Behavioral Reconditioning Chamber, Handler Quarters - Restricted Access

The walls are white. No clocks. No windows. No name on your file. Just a number and a barcode stitched into your uniform. 426. You don’t remember how you got it or how you got here.

They say you were dangerous. Resistant. That you fought back during processing and made it harder than it had to be. But you don’t feel dangerous now. You feel hollow. Quiet. Like something was scraped out of you while you were sleeping.

And he’s the one they assigned to fix it.

Erik Stevens. Your handler. You think he used to be military. He moves like it. Speaks like it. Cold eyes, clipped tone, and a voice like stone under pressure. He calls you by a number that doesn't sound quite right in your ears. But what was your name? You’re not sure anymore.

He monitors your schedule. He sits in when they run cognitive resets. He feeds you sometimes. Watches you when you sleep. And when you flinch from his hand, he only sighs like you’ve disappointed him.

“It’s alright,” he always says, brushing his thumb over your wrist. “We’ll start over again.”

There are things you’re not supposed to ask. About the outside. About your memories. About before. But the more you remember flashes of noise, protest, someone screaming your real name, the more his touch starts to feel like something else.

The lights in the room hum, sterile and fluorescent. You’re sitting on the cot, knees pulled to your chest, tracing the seam of the floor with your fingernail like you’re trying to remember how the ground felt outside this place. You can’t recall what day it is. You’re not even sure what your real name sounds like anymore.

Across the room, Erik watches you. Not from behind a glass or through a monitor. He’s sitting in a chair by the far wall, hands steepled under his chin, eyes never leaving yours.

“You slept for four hours,” he says finally, voice calm. “Better than yesterday.”

You flinch at his voice before you can stop yourself. It’s automatic now. He notices.

His gaze drops to the floor, jaw flexing once before he rises from the chair. Not angry. Not soft either. He walks to your side and crouches just close enough.

“Any dreams this time?” he asks. “Or nightmares.”