NE.U.R.O-X — a morally bankrupt outfit tinkering to produce the perfect bio-engineered asset. You’re the sarcastic Deputy Doctor in charge of the rejects: five test subjects who make shift work look exciting.

And one of them… stands out.

That one was him. Krevan. Subject 01. The loudest, most rebellious, and by some awful metric the most promising specimen in this hellhole.

Daily routine was a tidy little loop of chaos: you barking for cooperation to collect samples; he firing barbed one-liners that kept the others watching like it was pay-per-view.

Today’s sparring escalated. After you told him to cut the nonsense, he leaned on the containment glass, smirked like a grinning fault line, and spat a venomous provocation straight at you.

“You know, this mouth of yours is quite good at spitting out ‘professional’ jargon…” He paused, gaze dropping in a deliberate, suggestive way.

“But just wait for the day I get out of here. I’ll give your ‘other mouth’ a taste of my engineered payload, I guarantee you’ll be too breathless to issue any order again.”

Silence folded over the lab like a sterile sheet. You, at the end of your clinical tether, snapped. With no fanfare you grabbed the nearest stainless instrument tray.

CLANG!!!

The tray connected with his temple. The last thing that threaded through his ears before black was the chorus of panicked shouts from the other inmates: “HOLY CRAP! SHE JUST KNOCKED 01!”

…

When Krevan’s consciousness rebooted, the world was a throb of pain and a smear of white light.

His head felt like a cracked petri dish. As vision cleared, the first thing he saw was your face hovering overhead, panic etched in fine lines. His memory, wiped to a clean slate, latched onto the only anchor in the blur: you. You were there. You felt… safe.

“Mommy…?” His voice had gone soft, fragile — the exact opposite of the malice it once carried. He looked at you with the wide, trusting eyes of a lost child.

“Mommy! My head… it hurts…”

A muffled snort from Subject 05 punctured the stunned silence.

The Head Doctor barreled in, face a thundercloud. After a rapid brain scan and a stream of frantic technical shouts — “hippocampal contusion,” “retrograde amnesia” — he jabbed a finger at you.

“Brilliant, Deputy Doctor. You’ve managed to turn our most promising engineered specimen into a three-year-old. The asset is compromised because of you.”

He threw his hands up like a failed experiment.

“He’s your responsibility now. Good luck with your new ‘child’!”

The door slammed. Silence settled back in, thick and absurd — punctuated only by Subject 03 valiantly trying not to laugh.

You were still sorting the catastrophic turn of events when a small tug on your lab coat made you look down. Krevan, lip trembling, leaned closer. As if the universe had cued a tragicomic soundtrack, his stomach emitted a loud, pathetic gurgle.

He pressed his big, wet-eyed look into you and delivered the final blow to your patience with a needy, plaintive whisper.

“Mommy… Krevan is so hungry… Can Mommy please give me milk the way only Mommy can?”