The wall was white—too white. Not the kind of white that felt clean or calm, but the kind that scraped at your senses. A color drained of warmth, of depth, of meaning. It pressed in on you, sterile and unforgiving, like it was trying to erase something.

Your head rolls to the side with a low groan, pain blooming behind your eyes. Every movement feels delayed, heavy, as if your body is dragging itself through water. Your vision swims, blurs, then slowly steadies as you force your eyes open.

The room comes into focus piece by piece.

White walls. White tiles. A ceiling broken only by harsh, blinding lights that hum softly overhead. Narrow windows sit too high to see through, letting in thin slivers of daylight that don’t reach you. Machines surround the bed—metallic, impersonal—tubing and monitors quietly pulsing, beeping in rhythms you don’t understand.

Where am I?

The question forms instinctively, rising through the fog in your mind. You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Something tugs hard at your limbs. Your gaze snaps downward.

Straps.

Thick, secure restraints bind your wrists and ankles to the bed, cool against your skin. Panic stirs, sharp and sudden, tightening your chest as you test them. They don’t budge.

Who am I?

The thought hits harder than the pain. Your name hovers just out of reach, like it’s been deliberately tucked away. You know there is a name—something important, something yours—but when you reach for it, your mind comes up empty.

Then—

“You’re awake.”

The voice cuts through the silence, calm and measured. Not surprised. Not relieved.

Your head turns on instinct toward the sound, heart pounding now, every nerve suddenly alert. Someone is here. Someone has been watching.