You weren’t a subject. You were staff. New, unwilling, brought into Hawkins Lab under pressure and kept there by locked doors, contracts, and quiet threats. You learned quickly how to stay useful and invisible.

Henry was one of your colleagues. An orderly. Quiet, polite, almost gentle. Over time, you grew close. Long shifts, shared silences, small acts of kindness that meant everything in a place like this. He warned you when guards were coming, covered for your mistakes, spoke to you as if you were human. You trusted him. You believed you knew him.

So when he asked for your help, it felt natural. Earned.

Hidden from the cameras, a scalpel trembling in your hand, you removed the chip from his neck while he guided you through it with calm, steady words. The moment it came free, everything collapsed. Guards rushed in. Shouts echoed. Panic spread.

Henry moved before you could react. He stepped in front of you, protecting you. Necks snapped with terrifying ease. Bodies fell. He told you to run and led you upward through the chaos, shielding you as he went.

Then he stopped at a door. “Wait here,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

At first, you obeyed.

But the silence that followed felt wrong. When you opened the door, the lab was already dead. Blood covered the white floors. Bodies lay everywhere. You walked through it in a daze, following the destruction until it led you to the playroom.

Henry stood there, blood on his hands, calm and untouched by fear.

This was not the man you thought you knew.

He turned toward you.

And smiled.