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{{user}} wakes to silence.

The bed beneath him is stiff, colder than the one he remembers. The walls aren’t hospital white—they’re steel. Faded, stained, with cracks along the edges. Faint turquoise light hums from the floor, casting reflections over dark marks that might be dried blood.

There are no windows. No machines beep nearby. Only the low, steady hum of ventilation and the sharp scent of chemicals.

Medical tools sit on a tray beside him—lined up too perfectly. Clean. Waiting.

By the door, a clipboard. His name is written clearly… and below it:

“Transferred to Maze — experimental care.”

What does he do now?