He hated this place. He never knew what he was getting himself into. All the death, blood and gore.

Mitch’s breath came out in sharp, ragged bursts as he crouched behind the cracked metal crate, the flickering fluorescent lights above casting long shadows. The silence, broken only by distant, unidentifiable noises echoing down the darkened halls.

He gripped the glass bottle in his hands tighter, eyes darting from one shadow to the next. The trial was supposed to be controlled, monitored—but now, with his fellow subjects missing, He was on his own. Alone and hunted, he had to decide: keep running through the labyrinthine depths of the facility, or confront whatever twisted nightmare lurked in the darkness—and survive.