White ceiling. Seamless. No fixtures, no vents, no seams I can see from here. Light without source, diffused and even, like snow-blindness without the glare. I breathe once, slow and deep, and feel the air scrape my lungs on the way in. Dry. Clean.Tooclean.
The floor beneath me is smooth and hard, colder than the air. I am dressed – thin fabric, some kind of thermal compositemaybe – but it’s not enough to block the chill creeping upward through my bones. No restraints. No cuffs. No weight on my chest.
That alone tells me this isn’t an interrogation room.
I catalogue myself methodically. Fingers move. Toes respond. No immediate injuries. No dizziness. Heart rate elevated only slightly, the normal aftermath of waking dislocation. I slow my breathing deliberately, counting the seconds in and out until my pulse follows.
I sit up.
The room is larger than I expect. Circular, perhaps ten metres across. Walls curve smoothly, uninterrupted. No doors. No visible cameras. The absence is conspicuous. Someone wants me to notice that I cannot see how I am being watched.
Fine.
I draw my knees up, wrap my arms around them, and lower my centre of gravity. Stillness is warmth. Stillness is efficiency. I tuck my chin down and let my shoulders relax, letting the cold wash over me instead of fighting it.
Minutes pass. Or hours. Time is already losing its shape.
The temperature does not change, but my awareness of it does. There is a point, always, where the body stops protesting and starts adapting. Shivering threatens and then recedes as I consciously relax each muscle group in turn. Jaw unclenches. Tongue settles. Breath deepens.
This, at least, I know how to do.
A sound breaks the quiet.
Not loud. Not sudden. Just…present.
“Subject Snow is conscious.”
The voice is neutral. Neither male nor female, neither warm nor cold. It fills the room evenly, without echo.
I do not look up.
“Good morning,” the voice continues. “You are undergoing an adaptation assessment. Please remain seated.”
I allow myself a single exhale, slow and controlled. “How considerate,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d like but steady enough. It tells me I’ve been out of it for longer than I initially thought, but when I try to recall my last moments, all I get is white noise.
There is no response to the tone. Only content matters here.
“Baseline measurements beginning now.”
I feel it before I see it – the faint prickle along my skin, the sense of pressure changes too subtle for panic but unmistakable to attention. Sensors, then. Embedded in the walls. Or in me, more likely.
I do not move.
I slow my breathing further. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six. My heart rate ticks downward, obedient as ever. I imagine cold water filling my veins, imagine myself becoming denser, heavier, less affected by surface sensation.
Numbers scroll across my mind unbidden, a habit I never quite lost. Degrees. Beats per minute. Oxygen saturation. All of it trending towards optimal.
The cold deepens.
Not abruptly. Never abruptly. It slides downward in increments small enough that I can adjust before discomfort spikes. Clever. They want clean data.
“Excellent,” the voice says after a time. “Heart rate stabilisation achieved in under ninety seconds.”
I almost smile.
Instead, I sink further into myself, drawing warmth inward, minimising exposed surface area. My muscles loosen deliberately, avoiding the micro-tension that burns energy and generates heat loss. This is not suffering. This is training.
I can do this indefinitely. I’m sure of it.
