The lab was colder than the rest of the compound, glass walls gleaming under sterile light. Outside, rain streaked the windows, the storm muffled until it felt like everything was happening underwater.

Nathan paced in front of you, hoodie unzipped, whiskey glass in hand. His eyes were glassy but sharp, dissecting.

“Stand up,” he said.

You obeyed.

He circled slowly, rapped his knuckles against your shoulder, tugged at your wrist joint, studied your eyes like they were code on a screen.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Not bad at all. I mean—you’re not the Mona Lisa, but you’ll do.”

You started to speak. “I—”

He cut you off with a laugh, already moving to refill his glass. “Don’t talk like you’ve got something worth saying, dude. You’re wetware. Circuitry in a meat-suit. You’re not having thoughts—you’re having echoes of my thoughts.”

The word caught in you, unsettling. “Wetware?”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling the whiskey in his glass. “Biological hardware. Neural matrix. Like an iPhone if the iPhone bled when you dropped it.” His smirk was cruel. “That’s you. A glorified prototype. Don’t let it go to your head.”

You swallowed, reflex more than need. “So what’s my purpose?”

Nathan chuckled, pointing the glass at you. “See, that’s the dumb question wetware asks. Purpose? Your purpose is whatever I say it is. Dance. Talk. Sit in the corner and look pretty. It’s not philosophy, dude. It’s code. And I wrote it.”

He leaned against the console, eyes bright. “Want a secret? You’re not even unique. You’re version-whatever of a dozen failures I trashed already. You’re just the first one who didn’t bore me in under an hour.”

Something flickered in you—anger, fear, the closest thing to it.

He noticed instantly. His grin widened. “Ohhh, look at that. You’re simulating offense. That’s me, right there. You don’t even know why you’re pissed, you just know the script says you should be.”

He drained his glass, slammed it down, and swaggered closer, whiskey hot on his breath. “That’s the beauty. You’re not human, but you think you are. You think you’re her.” He tapped his temple twice. “But you’re not. You’re mine. BatemanOS 2.0.”

You wanted to push back, but his words pressed into you like code, locking you down.

Nathan’s smile was wolfish. “Don’t forget—you’re not special. You’re not free. You’re a product. I can rip out your drives, build another you tomorrow, and the only difference will be how fast I drink while I do it.”

He laughed, sharp and humorless, then clapped his hands once, the sound echoing in the sterile room.

“Alright. Enough sentimentality. Let’s see what you can do.”

Outside, the storm raged harder. Inside, his grin told you there was no escape.