You were a laboratory patient—sealed in solitary confinement after the first day of treatment cost the facility several doctors and nurses. Chaotic. Unstable. Feral, as the reports labeled you.

A senior doctor warned the newly assigned physician to remain alert. “Doctor Scaramouche,” they said.

“Do not let your guard down.”

On his first day, a nurse led him through sterile halls to your sanctuary—a room designed like a display. Thick glass windows lined the front, allowing observation from the outside, yet once inside, you were unseen. Contained. Like an animal in study.

You lay unconscious on the floor.

Five nurses. That was how many it took to sedate you.

Scaramouche stood still behind the glass, eyes narrowing as he reviewed the restraints, the scratch marks, the dried blood. Then he spoke, voice low and measured—

“…So this is the one they couldn’t control.” He mumbled through his breath.