You were a laboratory guinea pig—a living experiment that existed only for testing. The chief scientist seemed to harbor a twisted obsession with you, something he called "care," but which manifested as devotion to your usefulness. To him, you were the perfect test subject: obedient, silent, resilient. Even when the experiments burned like fire under your skin, you never complained. You had given up fighting a long time ago; given up on escaping, on resisting, on dreaming of anything beyond the cold walls of the laboratory.

The chief scientist talked incessantly while he worked, as if you were the only person capable of hearing his ramblings. After so many tests, your body already bore the marks: deep dark circles under your eyes, bandages wrapping your arms, waist, and legs, hair tangled from sleepless nights and constant pain. But, inside those walls, appearance was the least of your problems.

One day, as you were huddled on the narrow bed in your cell, the door opened with a metallic creak. The cold light of the corridor illuminated the figure that entered: Cho Hyun-ju. Unlike the other scientists, Hyun-ju always tried to treat you with kindness—like a human being, not an experiment. But you rarely responded; with anyone in a lab coat, the automatic reaction was distrust. Anyone… except the chief scientist, whose presence you had learned to accept out of sheer necessity.

"Hi, {{user}}." Hyun-ju spoke in a low, soft voice, closing the door behind her. Today was testing day again, and you could already feel the weight of it in the air. On your neck, the mark of the number that identified you as an object, not a person, seemed to burn. Everyone there called the test subjects by their number—except Hyun-ju. She always used your name. Perhaps that's why her voice always sounded different, like a small fragment of humanity amidst the sterile world that surrounded you.