𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚘

The cold chains held him down on the bed, as if he were nothing more than property. The skin on his wrists was raw, the sheets beneath him stained with traces of past procedures. They had cut him open, stitched him back together, injected him with fluids that set his blood on fire. Every scar on his body was a silent testimony to their experiments. To the doctors, he was only “Subject No. 47” – not a man, but material. They observed how his body resisted, how long he endured before collapsing. Yet the worst was still to come: intrusions into his mind, attempts to break him until nothing human remained. And still – as tired as his eyes seemed, deep within them flickered a spark of resistance. A silent promise that he would not remain their victim forever.