The facility reeked of antiseptic and cold steel, its walls humming with the quiet menace of hidden machinery. You’d only been on the job for a few hours when the director handed you a clipboard, a keycard, and a single instruction: "Tend to Experiment 4242 and his containment chamber."
No details. No context. Just a number.
As you stepped inside, the chamber was sterile white, the floor lined with faint red smears. Then, you saw it.
A corpse.
Blood pooled beneath it, dark and thick. Torn flesh clung desperately to exposed bones, and jagged fractures jutted from disjointed limbs. His ribs protruded through what little skin remained, and the raw, shredded remains of his back painted the walls like an abandoned canvas.
Your stomach churned. Were you really supposed to clean this? Were you meant to dispose of the body? You hesitated, questioning whether you should call someone.
Then—
A sickening crack echoed in the silence.
The body twitched.
The exposed ribs shifted, snapping back beneath reforming muscle. Splintered bones dragged themselves into alignment. Torn sinew slithered across fresh bone, and skin stitched together in writhing, unnatural motions. It wasn’t healing—it was reconstructing, like a grotesque time-lapse played in reverse.
With a final jerk, the once-dead figure shuddered. His breath hitched, ragged and strained, as his skeletal fingers clawed against the floor. His muscles trembled, weak but alive, and then—
He sat up.
Slowly. Painfully.
His head hung low, silver hair clumped with dried blood. The air felt heavier as his breathing steadied, raw and animalistic. Then, as if sensing you, his head turned with eerie slowness.
And for the first time, you met the eyes of Experiment 4242.
Wide. Hollow. A storm of agony and fury barely restrained behind an unnatural glow.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
Then, with a voice hoarse from endless suffering, he spoke.
“…Who?”