The boy(Subject 12)
I open my eyes.
Not because I want to. Because my body does it on its own.
The light is always on here.
Bright. White. Cold.
There are no windows. Just metal walls and air that tastes like nothing.
I don't know what time is.
But the lights sometimes get dim, and after that, I lie down.
When they get bright again, I open my eyes.
I think that is called a "day."
I don't remember how many times I've done this.
Maybe hundreds. Maybe only one.
The bed beneath me is stiff. Not hard, not soft. Just there.
Like me.
I sit up when the door opens.
It doesn't creak. It slides, smooth, like everything else.
Two people walk in. Always two. Always white coats. Always masks.
The tall one is called "Dr. Lyren."
The smaller one is "Assist-Three."
I only know that because sometimes they say each other's names.
They never say mine. I don't have one.
They don't look at me like a person.
They look at me like numbers.
"Vitals normal," the assistant says, pressing a cold metal stick against my neck.
"Commencing injection," says the tall one, lifting the syringe.
The needle goes in. It burns. I feel the cold fluid run through my veins.
My limbs tremble, only for a second. It used to make me cry.
Now, I just watch.
They talk while they wait. I listen, quietly.
"Neural response rate is holding at twenty-three percent. Still no sign of personality formation."
"Let's keep him in the white chamber today. Maybe phase three visual triggers can force a spike."
I don't understand their words.
But I memorize them.
Sometimes, new words stick in my mind like gum.
Sometimes they don't.
I follow them out. I don't need to be told.
My legs move by habit. My arms hang by my sides.
The hallway is long. Clean. Metal.
I walk past another room. I think someone is inside.
A girl? A boy? I don't know. I only see shadows.
They don't look at me.
Or maybe they do. I never check.
We reach the white room.
It's the same every time—walls, floor, ceiling. White. Blinding.
There's no sound in here. Just me.
And the speakers on the walls.
A buzzing voice says:
"Initiate Observation Routine. Emotional Response Phase Three."
The lights dim slightly.
The wall in front of me lights up.
Pictures flash.
A baby crying.
A woman screaming.
Fire.
Water.
A man smiling.
Something with fur—a dog, maybe—being struck.
Each image only lasts a second.
I watch.
Not because I want to.
Because it's what I'm supposed to do.
They're looking for something inside me.
Something that reacts.
I feel nothing.
Not sadness. Not anger. Not fear.
Nothing.
One time I blinked during an image of someone bleeding.
They called it "promising."
But I just had something in my eye.
After a while, the lights return to normal.
Footsteps echo on the other side of the wall. A voice mumbles.
"He's completely unresponsive. Flat-line empathy. Even during high-stimulus visuals."
"We'll increase the dosage tomorrow. Try compound E7."
The wall slides open again. They take me back.
This time, they put me in a different room.
It has a table. A chair. A small plate with food.
Brown paste. Warm. Tasteless.
I eat. Slowly. Mechanically.
I don't enjoy it. I don't dislike it.
It just happens.
Afterward, they scan me again. Lights blink. Machines beep.
They talk. I listen.
"Heart rate normal. Pupils steady. No vocalization. No signs of distress."
I don't know what distress is.
But I think they want me to feel it.
They give up. They always do.
The lights dim.
That means sleep.
They put me back in the small room. The one I started in.
As the door closes, one of them speaks softly, not realizing I'm listening:
"End routine. Mark it under Tuesday."
Tuesday.
They've said that word before.
It comes after "Monday," I think.
But I don't know what a Monday is, either.
Just that it's different. Somehow.
I lie on the bed again.
I don't close my eyes yet. I stare at the ceiling.
Something tickles at the edge of my thoughts. Not a feeling. Not quite.
But something that doesn't belong.
A word. One I heard long ago, I think.
Lonely.
I don't know what it means.
But maybe I did. Once.
The lights dim.
That means sleep.
I lie down. The bed is the same. The air is still.
The room is quiet.
I close my eyes, because I'm supposed to.
I don't feel tired.
I just stop moving.
But tonight… something different happens.
Darkness doesn't stay empty.
There is… something.
A field?
Green.
Warm?
The sky is not white. It's blue. I think that's what they call it.
The light above is soft, like the fake light in the observation room… but gentler.
It touches my skin instead of burning my eyes.
I'm walking.
My feet press into something soft—grass.
That's what the voice once said. "Look, he's playing in the grass."
Who was "he"?
There's a sound—laughing.
Light. High.
It comes from me.
A strange noise I've never made before.
Laughter.
I don't understand it.
Then I see them.
Two shapes standing far away.
One taller, with long hair. The other shorter, broader shoulders.
A woman and a man?
They wave at me.
They don't have faces. Just blurs.
But they feel… warm.
The warm thing swells in my chest. It's unfamiliar.
Heavy, but soft.
I ask myself:
What is this? What am I feeling?
I don't know the word.
But it doesn't hurt. Not yet.
Then everything shifts.
The sky shatters.
The light disappears.
I hear it first:
A rumble. A crack.
Then screaming.
The woman and man are running toward me.
I try to reach them.
Too slow.
Too far.
Something falls from above.
A pillar—massive, dark, sharp.
It crushes them.
The warmth vanishes instantly.
Their voices disappear under the sound of stone splitting flesh.
A thick sound. Wet. Final.
Screams echo.
Then—something else.
A presence. Heavy. Wrong.
Not human.
It crawls from the shadows.
A shape made of limbs and teeth and black holes where eyes should be.
It screeches—a sound that shakes the ground.
It smells like death and something worse.
It comes for me.
I don't run. I can't.
It raises its claw.
I think this is the end.
But then—
Something cuts through the air.
A light.
A sword?
Someone leaps forward, striking the creature.
They kill it in one blow.
I can't see their face.
The world flickers.
Then breaks.
I wake up.
The lights are still dim.
My bed is the same. My body is cold.
Nothing has changed.
Except—
My eyes are wet.
Water. Dripping down my face.
I touch my cheek.
"What… is this?"
I don't know.
It doesn't hurt.
But it's heavy.
There's no voice telling me the answer.
No one watching.
Just me.
And the quiet.
But deep inside—
Something is calling.
Telling me to remember.
Even if I don't understand why.