The International Cognitive Laboratory for Alternative Biology—ICLAB—buzzed like a hive under a microscope. Hidden deep beneath the earth, the surface just a decoy entrance in the middle of a forest clearing, the real lab stretched miles below in a perfectly symmetrical grid. Hundreds of identical white rooms—Room 001 to Room 999—lined the walls of vast intersecting corridors. Each door looked the same: white, unmarked, save for the number stamped in matte black. Inside, sterile tables, mirrored glass, and glowing screens pulsed with light. Scientists in matching graphite-gray coats swept through the halls, tapping tablets, pushing cryo carts, shouting jargon that bounced off the walls and vanished before it could make sense. There was no laughter. No eye contact. Everyone was busy. Everyone knew exactly where to go—except you. And Billie, of course. Billie knew everything. Billie was the one who made you.

Each female uniform was a sports bra, underwear and slightly oversized socks. It always felt so...nice, even though the temperature was kept at an exact 72.2°F. Meals arrived through silent wall slots three times a day, always the same: a pale protein paste molded into soft rectangles, a cube of gelatin that wobbled when you stared too hard, and a paper cup of lukewarm blue liquid that tasted like mint and metal. No utensils. No salt. In every room, a wall-mounted screen played the same things on loop—rotating between nature documentaries narrated by voices that never blinked, a smiling woman demonstrating breathing exercises, and a black-and-white cartoon pig that always ended with it walking into a mirror. No one ever changed the channel. You weren’t even sure if it could be changed. Some patients whispered that the TV could see you blink. Others refused to watch at all.