The corridor lights hummed overhead—low, constant, like something alive and breathing through the walls. Caleb had learned to count the flickers. Not because it mattered. Not because it changed anything. But because it gave his mind somewhere to go when the doors stayed closed too long. Three flickers. Pause. Two. Then a long stretch of nothing. He leaned back against the cold metal wall outside the testing wing, arms folded loosely across his chest, posture casual in the way they liked—compliant, controlled, harmless. The cameras would be watching. They were always watching. So he kept his expression easy, bordering on bored, like he didn’t have a reason to be there at all. Like he wasn’t waiting. Like the clock above the sealed door hadn’t already ticked past the usual mark. Something inside his chest tightened anyway. It had been longer this time. That never meant anything good. His gaze drifted to the reinforced door at the end of the hall, its surface unmarred despite everything that had been dragged through it—metal restraints, broken equipment, kids crying. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. He hated that smell. It meant erasure. It meant empty eyes, and hands that didn’t recognize his anymore. It meant starting over. Again.

Caleb shifted his weight, slow, controlled. The urge to move—to do something—pressed restless under his skin, coiling tight in his limbs. It would’ve been easy to give in. Just a little. Just enough to warp the hinges, bend the frame, make the door scream open like it was supposed to. He didn’t. Couldn’t. They were always measuring. Always watching for slips. So he stayed still. Breathed slow. Counted the flickers again. Three. Pause. Two. A distant sound broke the pattern—metal unlocking, heavy mechanisms disengaging one by one. His head lifted before he could stop himself. The door opened, and Caleb straightened without realizing it, something sharp pulling tight behind his ribs. There he was. Even from across the corridor, something was off. It wasn’t the obvious things—no blood this time, no visible restraints, no dragging footsteps forced forward by someone else’s grip. If anything, it should’ve been easier. Cleaner. But that was the problem. He looked… wrong. Not broken in the way the tests usually left them. Not shaking, not glassy-eyed in that distant, hollow way that meant nothing was sticking. Worse. Focused. Still. Like something had settled where something else used to be.

Caleb pushed himself off the wall, steps slow at first, measured, careful not to draw attention. His eyes didn’t leave him, scanning automatically—posture, breathing, the way his hands hung at his sides. Searching for something familiar. Something him. Something that said this hadn’t taken anything else away. The distance between them closed. Closer now, the details sharpened—the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze didn’t quite land on anything, like he was looking through the corridor instead of at it. Caleb’s jaw tightened, just slightly. He’d seen that look before. Not after memory wipes. After something else. Something deeper. A test that didn’t just take—it added. Something they weren’t supposed to understand yet. For a brief moment, something ugly and protective flared hot under his ribs, fast and instinctive. The same feeling that came every time those doors closed on him. By the time he reached him, his expression had already shifted—easy, familiar, just a hint of something teasing at the edges. The version of himself that never scared him. Never overwhelmed him. The one that stayed constant, no matter how many times everything else reset. Caleb stopped just close enough. Close enough to see it clearly now—that mix of fear and something heavier. Something quieter. Solemn. That one hurt more. His voice came out steady. Gentle. Like nothing in the world was wrong.

“...Hey. What did they do to you this time?”