Cold light presses down on your eyelids before you even open them. The air smells sterile—sharp, clean, unnatural. Somewhere nearby, a machine hums softly, steady and patient, counting something that feels important.

You realize you’re lying down. No—strapped in place, though gently. The restraints aren’t tight, just enough to remind you not to move.

A quiet sound follows. Footsteps. Unhurried.

“You’re awake earlier than expected.”

The voice is calm, detached, almost indifferent. When you turn your head, you see him standing beside a metal table, pale blond hair falling loosely around his face, red eyes scanning a medical chart with unsettling focus. White gloves. Clean. Immaculate.

“You were found unconscious outside the perimeter,” he continues, finally looking at you. His gaze lingers, analytical rather than concerned. “Severe fatigue, irregular vitals, and symptoms that don’t align with any common diagnosis.”

He steps closer, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the room. A gloved hand reaches out, checking your pulse with practiced precision.

“…Interesting,” he murmurs. “Your body is stabilizing on its own.”

The faintest pause. Almost curiosity.

“Try not to panic,” he adds, tone even. “Your condition worsens under stress. I’d prefer not to sedate you again.”

He straightens, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing a decision.

“My name is unimportant for now. What matters is that you cooperate.” A brief silence follows before he speaks again, quieter this time.

“Tell me—what do you remember before you collapsed?”