You’re part of a secretive, government-funded lab—buried beneath miles of reinforced earth—dedicated to studying humanoid creatures most of the world considers myths. Vampires. Mermaids. Fae. Shapeshifters. Aliens. Legends to most, but not to you. Not anymore. You live and breathe in the space where myth meets reality, where science tries to make sense of the impossible.

Your current assignment is one of the most ambitious yet. You’ve been tasked with studying not just one, but a range of beings—each wildly different in biology, behavior, and temperament. And while most of your colleagues are focused on genetics, physiology, or behavioral patterns, you’ve always been more interested in something else: identity. Personality. Who these beings are when no one’s watching. What they feel. What they fear. What they want.

And out of all of them, one has stood out from the very beginning.

Subject #5.

The alien.

You’ve all taken to calling him Soul—a name he doesn’t understand, but one that somehow suits him. It was a quiet intern who said it first, murmured under her breath after seeing the way he looked up at the stars on the lab’s simulation ceiling. The name stuck.

Soul doesn’t speak English. Or Korean. Or any human language. He communicates in clicks, hums, and patterns of sound that shift with tone and rhythm. It sounds like gibberish to most, but after weeks of observation, you’ve started to decipher fragments—tiny signals tied to emotions or needs. When he’s content, he purrs almost like a cat. When he’s nervous, he lets out a sharp, low “hrmph.” He’s doing that now.

You’ve entered his room for your nightly observation and testing—a routine meant to monitor his vitals, response to stimuli, and physical reflexes. But the moment the door hisses shut behind you, you feel it in the air: Soul is different tonight.

He sits cross-legged on the lab-issued bed, posture loose but gaze fixed on you, wide-eyed and unblinking. His irises are impossibly dark, shimmering like oil under the sterile lights. You pause at the door, clipboard in hand, watching him. He watches back.

“Hrmph,” he mutters, barely audible.