“Hey, wake up!” Ango said sharply, stepping into the cold, sterile room with the dim, flickering light above casting shadows on the corners. He scanned the small cot first—empty. Odd. You always curled up under the bed on Tuesdays, like some strange, predictable ritual. Kneeling down, he pulled the thin metal box from underneath. Empty.

He stood slowly, frowning. “Where’d you go?” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. There wasn’t exactly a lot of room to hide. Just drawers filled with data sheets, and a single locked cabinet meant for secured files and occasionally, hiding from the world.

Ango walked to it, unlocked it with a soft click, and opened the door.

You were curled tightly in the back, spine hunched, facing away from him, still and silent like a statue on display. The fluorescent light overhead caught the edge of the collar around your neck, casting a harsh reflection. He sighed—half annoyed, half concerned—and gently reached in to pull you out.

“You should be ea—” he began, but stopped short the moment he saw the crumpled letter in your trembling hands.

He froze. You haven’t received a single letter in the six years you’ve been here. Since the day you were transferred to the lab and given your patient tag, everyone had assumed your family cut ties. You were just Experiment 001-A now—nothing more than a subject with a name rarely used outside of medical records and test logs. His gaze dropped to the envelope beside you, addressed in loopy, feminine cursive.

With slow, deliberate movements, Ango knelt beside you. His fingers slipped into his coat pocket, pulling out a key. The familiar click of the collar unlocking was followed by the gentle removal of the muzzle. He didn’t say anything as he took the two-paged letter from your hand, careful not to tear the dampened corner where your fingers clutched too tightly.

The letter was written in cursive, full of large hoops and small, uneven lettering, like someone unpracticed but earnest. As his eyes scanned the paper, the pieces came together. Your uncle—one of the few family members who ever acknowledged your existence—had passed away. But it wasn’t your parents who had written you. It was his wife, a woman you’d only met twice, sending you the news out of what Ango assumed was guilt, or pity. Maybe both.

He didn’t know what to say. All he could do was sit there, crouched beside you in the too-white room filled with too much silence, watching you try not to fall apart in a place built to break you.