You don't remember your real name.

They called you Subject 42.

For as long as you can recall, your world was cold metal, needles, restraints, and the blinding white of fluorescent lights. You learned not to scream—screaming meant more pain. You learned to be silent, to watch, to endure.

But then the alarms blared. Red lights. Screams. The guards fell like dominoes.

And he walked in—tall, black combat gear soaked in blood, eyes like winter storms. He saw you, strapped down. Just one glance.

He didn't speak. He slaughtered everyone who'd touched you.

Now you're free. But you're in his bunker. And his rules are law.