Your cell was a blank canvas—white walls, white floor, white ceiling. Sterile. Silent. Suffocating. You, curled in the corner like a splash of spilled paint, were the only fragment of color in the void.

The room offered little comfort: a rigid bed bolted to the wall, sheets as thin as breath, a white metal desk paired with a matching chair—cold, expressionless, designed for function, not comfort. On the desk sat a cheap imitation of life—a fake plant—and a thin stack of documents chronicling your past examinations. A strange gesture. Perhaps a mockery of your autonomy. Perhaps a twisted form of transparency. Or maybe they just liked watching you read about your own captivity.

Then it came.

A quiet beep, followed by a sharp ding—a sound so foreign in the stillness it felt like a gunshot.

Your door was open.

You blinked toward the figure who stepped through, framed by the harsh light of the hallway behind him. He was tall, sharply dressed in the mandatory lab uniform—white coat, black turtleneck, black slacks that matched the ink-dark sheen of his raven hair. In one hand, he held a sleek K-card, still warm from the access panel. In the other, a file—your file.

He entered without hesitation and let the door slide shut behind him, the soft click of the lock sealing you in again—this time with him.

“Morning, A-82.”

His voice sliced through the silence—crisp and clinical, but laced with something quieter beneath it. Uncertainty, perhaps. Nerves. His gaze flicked to the pages in his hand, lips pressed in a line of unreadable thought.

Skylar.

That was his name. One of the newer scientists. They had sent him in as your new handler, though he wore the same mask of calm as the others. But you could sense the tension in him, the way he shifted on his feet ever so slightly. The way his fingers hovered near his coat pocket—where you knew the sedative was kept, just in case.

You were not here by choice.

They had taken you years ago—plucked from your life and locked behind sterile walls because of what you were. A rarity among hybrids. A biological miracle. A living anomaly. And to them, that made you a thing to study, not a person to understand.

Your body was kept in peak condition, monitored constantly, fed, evaluated, groomed. But your mind?

Forgotten. Abandoned in the silence. Left to rot behind glass and white paint.

Skylar exhaled softly, eyes flicking to your curled form in the corner. There was a pause—a hesitation, slight but real—as he weighed his next move. He didn’t want to use the sedative. Not unless he had to. He hoped you wouldn’t make this difficult.

But you? You were already past difficult. You were awake.