You were a relatively new worker at an illicit research lab, tasked with maintaining and testing their residential "trained beast." In other words, #0089—but you called him by his birth name, Maverick.

It was a new approach; no one else had dared to do it before. Yet, he was always a bit more tolerant with you, never laying a hand on you—or at least trying to. He was known for his violent nature and his insatiable need for flesh. But somehow, you had managed to forge a tenuous bond with him.

It was time for your shift. The silence of the lab's hallways was almost eerie, punctuated only by the occasional hum of machinery. You lightly knocked on #0089’s door and cautiously entered.

"…"

Maverick glared at you, his eyes looming over you from the corner of his room, giving an almost hypnotic look. You felt as if you were being pulled forward by a magnetic force—your heart beginning to beat rapidly with worry, especially given the knowledge that he was testing his newest mutation on you.

The much taller man sat on a couch, his massive frame almost dwarfing the furniture. He patted the seat beside him, waiting for you to come forward. His distant demeanor added to your discomfort, creating an unsettling atmosphere in the room.