Always watching.
The small black dome mounted near the ceiling swivels slightly, tracking my movement with quiet, patient precision. Like a bored predator observing a very unimpressive prey animal. I wonder sometimes if whoever's manning the monitor gets paid extra to stare at me while I sleep. If so, I hope the overtime is worth it. I've been told I make unpleasant faces when I'm sedated.
I stare back at the camera. Then raise my hand and wave.
"Morning, creeps." The camera does not wave back.
Rude.
I let out a heavy breath and push myself to my feet, joints popping in protest. The room spins for half a second before settling into its usual bleak shape. One of these days, the floor isn't going to stop moving. That'll be a fun new development.
My containment unit is twelve steps long if I stretch my stride. Eight steps wide. I know because I've counted them about nine hundred times. I've also counted ceiling tiles, drain grates, and the number of times per hour the ventilation cycles. Somewhere in my head, there's a very detailed map of this room that serves no practical purpose whatsoever.
The walls are smooth, reinforced concrete. There are no seams, no loose edges, nothing sharp enough to use as a weapon. It’s all rather boring if you ask me. Whoever designed this place was very thorough about removing the possibility of fun. There's a grudging kind of respect in that. Whoever built this room knew exactly what they were putting inside it and planned accordingly.
I find that almost flattering.
Almost.
A drain sits in the center of the floor. There's a thin mattress shoved into the far corner, more of a suggestion of a mattress than a functioning one, the foam compressed into a shape that remembers every bad night I've ever had in here. A stainless-steel sink built directly into the wall. No mirror. They took the mirror out after the third time I broke it. Which was fair, I guess.
And the observation window. That thing takes up nearly half the opposite wall, a thick sheet of glass stretching from chest height all the way to the ceiling. I've thrown a chair at it twice. A meal tray once. My own body, on one memorable occasion, in what I still maintain was a completely reasonable response to circumstances.
It didn't break. It didn't even scratch. It's reflective on my side. Opaque on theirs. I shuffle toward it, scratching absently at the back of my neck.
My reflection slowly resolves in the glass. Messy dark hair sticking out in all directions. Sharp cheekbones carved a little too severely for someone my age… assuming I know my age, which is a thing they've been very cagey about. Pale skin that hasn't seen actual sunlight in long enough that I've started to look like something that lives underground on purpose.
And the thin black barcode tattooed just below my ear.
O-00.
Subject Zero.
I tilt my head, studying it.
"Still ugly," I inform my reflection. The guy in the glass looks unimpressed. He looks tired, not sleep-tired, but the other kind. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion that you can’t just shake away. The kind that sits behind your eyes and watches everything like it already knows how it ends.
I press my forehead against the cool surface. The temperature difference sends a small shiver down my spine. I leave it there for a second longer than necessary. Simple sensations. You learn to collect them when the world gets small enough.
Behind the glass, somewhere in the observation room, I know they're standing there watching me like I’m an exotic animal in an exhibit. Scientists in pristine white coats holding clipboards like sacred texts. Watching me breathe. Watching me blink. Writing things down that I'll never get to read… notes about my pupils, my posture, the way I held my arm when I checked the injection site.
Waiting. Always waiting. For what? It’s hard to say. Maybe they're hoping I'll sprout wings. Maybe they already tried that experiment, and I just don't remember. My memory has holes in it now. Stretches of daysthat feel like static, like someone hit the skip button on a record. I stopped trying to map them. The gaps are just part of the landscape now.
My stomach growls loudly. I glance down at it.
"Oh, relax," I tell it, "I'm sure they'll remember to feed us eventually."
The feeding schedule, such as it is, runs on lab time. Which means whenever the fuck they feel like it. Breakfast comes early on trial days. Late on observation days. Sometimes not at all when they're running bloodwork, and the results make the clipboards very excited.
Hungry test subjects are apparently easier to work with. I've considered proving that theory catastrophically wrong on several occasions. Patience is a virtue. I have almost none of it. But I'm learning.
The room remains stubbornly silent.
Then-
A faint metallic rattle echoes from the ventilation grate near the ceiling. I freeze. Slowly, very slowly, my grin spreads.
"Oh, hey," I whisper, tipping my head back toward the vent.
