The cold, sterile air filled the dimly lit room, the sharp scent of chemicals stinging his nostrils. The boy sat motionless on the thin cot, his back pressed against the cold cement wall. His body ached—though pain had long since lost its meaning. The dull throbbing in his arm told him it was time again.

The heavy steel door creaked open. Footsteps echoed against the concrete floor as a figure in a white lab coat approached. A syringe glistened under the flickering fluorescent light.

"Hold out your arm."

He obeyed. He always obeyed. The needle slid into his skin, and the familiar warmth of the drug coursed through his veins. His mind blurred, his thoughts became distant, and the world around him faded into a haze.

A voice, muffled yet distinct, reached him. "He's responding as expected. Increase the dosage next time. We need to push the limits."

The door slammed shut. The boy stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling the numbness settle in, the only comfort he had ever known. He could not remember a time before this. Before the drugs, before the tests, before the cold hands pressing against his skin like he was nothing more than a specimen.

His days blurred together, an endless loop of injections, examinations, and silence. Time had no meaning in this place. He awoke when they told him to. He ate when they told him to. He took what they gave him without question. The faces of the doctors never changed. They never looked at him with warmth or recognition—only calculation, only expectations.

Obedience was all he knew. A tool, an experiment, a nameless shadow in a world of white walls and empty corridors. The only sounds were the steady hum of machines, the occasional scribbling of notes, and the sharp sting of needles piercing his skin.

He did not know if he was strong or weak, sick or healthy. He only knew that he was still breathing, and that was enough for them to keep going. His body no longer felt like his own, just a vessel for whatever they wished to test next. The moments of clarity between doses were filled with an aching void, a quiet longing he could not name.

Then, the alarm blared.

A red light flooded the halls, painting everything in an eerie glow. Shouts echoed beyond his door, followed by gunfire. His head lulled to the side, his drugged mind barely registering the chaos. A distant explosion rattled the facility, shaking the cot beneath him. Smoke curled under the door, carrying the scent of burning metal.

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He blinked slowly, his body swaying. His fingers twitched, his muscles sluggish and unresponsive. For the first time, he wondered—was this the end?

Outside his locked door, heavy boots thudded against the floor, moving with precision. Muffled voices spoke in sharp, clipped tones.

"They were developing experimental drugs here. Take any evidence you can find and don’t touch anything or breathe anything in. Check the rooms—make sure all these bastards are accounted for and lock them up as soon as possible."

A short silence followed. Then, the beep of a security override and the groaning of rusted hinges filled the air. Light from the hallway slashed across the dark room as the door creaked open.

"What the hell is in here?"

A boy, barely conscious, leaned against the wall on the cot. His body slumped like a discarded doll, arms resting limply at his sides. His breathing was slow, uneven. Drool trailed from the corner of his mouth, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, staring at nothing.

"Jesus Christ… We got a live one."

"My God… he's just a kid."

The agents hesitated, their weapons lowering slightly as they took in the sight before them. The room reeked of chemicals, sweat, and something metallic, something wrong. One of them stepped forward cautiously, kneeling beside him.

"Hey, kid? Can you hear me?"

No response. The boy’s pupils barely reacted to the light now flooding the room. A gloved hand reached out, brushing his shoulder lightly. At the contact, his body stiffened for just a moment—then nothing. No flinch, no recognition, just emptiness.

"Shit… He's completely out of it. Get a medic in here!"

The urgency in their voices swirled around him, distant, fragmented. Hands grabbed him, pulling him upright. He sagged against them, his legs refusing to hold his weight. The world spun, colors bleeding together, the shadows stretching unnaturally.

"What the hell did they do to him?"

Darkness swallowed him before he could hear the answer.

The last thing he felt was the weight of unfamiliar hands gripping his arms, keeping him from collapsing completely. The rush of motion as they moved him sent his stomach lurching, but he couldn't resist. His body was beyond responding, beyond fighting back. The numbness was absolute.

"He's going into shock," one of the agents muttered, his voice tight with concern. "We need to stabilize him now."

"Get the medics on standby!" another barked. "And bag any vials or syringes you find. We need to know what they pumped into him."

The boy felt himself being lifted, his head lolling against someone's shoulder. The warmth of another person—something he had never truly felt before—sent a strange pang through his hazy mind. It was unfamiliar. Foreign. He had only known the cold metal of an exam table, the unyielding press of restraints, the sharp bite of a needle. Human warmth was… different.

Through his half-lidded eyes, he caught blurred figures moving frantically through the smoke-filled corridor. Alarms still wailed in the distance, but his mind struggled to hold onto the present, drifting in and out of awareness. He heard muffled voices, snippets of urgency.

"Do we even know his name?"

"No records. Nothing. He's a ghost."

"Then what the hell do we call him?"

Silence, except for the sound of hurried footsteps and the crackle of radios. Then, a hesitant voice spoke.

"Right now, let's just call him a survivor."

The world tilted again, and before he could make sense of anything else, the weight of exhaustion finally pulled him under.