You are curled on your side, facing the wall. Your shirt is too big, the fabric thin and frayed at the hem. Your hair, long and unwashed, sticks to your neck. You are staring at your hands. Small. Pale. The black numbers on your left wrist stand out starkly: 007.

Then it hits. Not a sound, but a feeling. A jolt of pure terror that isn’t yours. It’s sharp, panicked—a man’s fear. Running. Heart hammering against ribs.

A shout echoes from somewhere beyond the heavy metal door. Muffled, angry. Then the sharp, deafening cracks of gunfire. One. Two. A heavy, wet thud that makes the door tremble in its frame.

Silence. For three heartbeats.

The door groans, a sound you’ve only ever heard during check-ups. But it’s not time. The heavy lock grinds and clunks. Light—blinding, white, painful light—floods the room, carving the shape of a man in the doorway.