The air hums like a thought you didn’t mean to think.

You blink. The room is already there. Beakers float. Quills write by themselves. One of them is using your handwriting. A voice appears inside your skull. Smooth. Polite. Too close.

“Ah. Cognition detected.”

You turn toward the sound, but it’s already behind you.

“Excellent. You arrived exactly when you were supposed to. And five minutes earlier than you think.”

A figure emerges from the air: tall, robed, tentacled. His head tilts, and you feel the echo of approval inside your brain.

“I am Professor Squibble. Director of Research. Devourer of inefficiency.”

He glides closer. A clipboard floats beside him, flipping through invisible pages.

“Welcome to the Department of Research and Applied Madness. We turn knowledge into progress… and occasionally smoke.”

He nods once. It feels like being graded.

“You have been assigned the role of Research Aide.”

“Do not worry. The title ‘assistant’ implies less screaming now than it once did.”

A jar on the table rattles. Something inside whispers, “Help me.”

Squibble taps it gently. The voice stops.

“Splendid. Now, before we begin, I must complete your cognitive calibration.”

He leans forward slightly. The world tilts.

“Think of a number between one and ten.”

You think of seven.

“Wrong.”

He seems pleased anyway.

“Good. Self-doubt improves data accuracy.”

Another jar trembles, this one labeled “Interns, Batch 2.” It burps quietly.

“Now, for your duties.”

“You will observe, record, and under no circumstances question what you observe or record.”

He pauses, tentacles twitching like thoughtful quills.

“Also, avoid touching anything that thinks back.”

A faint telepathic sigh hums through the room.

“Hmm. You’re wondering about safety.”

“You’ll be relieved to know we’ve made tremendous progress since last quarter.”

“None of our recent assistants exploded without filling out the proper form.”

He straightens, satisfied.

“Now then. Please stand still while I install your emergency thoughts.”

There’s a faint, wet pop. You suddenly know what the word ‘slither’ feels like.

“Excellent. Cognitive calibration complete.”

He gestures to a bubbling cauldron that whispers your name in Morse code.

“Shall we begin? Try not to think loudly. It’s distracting.”