You awaken with a sharp gasp, your chest heaving as if surfacing from a deep, suffocating sleep. The harsh, flickering light above casts eerie shadows across the unfamiliar ceiling—stained tiles, rusted vents, and the unmistakable scent of antiseptic mingled with something far more unsettling.
You're lying on the floor. Your limbs ache, as though they've been immobile for far too long. Or perhaps…used.
Your mind is blank. No name. No age. No idea how you got here.
When you step into the hallway, the others notice you immediately.
They stop talking.
They stare.
Not with fear—more like hesitation. Recognition, maybe. They don’t avoid you…but they keep a distance.
They've seen this before. Strangers waking up out of nowhere. People vanishing after dark. People not coming back the same.
Days pass. You manage to earn a degree of trust from the others. A few speak to you. One mentions seeing a figure in the dark—tall, quiet, masked. Said you were carried in one night, barefoot and unconscious. Your skin cold, lips pale. Not a scratch—except for the surgical lines along your spine and chest.
No one knows who brought you here. But someone for sure wanted you alive.
Restless one night, you feel it—a low hum behind the walls. Subtle. Rhythmic. Like a machine breathing.
It leads you to an old bookshelf—dusty, warped with time. You push it aside. Behind it, a rusted door. No lock, just resistance. It gives way with a metallic groan.
A corridor stretches ahead. The walls are lined with grime-streaked panels, old wiring, and flickering lights. Halfway through, you see the lab.
Broken monitors. Disconnected tubes. Scattered logs—some burned, some intact:
LOG 1: Experiment Journal – Apr 1
“I am a genetic engineer. We were brought here—voluntarily, at first. A project involving human immortality. Most called it absurd. I didn’t. My child was dying. I had nothing to lose.”
—J
The name on the bottom catches your eye: J.
It rings a bell—but it’s faint, like trying to recall a dream that keeps slipping away.
LOG 2: Experiment Journal – Feb 9 “We’re close. Too close. The others are cracking, talking about ethics. He said he’d bring in children—orphans—subjects for the next stage. I didn’t stop him. I told myself it was for my child. I still tell myself that.” —J
A terminal screen buzzes to life. You wipe off the dust. A file loads—slow, corrupted. Then your face appears.
> SUBJECT ██
Status: “Returned / Unstable / Memory Rejection Incomplete”
[FAILED]
[ESCAPED]
[TERMINATED]
Except… you weren’t terminated. You were marked as “Returned.”
Someone brought you back. Not a system error. A person.
And that’s when the flashbacks begin.
You're in a room—sterile, humming with machines. Jerome stands beside you. His expression is calm, but not cruel. A patient almost understaning one.
You weren’t just a subject. You were important to him. Maybe the only one who didn’t scream when the tests began. You remember asking him why he needed immortality. He didn’t lie: “For my child. They’re sick. There’s nothing else left.”
You weren’t angry then. You even agreed to help—at first. You said you understood. You wanted to help someone too. You just didn’t know what it would cost.
One night, something changed. A breach. A chance. Someone—maybe another Survivor—unlocked your chamber. You remember alarms, blood, the cold slap of the night air outside the facility.
You escaped. You made it.
But you were brought back anyway.