Alex is injected with unknown chemicals as HYDRA scientists begin stress trials. He sees the other children—some alive, some not—and begins to understand what kind of place he's in.
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The lights returned before he could blink.
White. Unnatural. Buzzing with fluorescent anger.
The straps released.
Not with ceremony—just a series of mechanical snaps, like a piece of equipment being disengaged. One by one, the clamps on his chest, legs, and arms hissed open.
Then came the arms.
Three jointed mechanical limbs descended from the ceiling like robotic vultures. They whirred softly, each tipped with something different—a surgical probe, a biometric scanner, a fat black needle.
Alex tried to sit up.
He barely managed to prop himself on one elbow before the nearest needle punched into his left bicep.
The pain wasn't sharp. It was dull and spreading. The fluid inside was thick and cold. As it entered his bloodstream, it felt like his veins were icing over.
His breath caught. His jaw clenched.
> "Beginning response test: adrenal threshold."
The voice came from behind a mirror—he could see the faintest shimmer of two silhouettes behind it. Observers. One leaned forward. The other didn't move.
Alex's heartbeat stuttered.
His vision began to double.
The room tilted slightly as he slid down the table and stumbled onto his feet. The floor felt soft. Not because it was—because he wasn't grounded.
The metal walls around him groaned. Or maybe that was him.
He looked to the side—toward a narrow vertical window cut into the far wall.
A hallway. Fluorescent lights. A line of cells.
One of them held another kid.
The boy looked no older than ten. Bald. Sickly. Thin like glass. He sat on the floor, hugging his knees, eyes wide and staring.
Their eyes met.
Alex didn't wave. Didn't speak. Neither did the boy.
But the boy gave him a smile.
Just a small, fragile, fleeting smile.
Then he was dragged away.
A guard—black armor, blank faceplate—gripped the boy by the arm and hauled him to his feet. The boy didn't fight. He didn't even look surprised.
The door slammed.
And then came the scream.
Alex's pulse exploded.
He took a step forward—barefoot, bloodied—and slammed his hand against the glass.
> "Subject 16A—containment breach risk. Begin secondary dose protocol."
A new hiss.
His muscles clenched involuntarily. His bones popped. He stumbled to one knee, clutching the table.
The scream in the hallway ended.
Silence.
A sliding metal tray beneath the wall revealed a plastic pouch with sludgy gray food and a bottle of cloudy water. No utensils.
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he looked up again at the mirror.
The reflection stared back: tall, pale, restrained, trembling.
The camera light blinked red.
He whispered again, voice shaking with pressure in his skull:
> "What the hell is this place...?"
There was no answer.
Only the sound of distant footsteps… and a child's body being wheeled away.