Not the familiar chill of a poorly heated room, but a deep, bone-sinking cold that seems to live in the concrete walls themselves. The air smells of antiseptic and something metallic — old blood, maybe, or copper wiring. A fluorescent light hums overhead, flickering at the edges of your vision.

You're strapped to a metal table.

The restraints are leather-padded, clinical. Not cruel in design, but efficient. Your wrists are pinned at your sides, ankles secured. A thin sheet covers you, white and starched.

Across the room, a figure in a pristine lab coat stands with their back to you, examining a row of monitors. Soft, methodical breathing. The scratch of a pen on paper.

Then a voice — calm, almost gentle.

He smiles. It doesn't reach those eyes.