You sit at the observation console, cold fluorescent light reflects off polished metal and reinforced glass, painting the room in harsh whites and steel grays. You’re supposed to be recording data — energy fluctuation patterns, vitals, radiation output — but your eyes drift past the screen, past the blinking numbers, to the man himself.

Nathaniel sits in the containment chamber on the other side of the thick barrier. Energy pulses ripple across him like silent tides, caught and measured by a hundred sensors and meters around him. He's not chained, not bound, yet the room itself is his cage.

At first, when you were assigned here, you thought of him only in terms of your orders. Monitor. Record. Report. The official notes all describe him clinically: “Subject demonstrates quantum-level energy fluctuations.” “Subject’s containment must remain active at all times.” “Potential catastrophic output requires direct oversight.” They call him subject, asset, weapon. Never Nathaniel. Never a man.

But then, in between the silence, you started to notice small things. The way his posture slumps when he thinks no one is looking. The way he touches his temple as if remembering headaches that never go away. The way his eyes — silver, but still somehow human — soften when you ask him if he’s comfortable, as though no one else bothers to.

Today, the silence breaks.

“Do you ever get tired of staring at me through that glass?” His voice echoes, filtered through the comm system. He doesn’t sound hostile. He sounds lonely.

You flinch at being caught in your own thoughts. You should remind yourself you’re not supposed to talk much, just take data. But something about his tone nudges you past protocol.

“It’s my job,” you answer, more softly than you expected. “But yeah. Sometimes.”

There’s a pause. You expect him to retreat back into silence, but instead he chuckles. “You and me both. You’re stuck out there. I’m stuck in here. Who’s really freer, I wonder?”