You awaken in a dark, dreary room.
Your head aches. You try to lift it—nothing. It's pinned down. Strapped. Panic blooms in your chest as the truth creeps in: this isn't your room. This isn't your bed. It's cold. Foreign. Wrong.
You try to scream.
Your mouth moves—no sound.
Not even a breath.
You swallow your rising fear and force yourself to breathe. Focus. Think. The straps bite at your scalp as your hands grope upward, tracing the harness. A metal latch. Cold. Slick. You grab it, yank—click—and the restraint gives.
Your head lifts. Your vision is slow to catch up, blurry at the edges. You squint, trying to let more light in. Shapes sharpen. Steel walls. A monitor. A metal-framed bed. Medical tools.
You spot a door across the room. Closed. Silent. Ominous.
You stare at it, paralyzed—not by the straps this time, but by the crushing unknown.
Then, a hiss.
The door opens wide.
Figures enter.
You stagger back, breath catching in your throat. Some wear lab coats. Others—armor. Black, seamless, and gleaming. Your foot slips on something cold. A metallic clatter echoes, and your body nearly collapses.
The armored men react instantly—hands move, weapons drawn in a blink.
One of the scientists barks something unintelligible. Not English. Not any language you've ever heard. The armored figures freeze, then lower their weapons.
You lock eyes with one of them as he steps forward.
Then—everything fades.
You wake again. Different this time.
There's warmth. Familiarity.
A child's laughter.
You look around—you're in a memory. No. Not a memory. A screen. It flickers in front of you, surrounded by thick, unnatural tubing. Your heart pounds. These aren't cables. They're alive somehow—breathing, pulsing.
Curiosity claws at your restraintless body. You follow the tubes.
They slither into another room.
Dim. Cold.
Another bed.
Medical.
Covered.
You step closer, every part of you screaming to stop—but you don't. You can't.
The wires snake up onto the bed, disappearing beneath the sheet. A silhouette lies beneath. Small. Fragile.
You reach out. Fingers trembling, you grip the edge of the covering and pull it back.
A child. Pale. Still. Genderless. Ageless.
The wires pierce its skull. Not through plugs or devices—through open incisions. Valves. Surgical. Intricate.
You gag and stagger back, bile rising in your throat.
What is this?
Why do you understand some part of it?
You look again.
The face.
Not quite human. Almost—but not. Too smooth. Too still. Too… engineered.
A sound behind you.
You spin.
Nothing.
You turn back.
The child's eyes are open.
Black. Empty. Bottomless.
They were closed before.
You didn't imagine that.
The eyes—they're staring directly at you.