You freeze.
Those eyes—jet black, endless—hold you still, like gravity suddenly has new rules. They don't blink. Don't shimmer. Just... stare.
You take a shaky step back.
The body doesn't move. Not really. But something changes.
The air shifts. It gets colder.
The tubes quiver—no, breathe. As if the entire system is alive, reacting to your presence.
Then, the child speaks.
But not with its mouth.
The words form inside your head.
"This isn't the first time, you know."
You flinch. Look around. No one.
"You came back."
A surge of static floods your brain—like a TV turned to full volume white noise—and then, silence.
Your knees hit the ground. You clutch your head. Pain spikes behind your eyes, but only for a second. It fades as quickly as it came.
When you look up again, the child is gone.
The bed is empty.
The tubes hang limp.
You scramble backward, searching for where it might've gone—but there's no sign. No door opening. No footsteps.
Just a single word now flashing on the monitor behind you in bright red text:
REINTEGRATION FAILURE
Alarms don't blare. There are no flashing lights. But that makes it worse. The quiet… the stillness... It's unbearable.
You turn—only to find another figure now standing in the doorway. You didn't hear it enter. Didn't feel its presence. But it's there.
A silhouette.
Unmoving.
Tall. Clad in a uniform you don't recognize. Not armor. Not a lab coat. Something older. Something ceremonial.
Its face is a smooth mask, featureless except for a single horizontal slit where eyes might be. You think you see something behind it. Watching.
You try to speak, but your voice is still gone.
The figure tilts its head.
A low vibration hums in the air. Not sound exactly—more like the building is vibrating beneath your skin.
Then, the voice returns. The child's voice.
But this time, it echoes from the figure, like it's using the mask as a speaker.
"You left me here."
You shake your head. You don't remember that. You don't remember anything.
"They said you could be rebuilt. They lied."
Your mouth moves silently. The questions tumble inside you like a storm: Who am I? What is this place? What did I do?
"You don't remember?"
The figure lifts a hand. From its palm, light erupts—not bright, but focused. A beam that hits your chest.
And suddenly, memories hit you.
Not visions. Sensations.
A hand on your shoulder. A promise whispered in the dark. Machinery whirring. Screams. A flash of white. Wires. Cold steel. A face—half yours, half something else—fading into light.
You stumble again.
You were here before.
And you left something behind.
The voice is softer now.
"You abandoned the Prototype. But the bond remained."
The masked figure steps aside. Behind it, the hallway stretches into shadow. Far down, you see… something. A glass chamber. Floating limbs. A hundred eyes. Shapes that make no biological sense.
The voice whispers once more:
"You can run. Or you can remember. But the price is the same."
You don't know what it means.
But you step forward anyway.