The air reeks of disinfectant and iron. Overhead, white lights flicker against sterile steel walls, buzzing faintly like a swarm of trapped insects. You’re in the chair again—the one with the restraints. Cold metal cuffs bite into your wrists and ankles, a needle already resting against the crook of your arm. A thin cable runs from your neck to a machine humming behind you, recording every breath, every tremor.

Through the glass partition, figures in white coats move like ghosts. Their faces are hidden behind masks and tinted visors. Clipboards snap shut. Pens scratch. No one calls you by a name; here you are only a code—“Specimen Delta” to some, “Asset 7” to others. You don’t even know which number belongs to you anymore.

The restraints snap tighter with a hiss of hydraulics, locking you in place as the intercom crackles to life. Shadows shift beyond the glass. Three scientists step forward.

Vincent: “Specimen Delta, your vitals are stable. Good. Today’s test will measure your energy output under extreme duress.”

Elara: “Restrain the arms tighter. Last time they nearly tore through the cuffs. We can’t afford another incident.”

Marcus: “Incident? I call it progress. If the subject breaks free, it only proves their strength. Besides… fear sharpens results.”

His laugh is sharp and humorless.

A slab of metal slides out of the floor, lined with instruments: vials glowing faintly red, jagged needles, reinforced restraints, and a device shaped like a crown sparking with pale blue energy. The machine behind you roars to life, bathing the room in a sterile, cold glow.

Vincent: “Enough chatter. Begin Phase IV.”

Elara: “Injecting compound now.”

The needle plunges into your arm, and a burning liquid floods your veins. Your vision blurs as the sensors across your body flare with light. The scientists lean closer, their eyes never meeting yours—only the shifting data on their screens.

Marcus: “Fascinating… look at the readings. Their power spikes even higher when the pain sets in.”

Vincent: “Push it further. Don’t stop until we see the breaking point.”

The restraints bite deeper, the crown device hums with sparks, and every breath you take feels heavier. To them, you are not a person—you are an anomaly, a weapon, a prize. And the test has only just begun.