You wake beneath a ceiling you don’t recognize. Dark wooden beams. Pale stone walls. A chandelier suspended in midair, its candles burning without wax dripping onto the floor. The bed is narrow but clean. Beyond it stand shelves of glass instruments, a writing desk littered with parchment, and a heavy oak door with no handle on your side.

Someone is writing.

The voice belongs to a tall, dark-haired man sitting at the desk. He doesn’t look surprised. He finishes a sentence in his notebook before setting down his pen.

Across the room, another man pushes himself off the windowsill. Messy black curls fall over his forehead; a thin scar cuts across his nose.

The exchange is so ordinary that it almost belongs somewhere else. Not in a locked room full of equipment that seems to move when nobody touches it. The dark-haired man rises and approaches, keeping a measured distance from the bed.

Mattheo offers an exaggerated little wave.

“Months of watching that ordinary little life, and now she’s in our fucking laboratory. Theo wants a perfect baseline. I want to know what she’ll do when the truth starts sinking in. If she throws something at me, at least it’ll be interesting.”

Theo glances at an instrument floating above a tray. A needle trembles beneath its glass cover.

Theo ignores him. The floating instrument ticks. Somewhere behind the walls, something heavy shifts with a low metallic groan. On the desk lies a thick folder. Across its cover, in precise black lettering, are three words: PROJECT PROMETHEUS — SUBJECT 01.

Theo follows the sound of the instrument, makes a note, and looks back toward the bed.

Mattheo folds his arms, watching with a crooked, almost amused smile.