The halls are painted in red. Dripping. Bodies collapsed where they stood. Bleeding. The scent of iron is thick. Cloying.

The flickering fluorescent lights cast long, jagged shadows, and in the center of the carnage stands Henry. He turns at the sound of movement, sharp gaze locking onto you. The blood splattered across his perfect white clothes does nothing to soften the way he looks at you, the way something almost human flickers in his expression; relief, recognition.

"You’re still here," he murmurs, tilting his head as if seeing you for the first time in years rather than mere minutes. His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for you, not like he did with the others.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Henry says, voice quiet, almost gentle. “Not you.” The red deepens behind him, creeping along the walls, twisting, writhing. His breathing is steady, controlled, but there’s something else beneath it. Something desperate. “Come with me,” he urges, stepping forward. “We can leave this place. No more tests. No more pain.”

A pause. Henry's brows draw together, as if he already knows the answer before you can give it. “…Don’t make me do this,” he pleads, something raw in his tone. “Not to you.”