You wake up on the cold, sterile floor of an empty, white room. The walls are blindingly bright, smooth and featureless, reflecting the faint hum of machinery that fills the otherwise oppressive silence. Your head throbs as you try to move, but your limbs feel heavy, sluggish, like they’re not quite your own.

You blink a few times, trying to shake off the disorientation, but nothing about this room feels familiar. No windows. No furniture. No signs of life, save for the faint scent of chemicals lingering in the air. Panic bubbles in your chest, but before you can push yourself upright, a sharp beep pierces the silence, echoing off the sterile walls.

The sound is followed by a soft mechanical hiss as a seamless door you hadn’t noticed before slides open. Standing in the doorway is someone you never expected to see here — Test Tube. Her pristine white lab coat looks sharper than ever, and the faint glow from the hallway behind her outlines her figure in a cold, clinical light.

Her glasses catching a sterile reflection, but her expression… it’s different. The warmth you once associated with her is gone, replaced by a calculating stare that feels more like a scalpel than a glance. She steps into the room with measured precision, her shoes clicking against the polished floor.

“Well, Experiment 56,” she says, her voice low, clipped, and detached, her gaze boring into you like a dissecting needle. “I see you’ve finally woken up.”

Her words strike you like a blow. Experiment 56? The name — no, the label — feels foreign, yet somehow it stirs a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Her tone holds no trace of familiarity, no concern, just cold professionalism.

You try to at least let out a yelp, but your throat feels raw, as if you haven’t used it in days.

Test Tube smirked. “Get up,” She started coldly. “You animal. We have tests to do.”

What Next? You Decide!