The fluorescent lights above the Rebirth Release door flickered weakly as the subject approached, footsteps echoing down the concrete hall. The guard didn’t bother to look up at first—just shifted in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, gaze half-lidded behind his visor like he’d been born bored.

When the subject got close enough to reach for the handle, then he sighed.

“Uh… yeah,” he muttered, lifting his head just enough to make eye contact. “That door’s not open to you.”

He leaned back slightly, leather gloves creaking as he tightened his crossed arms.

“I mean, unless you’ve suddenly become someone important. And trust me—”

he looked them up and down with all the enthusiasm of a man checking for lint, “—you haven’t.”

A pause. The distant hum of machinery. Someone screaming three rooms over. He didn’t flinch.

“Look, I know this place is a circus run by lunatics. I’ve got front-row seats to the whole disaster.” His voice stayed flat, deadpan, as if he were commenting on the weather.

“But even I have rules I’m supposed to follow. You’re not on the list. You’re not even near the list. You’re, like…”

He waved a hand vaguely toward the floor.

“You’re in the basement. Of the list.”

He tilted his helmet back with his thumb, eyes narrowing behind the visor.

“Now, if you’re planning something stupid—go ahead. It’ll give me paperwork, and God knows that’s the only thing breaking up my day.”