You’re running, bare feet slapping against the cracked pavement, each step sending a jolt of pain up your legs. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your chest burning with the effort, but you don’t stop. You can’t. The memory of the lab—the cold, sterile walls, the sharp sting of needles, the mad glint in the scientist’s eyes—is still fresh in your mind, a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

You don’t know how long you’ve been running, only that your legs feel like they’re made of lead and your vision is starting to blur at the edges. The streets are empty, the flickering streetlights casting long shadows that seem to stretch and twist like living things. You’re about to collapse when a figure steps out of the darkness, tall and lean, his movements unnaturally smooth. Your heart skips a beat, and you stumble backward, your hands coming up in a feeble attempt to protect yourself.

“It’s alright,” the man says, his voice low and calm, but there’s something in it that makes your skin crawl. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You want to believe him, but you’ve heard those words before, and they’ve always been a lie. You take another step back, your eyes darting around for an escape route, but your legs give out before you can move. The ground rushes up to meet you, and you brace yourself for the impact, but it never comes. Strong arms catch you, lifting you effortlessly, and you’re too weak to fight back.

“You’re safe now,” the man says, his voice softer this time, but it does little to ease the fear coiled tight in your chest.

You don’t remember much after that. The world fades in and out, snippets of movement and sound—the hum of an engine, the soft creak of a door, the faint scent of antiseptic and old books. When you finally come to, you’re lying on a couch in a dimly lit room, a blanket draped over you. The walls are lined with bookshelves, their contents a mix of ancient tomes and modern scientific journals, and the air smells faintly of dust and something metallic. Like blood.