Then I felt it—a sticky warmth on my skin. My white scrubs were stained with blood. Startled, I touched my face, and my fingers came away coated in it. I was bleeding—but from where?

My fingers trailed to my nose, and I realized it was dripping blood. One of the paramedics gently began to wipe it away, their expression focused yet unreadable. 

“Easy, don’t panic,” the paramedic said gently. “Looks like you had a seizure. Your coworker said you passed out during it.”

“Passed out?” My voice was hoarse and weak. “No, that’s not what…?” I looked over to Pray’s glass containment unit but my vision blurred as a headache overcame me. I gasped from the pain before closing my eyes. It felt like forever. My body jostled from being moved into another part of the facility. The light above a never ending stream as it filtered in the starile hallways. Before I knew it I was in a type of hospital room. 

I was lifted onto a hospital bed, an IV placed in my arm, and a heart monitor attached to my chest. A doctor entered shortly after, injecting something into the IV line. They hadn’t asked for my consent, not on any forms. Before I could protest, a wave of drowsiness overtook me, and everything went black.

When I woke, I wasn’t in the usual hospital room. No—these walls were different. Too familiar. The oppressive, sterile atmosphere was unmistakable. It was the lab, or rather, the lab’s medical wing. That much I could handle.

What I couldn’t handle, however, was the fact that I couldn’t move.

I tensed, trying to jerk my arm. It wouldn’t budge. Straps. I was restrained—belted to the bed.

What the hell?

My legs were bound as well. I craned my neck to look, the thin hospital blanket covering them. My eyes darted around the room. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside me, its cold rhythm mocking my growing panic. Above me, a camera’s unblinking eye stared down, recording everything.

“If anyone can hear me! I’m not a threat to anyone—I—”

The door opened, cutting me off. A doctor stepped in. She was older, her white coat pristine. At least she didn’t have that dead-eyed, detached look most of the staff here carried. Her white hair was pulled back neatly, her brown eyes framed by round glasses.

“You’re awake. Sorry about all this,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “It’s protocol. I’m Dr. Shelly.”

“Protocol? I—”

“You were in physical contact with Subject 003’s blood,” she interrupted, holding a file—my file. “Graves made the call to restrain you. Just in case any anomalies arose.”

“But I’m fine!” I snapped, frustration flaring. “I already ran a self-diagnosis with the lab equipment and—”

“We’re aware of that,” she said, unflustered. “We ran additional tests to be thorough. Graves has been monitoring you ever since the incident. Your reaction to Subject 003 was… unique. Or perhaps just a seizure.”

“Unique? I was panicking! Caldwell shoved me against the glass against my will!” My voice rose, irritation bubbling over.

“Calm down, Dr. Collins. I’m not your enemy,” she said with a tired sigh. Her voice was gentle, an attempt to ease the tension. Her fingers, aged and shaky, flipped through the file, the pages whispering against one another.

I let my head fall back against the stiff mattress, staring at the sterile ceiling. “So… what’s the diagnosis?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“Nothing unusual,” she said after a pause. “Your hormones are normal, and there’s no sign of infection—alien or otherwise.”

Of course, I thought. Relief still washed over me. The last thing I needed was to become a test subject.

Dr. Shelly shuffled to the foot of the bed, her frail hands working to undo the straps binding my ankles. Her movements were slow, painfully so, and my impatience surged with every fumble. It felt like an eternity before she finished and moved to the straps on my right arm.

“I think I’ve got it from here,” I said gently, flexing my freed wrist. I reached over to undo the last strap on my left arm. My skin bore red imprints where the belts had bitten into me. Someone had done this—someone far stronger and more forceful than her.

“What about Dr. Caldwell?” I asked, glancing at her as I rubbed my wrists.

Her expression didn’t change. “You mean the one who pushed you against the glass?” She seemed to sift through her memory. “Graves has barred him from Subject 003’s lab for the time being. Until everything is sorted out.”

“Good,” I muttered, relieved.

Shelly nodded absently, then smiled faintly. “Oh, I almost forgot. He asked about you.”

“I don’t care what he—”

“No, not Dr. Caldwell. Subject 003,” Shelly corrected me.

“Pray?” I said his name quietly, the question hanging in the air. “Why? Did he freak out again or something?”

“Hm? No,” she replied, as though replaying the memory in her mind. “He just asked about you—wanted to know if you were okay. Everyone thought it was unusual. I told him we weren’t sure and that if you came back, you’d talk to him yourself about how you were doing. Just thought I’d relay the message.” She gave a slight nod and set my file down on the counter. “You’ve been cleared and are free to go.”

“Good. I need some fresh air,” I muttered, already heading for the door.

“Oh, Dr. Collins,” she called after me, her voice stopping me mid-step. “The way out to the labs is the third door on the right. Also… try to avoid contact with Subject 003. I’d hate to see you back here—or worse, quarantined.”

Quarantined.

The word hung heavily in the air, more ominous than any threat she could have made. It seemed there was a fate worse than death here, and I had to tread carefully. They were always watching.

“Right. Thanks,” I replied tersely, stepping into the corridor.

I still wore the bloody scrubs and office coat from before, the faint metallic tang of dried blood clinging to me. I needed to get out of this place.

But I froze as I rounded the next corridor.

Pray was concerned about me? Should I tell him I was leaving so he wouldn’t freak out like before? It certainly seemed like the right thing to do. But why did I feel compelled to tell him? His concern—if that’s what it was—was unusual, even for him.

Could he feel empathy? Was he capable of more than just primal instincts and violence?

I rubbed my temples, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Damn it. This was a lot to process. Before I could overthink it, I turned back toward the lab. I needed to talk to him. Most importantly, I needed to know if he understood anything about my vision—or dream—whatever it was.

At the lab door, I scanned my card. The hallway was empty, and no one else was inside. The absence of other researchers brought a small wave of relief. I walked toward the glass containment unit, my steps steady and deliberate. It surprised me—this newfound calm. Normally, fear would claw at me when I approached him. But this time, adrenaline and determination pushed me forward. As I neared the glass, my eyes flicked over the strange symbols etched onto its surface. I scanned the room for Pray, glancing left, then right. Nothing.

And then I jolted.

He was already there, pressed against the glass. I hadn’t even seen him move. Damn it. He always had a way of making me jump.

“Serenity,” his voice came, low and muffled through the barrier. “It’s good to see you made it back.”

The words should have been comforting, but his tone lacked any emotion. His face remained unreadable, an eerie mask devoid of humanity.

“I hear you asked about my well-being,” I said, starting cautiously. My voice carried through the small holes in the glass, and I hoped he could hear me.

He nodded once.

Progress.

He may not have grasped the nuances of body language, but this—this faint acknowledgment—was something. Perhaps he was capable of empathy, in his own strange, unsettling way.

But Zelman’s words echoed in my mind: He can be manipulative.

Was this concern genuine, or was he just trying to gain my trust for his own purposes?

I didn’t know. His emotionless state made this harder than it needed to be. Either I took the risk and trusted him, hoping he truly had some capacity for empathy, or I shut him out entirely, treating him like the experiment he had always been. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I couldn’t see him as just a lab rat. Not anymore. It was time to take the risk—and hope for the best.

“Yes,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “The blood…” His words trailed off.

“Ah, that. It was just a seizure from panicking,” I assured him, though my thoughts lingered on the dream. I couldn’t help but wonder—did he cause it?

He didn’t respond, his expression unreadable. I struggled to think of something that might elicit a reaction, deciding to start small.

“Do you have… emotions?” I asked cautiously. “It seems like you’re concerned about my well-being.”

At first, I thought he wasn’t going to respond. But then, in a subtle motion, he nodded.

Okay, maybe I was getting somewhere.

I swallowed hard. It was eerie to make actual progress like this. I should’ve felt unnerved. Instead, I was fascinated—fascinated by the idea of connecting with him on a deeper level. After all, I did have an advantage when it came to understanding him.

“What do you… feel when you see me?” I asked, my curiosity overtaking caution.

“Desire,” he said simply.

I froze.

Desire.

No, I didn’t want to get stuck in this loop again. Scrambling for something to steer the conversation, I blurted out, “I mean, other than that—maybe friendship or something?” My voice wavered, betraying my nerves.

“What is… friendship?” he asked, tilting his head as though considering something foreign.

So, he didn’t understand social norms. That much I had suspected. But if he could learn… maybe, just maybe, he could become more approachable.

“It’s when you care about someone, but it doesn’t involve… intimate things. Just friends,” I explained, straightening up near the glass.

“Connection without desire…?” he murmured, narrowing his eyes as if processing the concept.

“Yes!” I said, a little too enthusiastically.

“I do not want one without the other—with you,” he said bluntly.

Back to square one.

I ran my fingers through my hair, exhaling sharply. There had to be another way to reason with him. “Okay, so… sometimes friendships lead to desire, and at that stage, people become lovers. Maybe we can be friends first? Before lovers?”

I had no intention of becoming his lover, but I needed to tell him something—anything—to distract him. He didn’t respond right away, his silence stretching on longer than usual. I caught my reflection in the glass, my eyes filled with worry. Was this my last chance to reach him?

Finally, he spoke. “I can do that.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Holy hell. This was happening. Sweat trickled down my brow as relief flooded me. My shoulders felt lighter, and for the first time, I saw a glimmer of understanding in him.

“You remember Dr. Zelman, right?” I ventured.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you’d be willing to learn more… about what it means to exist in this world?”

“Like what?”

“Reading,” I said, turning from the glass containment unit. I descended the stairs quickly, grabbing the first book I saw on my desk. A romance novel—it would do for now.

I returned to the glass and held it up, flipping it open to the first page. “Like this. Words and sentences. Would you like that?”

He studied the book intently, his gaze narrowing. A visible frown crept across his face.

Frustration? Was this the first real emotion he’d shown beyond anger?

“I don’t understand it,” he admitted, his voice tinged with annoyance.

“I know. But I can teach you. However…” I hesitated, ensuring my words carried weight, “you have to behave.”

“Behave?” he echoed.

“Yes. That means no touching, no attacking, no claiming, and no saying I’m yours. Not just with me—anyone.”

“But you are,” he said, irritation flickering in his tone.

“No, Pray,” I countered firmly. “Remember what we said—friends first.”

He grunted, his gaze shifting away as frustration deepened. But after a moment, he nodded.

I sighed in relief.

“Okay,” I said. “So remember: friends means no touching, no attacking, no biting, and no claiming.”

He gave another nod, slower this time.

This was a glimmer of hope. His compliance, however tentative, was progress. I could only hope he would stick to this agreement—and that no one would interfere.

Of course, there was always the possibility that he was manipulating me, saying the right things to make me drop my guard. But something about his actions felt genuine. Something more real than what Zelman had described. And that sliver of authenticity gave me hope. It also made me less afraid of him.

For now.

This was only the beginning of a long road, and I could feel it in my bones—things were just getting started.