You knew the rhythm by now. The hum of the ventilation, the distant thrum of machinery, the soft click of the observation cameras adjusting their angles.

Then, a change.

Not the usual two-person patrol rotation. Not the clipped morning checks from the scientists who never met your eyes.

Boots.

Heavier steps. Two sets. One deliberate, each footfall placed with precision. The other heavier, broader, moving with the kind of weight that didn't need to rush.

Through the glass, you caught them.

The first was lean, masked in a white skull. He stood at parade rest, but there was nothing relaxed about it—his eyes were already moving, scanning the room, cataloging everything. They landed on you once. Held. Let go.

The second was a wall of a man, tall enough that his head nearly brushed the top of the doorframe. His arms were crossed, and he watched you with the faint tilt of someone measuring something they intended to use.

The scientists flanked them, clipboards in hand, voices lowered to clinical murmur.

The tall man shifted his weight. He didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was low, unhurried, with an accent that curled around the vowels.