The tires crunched to a stop on an unmarked gravel road deep within a forest shrouded in mist. William's senses heightened as he looked out the window, his gaze landing on a low, gray building partially shielded by heavy trees. There were no identifying markers, no hint of government insignia, only a squat, concrete structure seemingly meshing with the shadowed surroundings as if it wished not to be noticed.
Two guards in dark uniforms stood by a thick steel door. Both looked in his direction, their faces expressionless as they waited for the arrival. William took in the stolid faces, rifles by their sides, and the subtle tension in their postures. This, he knew without doubt, was meant to be a place of confinement for him.
The female at his side opened hers and stepped out, her gaze flicking back to him before gesturing that he follow. He slid out of the SUV, his hands still bound, though he held his head high, his red eyes catching a sliver of light that gave them an almost unsettling glow. He looked around, noticing how the high fences were screened off by foliage and how the security cameras sat on tree trunks, almost unobtrusive to the casual observer.
It was a place that bespoke finality: no chaos, no loud murmur of activity, but silence, except for the low hum of some hidden generator way off in the background. It was as if the very forest itself had drawn its breath and watched quietly while he was brought forward.
As they pushed open the steel door, it ground open with a loud metallic hiss into a narrow corridor of stark, fluorescent lighting. William's instincts prickled; the air was close, sterile inside. The woman led him down the hall; her heels echoed against the cold concrete floors. A thin antiseptic reek clung to the walls, an odd mixture of clinical precision and something faintly rotten, a smell far too well known from innumerable rooms just like this.
Anger simmered just below the surface calm as he walked. Sterile light, pale walls, and endless echoes were all reminders of confinement, of control. He knew that places like this were designed to strip a person of identity and turn them into things. Yet he squared his shoulders, refused to let them see his discomfort, and met the cold gaze of every guard who passed them.
That was the end of the hall with a large heavy door and a small window in the middle; reinforced security glass. One of the guards keyed a code into the keypad next to the door and gave him access as it slid open with a mechanical clank. There lay a little, solitary room with an iron chair bolted to the center of the floor. A bright light hung above it, casting harsh shadows on every surface.
She beckoned him inside, and as he stepped through the threshold, he felt the finality settle over him, a creeping sense of inevitability. There were no options left here; even his last lines of defense were torn aside in this subterranean maze. As he stepped through, he did permit himself one last look back red eyes meeting hers with that flicker of defiance.
They may have fetched him, but he was not going to hand them his surrender. Not yet. He knew that the government would come looking for him sooner or later, the uproar caused by his disappearance would surely force their hands he just had to wait.
Within the cell, he felt a flood of mixed emotions. The sterile light above was remorseless in casting cruel shadows over every inch of the room. He looked around the space: stark, bare bar steel chair, cold walls, and the soft hum of the light overhead a sort of prison devised to strip away human feeling, to turn him into some object they could handle. He fisted his hands as a sudden, keen blade of anger sliced through him. They thought they'd won, that they'd contained him, reduced him to a mere specimen to be examined, analyzed, feared.
But beneath the fury, another emotion snared a gnawing sense of isolation that grew stronger with every echoing footstep he took down that small white room. It was always the same, wherever they dragged him, for every sterile room would remind him of cold detachment in people's eyes staring at him as if he was some anomaly to be studied. It suddenly dawned on him-he realized that no one had ever asked him what he wanted. Every decision had been torn from his grasp, his life mapped out by others, and his strength marked as a danger instead of an integral part of him. He had never been able to choose for himself what he was supposed to be, and now he found himself here, pushed back behind bars, into a box of someone else's design.
But with every step deeper into the cold truth of the room, defiance started to simmer beneath the surface. They wanted him complaisant, obedient-wanted him to feel helpless and trapped. They had thought to bend him to their will, to crush him beneath the demands they had made of him. So far, they had underestimated him; just because he had refused to use his powers forgetting how dangerous he really was. They might think him a danger, a threat, but that was only because they didn't know and couldn't see the choices he had made to hold back, to keep from creating the chaos they feared. Even in this cage, he knew he still had a choice and intended to hold onto it. At the thought, something quiet, determined fire ignited in his belly. He could take whatever would be thrown at him; he had survived so much already. And if they really thought this facility, buried into the forest and barred up with steel and concrete, could snuff him out, they would soon learn how wrong they were.
William took a slow, steadying breath, his eyes narrowing into his sockets as he stared into the blank wall in front of him. They might try and break him, might push him to his limits, but he would not give them the satisfaction. He would not become what they feared.
---
The heavy metallic door to William's cell creaked open the next morning, a small group of people entering; the sound of their footsteps sharp and deliberate on the concrete floor. Three of them were in pristine lab coats, clutching clipboards and tablets, while their faces were as clinical as cold could be. Behind them stood two guards, hands resting on holstered weapons, their eyes fixed on him with suspicion and wariness.
William sat in the steel chair, his gaze flickering over each newcomer as they entered. He could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up like a specimen under glass. The lead scientist-a tall gray-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard-stepped forward and gestured to the others to prepare. His eyes were cold, calculating without a hint of sympathy.
"We will begin with a series of preliminary tests," he said, his tone cool and professional, the same one he would use on an annual check-up. He looked at William as though he were something contained, something controlled-a dangerous assumption, William noted, feeling the edges of his anger flare.
A much younger assistant, barely out of college by the looks of it, approached with a small syringe in hand. Moving gingerly, darting furtive glances at William's red eyes before settling on the task at hand. He tried to cover it, but the faint tremble in his hand betrayed his fear.
"Extend your arm," the assistant murmured in a tone forced into neutrality, though William sensed the tension coiling beneath his calm facade.
William met his gaze, unblinking, and casually extended his arm, his eyes holding just long enough to see the assistant's confidence edge away. The assistant looked away quickly, fumbling slightly as he prepped the syringe and drew a vial of blood. The prick of the needle was but a moment, yet the pain remained-not of the needle per se, but of the disrespecting gaze of onlookers, taking him apart with their eyes.
Another technician stepped forward, holding several small electrodes that were connected with wires. "This will measure your neurological response, " she said, delicately hooking the sensors onto his temples and wrists, her fingers cool and impersonal. She worked in silence, eyes averting his as if direct contact would somehow display too much as if even acknowledging his humanity might make her task more difficult to carry out.
They ran him through a battery of tests: checking his vital signs, his reflexes, and scans that seemed to probe every inch of him. For each of them, William felt his patience fray, frustration simmering below a carefully composed mask. These people did not care who he was; to them, he was nothing more than a threat, an anomaly, something to be dissected and contained. Every jab of the needle, every calculated, detached glance, reinforced the walls they'd built between themselves and him until he felt more like an object, less like a human.
One of the scientists adjusted his glasses, peering down at his clipboard as he jotted down notes. "Remarkable recovery rate," he muttered to himself, nodding as he scribbled out details.
"Subject is resilient to physical trauma far beyond normal limits," added the gray-haired man, as if William were not sitting a few feet away. The word "subject" bit under his skin, but he kept his face still, refusing to show them a reaction.
And the hours ticked by thus: every test chipped away at one more layer of patience. He watched as the scientists conferred among themselves, taking notes and comparing them, analyzing his every action. The guards shifted uncomfortably by the door, their fingers twitching near their weapons whenever he so much as moved his hand. It was exhausting, every moment reminding him of the fact that he was trapped, that they wished to chip away at his resistance.
But even as he endured their probing gazes, their impersonal procedures, he clutched his defiance close, that vital spark within him that refused to be snuffed out. He would endure their tests, their cold detachment. He'd play their game, for now, just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.