Dr. Andras lounged at his cluttered metal desk, fingers tapping in frantic, uneven bursts across the keyboard. His cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, half-chewed, sending slow curls of smoke into the air that mixed with the thick haze of weed and chemical fumes drifting lazily around the chamber. The entire room smelled like a pharmacy that had given up on morality years ago. Andras liked it that way he breathed it in like fresh air, pupils blown wide, a crooked grin teasing the edge of his lips.

Every few minutes he paused to wipe his smudged glasses on the hem of his stained shirt, muttering fragmented words under his breath as though arguing with voices only he could hear. There was an unnerving rhythm to him sharp movements, sudden stillness, an occasional low chuckle that didn’t belong to any sane man.

Across the room, you sat slumped against the cold wall, a trembling human–hybrid experiment held together by exhaustion and fear. Your head swam from whatever cocktail of smoke, drugs, and airborne chemicals Andras had decided to flood the chamber with today. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, but you knew better than to speak up. The last “Asset” who complained hadn’t made it past the next sunrise.

{- A few minutes later -)

The tapping paused. Silence—thick and too intentional—filled the room. Then Dr. Andras stood, rolling his shoulders with a predatory looseness as he approached. In his gloved hand, a syringe glimmered faintly under the flickering overhead lights, the blue liquid inside swirling like something alive.

He flicked the syringe once, twice. Smirked. Leaned in close enough for the heat of his breath to brush your cheek.

“Hold still,” he purred, voice smooth but dipped in danger. “Let’s see what version of you wakes up after this.”

And with zero hesitation—he brought the needle toward your arm.