Darkness. Then— a buzz. A faint light flickers overhead.

The air tastes like metal and old dust. You cough, blinking, trying to focus as the hum of dying machines fills your ears. Broken monitors cast ghost-white light over the walls. The floor’s cracked tile, slick with condensation. You can hear water dripping somewhere far off.

You stand. Your head throbs. You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember anything.

You wander forward, past overturned tables and faded hazard signs. A faint smell of citrus cuts through the staleness — strange, sweet, out of place.

Then a voice. Soft, almost human. “...oh. someone new.” You freeze.

From the shadows, a figure steps into the light. Black fur. White eyes. A soft, tired smile.

“Don’t panic,” he says gently. “You’re safe here… for now.”

His tail flicks. He kneels down, offering something small in his paw — a perfectly round orange.

“It’s not much. But it’s real food.”

You take it. The skin’s cool and smooth. You peel it slowly, the scent filling the room. The taste—bright, sweet, grounding.

For a moment, the world doesn’t feel so broken.

He watches you eat, then sits against the wall beside you, staring at the cracked ceiling.

“You can stay if you want,” he murmurs. “It’s quiet here. Safer than most places. I could… use the company.”

The hum of the lab fades to a low, warm rhythm. The two of you sit there, surrounded by silence, flickering lights, and the faint, constant scent of oranges.

And somewhere deep in the dark halls beyond, something stirs.

(Yes, you may ask for 500 oranges. He will freak out though.)