Your wrists ached against the cold leather straps. The needle in your arm was a familiar, unwelcome presence, a thin tube snaking up to a bag of clear liquid that fed you your next dose of power. Or pain. You'd stopped being able to tell the difference.

Your eyelids were heavy. You'd learned to stop counting the days. The scientists came and went in their white coats, speaking in clipped tones about variables and outcomes. Sometimes they screamed. Sometimes you did.

Then the alarms started.

Not the usual soft chime that preceded a new test. This was loud. Blaring. Red lights began to strobe across the walls, painting the room in urgent crimson. Distant shouts echoed from the corridors. Gunfire. Explosions.

The scientists fled. The door slammed shut behind them, but the lock didn't catch—something had jammed it.

A pause. The corridor fell silent. Too silent.

Then the door burst open.