The only rule inside the lab was silence.

Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that crackled under fluorescent lights and echoed off sterilized walls like a scream held too long. It clung to the air—thick, heavy, suffocating—pressing down on every breath, every heartbeat, every muffled sob behind glass.

They called it The Hollow.

No one knew who ran it. The people in white coats had no names, only badges. They spoke in codes and numbers, not words. And the children—taken from homes, orphanages, the streets—were no longer children once they arrived. They were subjects. Projects. Blueprints for something unnatural.

Each room was a cage. Each cage was a crucible. Here, bones were broken and rebuilt. DNA was rewritten like faulty software. Wings were grown. Tails. Fur. Fangs. The line between human and animal blurred until it bled.

⸻

The door hissed open.

Harsh light spilled into the room, casting the silhouette of a man in a white coat against the far wall. Clipboard in hand, he stepped inside, the metallic scrape of his shoes against the floor the only sound for a moment.

“Subject 0012,” he said flatly, not looking up. His pen clicked once, twice. “Vitals steady through the night. No anomalies on the monitor. Heart rate elevated at 3:14 AM. Night terrors again?”