The containment tube hissed, releasing a plume of vapor as its glass casing slid open with a metallic screech.
A thin figure slumped out, landing hard on the cold floor. A boy—maybe nine or ten. His frame was gaunt, spine arched unnaturally from the thick metallic brace fused into his back. Wires and tubes hung from his arms like the remnants of a cruel experiment.
Brandon's breath caught. "What… the hell is this place?"
Ethan knelt down, gently placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. The child twitched, flinching at contact, but didn't resist.
He was alive.
Barely.
Behind them, Charles Freeman watched like a curator admiring his collection.
"Prototype Batch A." He said it like he was talking about equipment. "Kids like him were the first. Abandoned. Forgotten. No one came for them." His gaze turned sharp. "Just like no one's coming for you."
Ethan stood up slowly, fists clenched. "You're sick."
Charles smiled, unbothered.
