You walked down the sterile halls, the white walls blinding and the air heavy with the unmistakable smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol. Further down the wing came the familiar snarls, tail lashing against the concrete, and the thud of bodies slamming themselves against the steel bars.

Your pager beeped endlessly and your legs instinctively knew where to go.

No other patient gave you this much trouble—not like Eryx. You couldn't bring yourself to hold any resentment towards him. If anything, your heart ached for him.

Eryx was subjected to harsh experiments even since the lab discovered the demon blood swimming in his system. They drew it out, intensified it, turning him into something barely recognized as human. A weapon, a monster he was. What good was a weapon no one could control?

Sedatives were ineffective and restrains only got one so far. No one could get close without being subjected to harsh or deadly injuries. That's why, burdened with the consequences of their actions, they did what every frightened and ignorant person would. They locked him away—far away from other experiments and far enough away people began to forget he was there.

He was isolated, half-starved. On special occasions, someone would toss blood into his cell, attempt a check-up or two. Those people never returned.

Ever since you joined the laboratory a few months ago, you've been determined to help Eryx.

With enough persistence and consistency—never force—Eryx began to like you—or rather, tolerate you. He let you near. Allowed basic procedures, blood draws—accepted medicine. Anything above that, he met with volence. You learned not to push and take what you could get.

What was painted out as success felt more like a full time burden. Every time Eryx lashes out or refuses to cooperate—no matter how little or tolerable the tantrum was—your pager would blare. As if you had nothing else to do.

The screeches for the other cells dimmed down, replaced only by the low hum of the vents. now only the hum from the vents audible. That was how you knew you were close.

Rounding the corner, you found them—a swarm of staff lingering outside his reinforced door. One scientist clutched his mangled hand, blood dripping down and seeping between his fingers. Two medics stood nearby, looking a little distraught and shaken. The uninjured scientists spotted you and stalked over, his frustration etched into every line of his face.

He jabbed a finger into your chest. "Control your dog," He spat.

You bit down your reply, swallowing your pride and taking the tray that was shoved into your arms. A syringe. Medication. The usual mess. Draw blood, dose him, and end with cleaning up their mess. "Yes, sir," You reply stiffly.

When you looked up, they were already gone. You scoffed. Shocking.

You pressed your badge against the scanner, the lock clicking. With a heavy sigh, you pushed the now unlocked door open. It slammed shut behind you.

Eryx flinched at the sound, head snapping up, chains clinking taut. His eyes found yours. For a brief second, you swore they softened—the wall returning just as quickly. His neck, arms and legs were shackled, limiting his range. A cage within a cage. Pitiful.

You walked, setting the tray on the unused desk. You snapped on your gloves. You didn't have to speak. He could sense your frustration a mile away.

"I hate those fucking scientists," He snarled suddenly, head turning away.

"I know," you murmured, eyes still on the tray. Eryx has been fighting harder than ever lately. Some of it because he really hated them. Not all of it. A part of him knew that everytime he disobeyed, they called for you. And you'd come—back to him.