After several hours of flight, we finally arrived at our destination. The facility felt strangely different — far more secure than the last one I had stayed in. We landed on a helipad located atop a massive concrete complex. The helicopter windows had fogged up from the inside, but I could still make out the outline of the building — austere, stripped of any markings, as if someone deliberately tried to obscure its purpose.

As soon as the aircraft touched down and the rotor began to slow, the door opened with a hiss. I stepped out after Doctor F., and immediately, two fully equipped guards approached us — faces covered, rifles slung tight against their vests, ready to raise them in a heartbeat.

— Welcome back, Doctor F. How was the flight? — one of them asked, never taking his eyes off me.

— Smooth enough, he replied. Now take our guest to his holding unit.

I frowned.

— Holding unit? — I asked, trying not to sound too surprised, even though my heart had started pounding.

— Yes, holding. After all, we need time to prepare your testing chamber, and we can’t risk you slipping away as easily as last time…

I didn’t get the chance to ask what exactly he meant. The guards were already stepping in, and with one smooth motion, they cuffed me. The metal was cold and heavy, the grip firm but not brutal. We passed through the heavy doors they had come from and entered a corridor lined with milky-white walls, devoid of any windows. Everything here felt unnaturally sterile — no color, no scent, no trace of life.

After a few minutes, we reached an elevator. The guards escorted me inside without a word. We traveled in total silence — the only sounds were the soft hum of the motors and the occasional click of changing floor numbers. Finally, we stopped at a level marked 0.

The doors opened with a loud hiss. We moved forward — the hallway stretched almost endlessly. We passed dozens of rooms marked with alphanumeric codes. Some doors were marked with red warning lights and signs: “Entity Containment — Level 4 Access and Above Only.” Through the small observation windows in some doors, I caught glimpses inside — sometimes empty rooms, sometimes... disturbingly dark ones.

At last, we stopped. The door in front of me was gray, with a magnetic lock. Above it, a small plaque read: “Isolation Unit D-4347.” The guards removed my handcuffs, and without a word, one of them pushed me inside. The door closed behind me with a drawn-out metallic clang.

I looked around. The room was small — too small to be a proper cell, but too functional to be just a prison. Gray steel floor, concrete walls covered in some kind of rubbery paint. A single ceiling lamp cast a dim, flickering light. In the corner stood a narrow bed with a thin mattress and metal frame. Next to it — a desk with a simple plastic chair.

On the desk lay a sheet of paper. The paper was thick, almost official-looking. I picked it up and read:

“D-4347, as of today, you are classified as a Safe-class anomalous entity.
Tomorrow, you will undergo testing and be assigned an entity number.
Good luck.”

I read it once. Then again. And again. My eyes stopped on the word “anomalous.” For a moment I thought it was a mistake. That maybe the note wasn’t meant for me. But everything matched. D-4347 — my number. "Entity." Testing. Holding unit.

Something inside me broke. Maybe not out loud, but deep within. Because suddenly, I realized something I had been denying:

I was no longer just a test subject.
I was no longer a person in the eyes of this organization.
From today, I was an entity.
A Safe-class.
Something that could be locked in a cell… and documented in a report.