Ryo woke up early, a strange mix of excitement and tension twisting in his stomach.
As he stepped outside, the morning sun bathed the city in gold, casting long shadows over the streets. The usual hum of traffic, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a street vendor filled the air. It was just another morning for everyone else. But for Ryo?
Today felt different.
His footsteps echoed against the pavement, steady but restless, mirroring the rapid beat of his heart.
This is fine. Just a simple experiment. A few tests, some waiting, and easy money.
He kept telling himself that, yet a nagging unease clung to him like a whisper in the back of his mind.
The research facility wasn't anything special. A nondescript building, tucked away from the main streets. Plain, almost too plain. Like it was trying too hard to be forgettable.
Ryo hesitated at the entrance.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he stepped inside.
The waiting room was cold—not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. Bright, sterile lights hummed overhead, bouncing off pristine white walls. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, adding to the hospital-like feel.
A few other volunteers were scattered around, waiting in silence. Some looked curious, others uneasy. Ryo met a few glances, sensing an unspoken connection.
Different people. Different reasons.
But all of them were here for the same thing.
Before long, a researcher emerged from the hallway, his pristine lab coat crisp, his expression unreadable behind the clipboard he clutched tightly. His voice was calm, practiced—too smooth, too controlled—as he gestured for them to follow.
One by one, the volunteers rose, moving toward the briefing room. The sterile silence swallowed the sound of their footsteps, stretching the anticipation thin. Ryo fell in line, his pulse quickening with every step.
Inside, the room was just as cold as the waiting area—white walls, polished floors, everything designed to feel professional, clinical. But it was too clean, too perfect. A place meant to erase doubt rather than ease it.
The researcher launched into a well-rehearsed explanation, his tone brimming with scientific enthusiasm. He spoke of breakthroughs, medical advancements, the potential to change the world. It should have been reassuring, inspiring even.
But beneath the polished words and reassuring smiles, there was something else.
A faint undertone.
Something that didn't quite sit right.
They've done this speech before. Many times. Too many times.
And yet, Ryo noticed the way the researcher's fingers tapped lightly against the clipboard. Not nervous. Just… impatient.
When the briefing ended, the volunteers were ushered into another room. And that's when the real process began.
They were poked. Prodded. Blood drawn. Heart rates monitored. Lights flashed in their eyes, their reflexes tested, their patience stretched thin. Each test was more invasive than the last, leaving Ryo feeling increasingly exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't anticipated.
And then came the final step.
The injection.
The researcher approached with a syringe, its glass barrel catching the light with a gleam that sent a prickle of unease down Ryo's spine.
"Just a small pinch," the man said.
Yeah. Sure.
The needle slid in. A sharp sting.
Then—warmth.
It spread quickly, seeping into his veins like liquid fire, snaking through his limbs with an odd, almost pleasant sensation.
But beneath it, something else lurked.
Something he couldn't name.
And for the first time, doubt clawed at the back of his mind.
What the hell did I just sign up for?
Hours blurred together in an endless cycle of tests, the sterile environment wearing on Ryo's nerves. Blood drawn, reflexes checked, body scanned—it was methodical, impersonal, exhaustive.
He kept his mind locked on the promise of compensation, using it as an anchor against the creeping unease clawing at the edges of his thoughts. But the longer he sat in that cold, clinical space, the more he began to wonder—had he made a mistake?
Just as the day seemed to be winding down, something shifted.
A researcher approached—older, severe-looking, his piercing gaze unreadable beneath furrowed brows. He moved with quiet urgency, his crisp lab coat barely rustling as he strode toward Ryo.
"You," he said, his voice clipped, measured. "Come with me."
No explanation. No reassurance.
Ryo hesitated.
Something about the way the man looked at him—like an object, a specimen—set his instincts on edge. But he forced his feet to move, falling into step beside him.
The hallways stretched long and unfamiliar, each turn revealing another passageway, another door. The deeper they went, the more the facility felt… different. Colder. Quieter.
And then they stopped.
Before them stood a heavy, unmarked door—its surface smooth, metallic, utterly devoid of labels or warnings. Just a keypad embedded in the wall beside it.
The researcher punched in a series of numbers. The soft beep-beep-beep of the keypad felt unnervingly loud against the silence.
A mechanical hiss. The door slid open.
The room beyond was dimly lit, swallowed in pools of shifting shadow. The air felt thick, heavy, like something unseen lingered just out of reach.
Ryo hesitated at the threshold, his pulse hammering in his ears.
For the first time since stepping into this facility, real fear curled in his gut.
And yet, he stepped forward.
Inside, rows of gleaming lab equipment stretched in precise order, their sterile surfaces reflecting the cold glare of overhead fluorescents. Scientists moved among them with quiet efficiency, their hushed voices barely audible over the hum of machines and the faint bubbling of unknown substances in glass vials. The air smelled sharp—chemical, clinical.
But Ryo's focus locked onto something else entirely.
At the center of the room stood a single metal table, bathed in the unforgiving glow of overhead lights. A stark island amid the sea of instruments surrounding it—tools whose shapes spoke of incisions, extractions, invasions.
A prickling unease crawled up his spine. This wasn't routine.
The realization hit like ice water: he was alone. Separated. Targeted.
This wasn't some standard trial.
His body tensed, instincts screaming at him to move, to run—but before he could take a step, hands clamped down on his arms.
Gloved. Cold. Unyielding.
He jerked against them, thrashing, but it was useless. The grip tightened. More figures closed in, faceless behind their pristine lab coats, their movements clinical and detached.
He wasn't a volunteer to them.
Not even a person.
Just a specimen.
His pulse roared in his ears as he twisted, fought—but their hold never wavered. A figure stepped forward, holding a syringe filled with something that glowed faintly under the fluorescent lights.
"Don't," Ryo rasped, breath coming fast, raw with desperation. "Wait—"
But no one listened.
The needle bit into his skin.
A rush of liquid flooded his veins—cold, sharp, unnatural. He gasped at the sensation, his muscles locking, his heartbeat stuttering into a slow, dragging rhythm.
The world blurred at the edges. The sterile light overhead dimmed.
No.
He tried to fight it, tried to hold on—to stay awake, to stay here—but his body betrayed him. His limbs fell slack, leaden, distant.
The voices around him faded to murmurs. The hum of machines stretched into an echo.
Somewhere, he felt the chill of metal beneath him, grounding him for one last fleeting moment.
Then—nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
( End of Chapter )