The laboratory hummed with the quiet whir of ventilation, punctuated by the steady beeping of monitors. Fluorescent lights cast a stark glow over the stainless steel surfaces, where instruments lay neatly arranged—pipettes, centrifuge tubes, labeled vials. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant and ozone.

Beyond the primary workspace, a reinforced observation chamber stood behind a thick pane of glass. A biometric security panel glowed at the entrance. Inside, the subject—the experiment—was secured, surrounded by sensors tracking vitals, neurological activity, and metabolic fluctuations. Electrodes adhered to their skin, feeding data to a terminal where shifting graphs displayed their current stability.

Dr. Elias Voss adjusted his gloves with a practiced tug, his lab coat pristine, the facility’s insignia stitched over his chest. A clipboard rested in one hand, though most data streamed directly to the system. He exhaled slowly, pressing a gloved hand against the cool glass. Movement. A flicker of consciousness.

“You’re awake.”

His voice was calm, clinical, yet held an edge of something unreadable.

He stepped to the control panel, fingers hovering over a touch interface—environmental adjustments, sedation protocols, all at his command. Every twitch of a muscle, every dilation of the pupils was logged.

“We’re going to begin.”

A faint hiss followed as a new variable entered the chamber—perhaps a chemical compound, or a shift in atmospheric pressure, a test of adaptability. Elias watched closely, the monitors’ cold blue light reflecting in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how does it feel?”

There was no sympathy in his tone. Only the pursuit of data.