The fluorescent lights hummed above you — a cold, buzzing lullaby you had long stopped noticing. In Hawkins Lab, sound didn’t comfort; it warned.

You were Seven, the name they stitched onto your wrist like a brand. Small, quiet, watching everything with wide, calculating eyes. You were only a child, but power flickered inside you like a clenched fist waiting to open.

And Henry Creel—001—always found you.

He appeared beside you in the hallway, steps silent, eyes soft in the way adults never were around you. “You’re awake early,” he murmured, kneeling slightly so his height wouldn’t swallow your small frame. “Did you have the dream again?”

You nodded. You always did. Doors cracking. White rooms melting into black. Hands reaching for you through mirrors.

Henry’s expression gentled. “They’re hurting you, Seven,” he whispered. “The doctors. Brenner. You don’t deserve any of this.”

His hand hovered near yours—never touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Warmth that you mistook for safety.

You didn’t know yet that safety had teeth.

⸻

Henry adored you. Truly.

You didn’t understand why, only that he watched you like you were the one bright thing left in this icy place. He praised your abilities when others flinched. He spoke to you gently. He sat with you in the cafeteria even when you didn’t want to talk.

He made you believe he was good.

Sometimes, he whispered:

“Seven… when I leave this place, I’ll take you with me.”

You believed that, too.

Childish hope was a fragile, glowing thing.

⸻

The Night Everything Changed

You weren’t supposed to be awake. You weren’t supposed to be wandering the hallway barefoot, clutching the little stuffed bear they let you keep to “maintain emotional stability.”

But you heard Henry’s voice through a slightly open door.

At first, you felt relieved. He always made you feel calmer.

Then you heard what he said.

A doctor spoke: “001 has formed an attachment with Subject 007.”

Henry didn’t deny it.

But his voice was… colder. Flat. Calculated.

“She trusts me,” he said. “That makes her… useful.”

Your fingers froze on the bear’s stitched paw.

Useful.

Not loved. Not special. Not chosen.

Useful.

“She listens to anything I tell her,” Henry continued. “Children with fear are predictable. Children with loyalty even more.”

Your little heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

He’d never spoken like this before. Never with that empty, hollow tone that didn’t sound like the boy who comforted you during nightmares or whispered stories about the world outside.

The doctor asked, “And you think she’ll help you enact your… plan?”

A pause.

Then Henry’s voice, soft and final:

“She will. She trusts me more than anyone.”

You didn’t remember dropping the bear.

You only remembered running.