The rest of the first night was quiet.

No group introduction. No icebreakers. Just a silent shuffle of strangers being shown around the facility, one by one. Each person had seemed focused on adjusting to the new environment, leaving little room—or energy—for conversation.

By the third day, Star had at least learned everyone’s names.

Glenn was the older man, built like a former soldier but worn thin by something deeper than time. He spoke in short sentences and watched everyone like they were suspects in a case he hadn’t solved yet. Miriam was the elderly woman, frail and perpetually connected to a wheezing oxygen machine. Star had tried to smile at her once—she’d nodded weakly in return, then erupted into a deep, rattling cough that made his skin crawl.

She didn’t look good. Not just sick—failing.
Each day, Miriam looked a little worse: paler, thinner, more distant. And yet she was always surrounded by people in white coats, staff Star assumed were doctors. They never explained anything. They never smiled.

Eventually, the others started to avoid her, not wanting to catch whatever it was she carried. Star didn’t blame them.

The first week went by fast, surprisingly so.
Each day followed the same mechanical routine: lights on at 9 a.m., a knock at the door, and a nurse handing out a tiny paper cup containing a single white pill and a shot of water. After that, they were allowed to roam the main floor, which consisted of a vast cafeteria and a sparse workout room with aging equipment and rubber flooring.

What struck Star as strange—even from day one—was how empty everything was.

The facility clearly had room for dozens, maybe even a hundred participants. Yet it was just them. Five people. No chatter in the halls, no other groups being led through orientation. Just a handful of workers in medical scrubs and the same silent faces passing by in the same schedules. No visitors. No noise.

Star had grown up around clinics and waiting rooms. He knew what busy felt like. This place wasn’t busy. This place felt like a trap that forgot to hide the bars.

It was late afternoon now, and the cafeteria was silent.
The sterile air smelled faintly of bleach and warmed-over starch. Fluorescent lights flickered in the high ceiling, buzzing faintly like dying flies. The tables gleamed, untouched and perfectly aligned, every corner polished like someone cared—but no one ever seemed to eat here.

Star stepped through the double doors, his meal tray in hand. A wrapped sandwich, a protein bar, and a juice box. It could’ve passed for an elementary school lunch if the silence didn’t make it feel like a wake.

Only Glenn was there. He sat near the center of the room, alone, back straight and tray untouched. He looked up as Star entered and motioned lazily with two fingers.

“You gonna eat standing there all day?” he asked, voice as rough as it was tired.

Star hesitated. Something about Glenn put him on edge. He wasn’t unfriendly, exactly. Just unreadable. The kind of man who didn’t speak unless it mattered. The kind of man who noticed things.

Still, he moved toward the table and sat across from him. The plastic chair scraped loudly against the floor, making him wince. Glenn didn’t flinch.

Star picked up his sandwich but didn’t open it. His appetite had been drifting ever since the third day.

“First time doing one of these?” Glenn asked.

“Yeah,” Star said. Short and flat.

“You get anything yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Pills. Injections. Blood draws. You feel different?”

Star’s stomach tightened. He looked down at his tray.

“Why are you asking?”

Glenn shrugged. “Just trying to figure out what kind of trial this is. You’ve noticed, right? How quiet it is. How few of us there are.”

Of course he had. Everyone had. But no one said it.

“They gave you a full workup?” Glenn asked, voice low. “Blood tests. Scans. Any... unusual questions?”

The tension in Star’s shoulders coiled tight.

“What kind of questions?”

“You know.” Glenn’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, assessing. “About your background. Medical history. Anything that might make you... stand out.”

There it was. Star’s pulse kicked.

He stared at Glenn, his fingers slowly curling under the table.

“You've been eyeing me since day one,” he said carefully. “What—are you trying to figure out if I belong here? Or are you asking because you think I’m some kind of outlier?”

Glenn didn’t blink. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Star stood abruptly, his chair legs scraping hard against the floor. The tray rattled as he shoved it away, unopened sandwich still wrapped. His throat felt tight, breath shallow.

What does he know? Is he guessing? Did one of the nurses say something? Is this about the intake forms? 

And then—

A wet, hacking cough broke through the silence.

Both men turned toward the double doors.

Miriam stood there, hunched over her oxygen tank, trembling violently. Her skin was grey, lips tinged blue. Sweat beaded on her temples. She looked like a body caught in motion—a woman whose soul had already left.

She took two staggering steps forward, then doubled over with a guttural choke.

Her oxygen mask filled with thick, green bile.

Star recoiled. Glenn didn’t move.

Miriam collapsed to her knees, clutching at the mask, gagging, the oxygen line hissing madly as she tried to suck in breath through the sludge. Her body shook with each cough, bile dribbling down her chin and into the front of her gown.