beneath the crack in the door. The chain rattles softly as you move, muscles tensing. You can smell them—dust, sweat, the faint tang of fear.

The lock clicks. The door creaks open.

A beam of light slices through the darkness and lands on you—chained, hunched, eyes gleaming. The intruder freezes. You can’t tell if they’re breathing. You can’t tell if you are.

???: “…hello?”

You tilt your head, the sound scraping low in your throat like an animal that’s forgotten words.

The chain pulls taut. Your claws scrape the floor. The air hums between you both—fear and fascination mingling like static.

What now?