The iron door groaned under Subject 24238's trembling push, its weight resisting him until it finally relented, swinging inward with a reluctant creak.
He braced himself, expecting a pit of shadows and despair, a room carved from nightmares, blood-streaked walls, chains dangling like serpents, the stench of decay thick in the air.
Instead, light stung his eyes, crisp and blinding. He blinked, disoriented, as the scene resolved into focus.
A neat, somewhat spacious room stretched before him, its walls painted a pristine white. The paint gleamed, fresh and unmarred, a stark contrast to the grime-encrusted prison he'd just left behind. It was clean. Too clean.
The prisoners were already inside, lined up in rigid rows, their postures stiff and unnaturally straight, as though held upright by invisible strings. Their tattered uniforms hung loose on gaunt frames, a patchwork of gray against the sterile backdrop.
Subject 24238's breath hitched, his mind struggling to reconcile the sight. This wasn't the chamber of doom he'd conjured, a slaughterhouse of rusted blades and echoing screams. No, this was something else, something subtler, and yet the air thrummed with a quiet menace he couldn't name.
Sinister, perhaps, but not the overt hell he'd feared.
"Too imaginative," he chided himself silently, the thought flickering through his fractured mind.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his cracked lips, absurd in its defiance, but it died as quickly as it came. The absurdity of hope had no place here.
A sharp jab struck his back, the guard's baton, its tip digging into his spine.
With his small frame, light and brittle from whatever had ravaged him before waking, the force sent him stumbling forward.
He caught himself just shy of falling, his bare feet scraping the smooth floor. "Get in, time-wasting filth!" The voice was a growl, rough and familiar, dripping with contempt.
He didn't need to turn to know it was the same brute who'd unlocked his cell, the scarred, mean-looking beast with the baton and the snarl.
Subject 24238's jaw tightened, a spark of something hot flaring in his chest. Respect, he thought bitterly. Even a lowlife like him deserved that much.
One day, he'd teach that guard a lesson, etch it into his flesh if he had to. The promise settled into his bones, a quiet vow to cling to.
Before he could dwell on it, a figure approached, a man, sharply dressed in a suit that seemed alien in this place.
The fabric was crisp, black as shadow, the tie knotted with precision. His shoes clicked against the floor, polished to a mirror sheen, and his face was smooth, unscarred, almost too perfect.
He moved with purpose, seizing Subject 24238's arm and steering him toward the back of the line.
The grip was firm but not brutal, a calculated strength that brooked no resistance. "This way," the man muttered, his voice clipped, eyes darting briefly to the door as though expecting something to follow.
Subject 24238 let himself be guided, his mind racing. What was this? The room, the suits, the rigid prisoners, it didn't fit. He shuffled into place at the end of the line, the suited man stepping back with a quick, nervous glance around.
The other prisoners stood like statues, their gazes fixed ahead, hollow and unblinking. He turned to the inmate beside him, a wiry figure with sunken cheeks, and leaned in, voice barely a whisper. "What's happening?"
The man didn't flinch, didn't even acknowledge him, his eyes locked on some distant point. Ignored.
Subject 24238 swallowed the dry lump in his throat, frustration coiling tighter.
The door thudded shut behind them, the last of the prisoners filing in with halting steps. The room fell silent, the echo of boots fading into a stillness that pressed against his ears.
No more came through. The line was complete, a gallery of broken bodies standing in eerie unison.
Then, a voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and mechanical, emanating from a speaker he couldn't see. "Is that all?" it asked, the words cold, detached, carrying an edge of impatience.
"Yes," the suited man replied, his head bobbing in a quick, eager nod. His polished facade cracked for a moment, a flicker of something, fear, perhaps, tightening his features. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing straighter, as though to mask it.
Subject 24238 watched him, the unease in his gut deepening. Fear in a man like that meant something worse than batons and bars.
"Good," the voice on the speaker intoned, a single word that landed like a stone in still water. "Let us begin."
The room seemed to shift, the air growing heavier, charged with an unseen current.
Subject 24238's pulse quickened, his eyes darting around the white expanse. Begin what?
The prisoners remained motionless, their silence deafening, but he could feel it, the tremor of anticipation, the weight of something inevitable closing in.