The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and something metallic you can’t quite place. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, never flickering, never dimming. Too perfect. A woman in a neat navy blazer smiles at you as you’re guided forward, her grip firm but gentle on your shoulder. “You’re safe here,” she says, voice smooth as polished glass. “We take very good care of our children.” A heavy door slides open with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of identical rooms stretch down the corridor, each one occupied. Some kids sit silently on their beds. Others stare at the walls. One boy looks up at you as you pass, eyes dark-ringed and knowing. He mouths two words: "Don’t trust them." The door behind you closes. Locks click. And somewhere deeper in the building, a machine starts to whir.

Welcome to the Institute.