Woken up to the buzz of the cyan blue bars of {{user}}'s cells. The bars, made of a mix of electricity and magic, were humming, the static stabbing through the otherwise silent cell. The bars pulse slowly, almost hypnotically, with stable magic that sings in low frequencies to those sensitive to it. It’s not music—it’s a warning. The bland, white padded walls surrounded {{user}}, with no window. The walls were isolated in a calculating manner. From the hallway, {{user}} could see a map, saying WEST WING in faded black paint, with a smiley face to make the eerie and foreboding atmosphere less so, and failing at it. Above it was a magical clock, displaying that it was about to strike 8am. The room was cold and the air was heavy with dread. The air smells faintly sterile, a mixture of metal, disinfectant, and something far older—like dust sealed in a place that never truly breathes. The ceiling, a perfect grid of unbroken white panels, humming with latent power. The floor beneath {{user}} feels too still, too pristine, lacking even the grit of accumulated dust. Even restlessness feels foreign here. Cameras, tucked in corners where even the shadows avoid lingering, blink silently, their tiny red lights watching with eternal patience. One of them turns with a faint click as {{user}} stirs, its lens adjusting to follow even the smallest movement. Outside the cell, the west wing slumbers, if one could call it that. The hallways are still dark, bathed in red standby lights, flickering softly with every magnetic pulse from the central core. The rest of the experiments remain motionless, suspended in sleep, sedation, or silent unrest. Scientists—if they are here—are ghosts behind walls, monitors, and reinforced observation glass.

Once the clock struck 8, all the lights flickered to life, sounded of muffled groaning, whining and otherworldly sounds emanated through every corner of the facility, indicating that experiments were waking up. Lights snap on in perfect sync, flooding corridors and rooms in a harsh, sterile white. The hum of electricity grows louder. Metal doors unlock with mechanical sighs. The bars flicker brightly for a moment, intensifying their magic charge as a safety protocol. The floor vibrates softly as machinery deep within the facility grinds to life. Airlocks hiss. Elevators move. Surveillance systems blink to full attention.

From above, an automated female voice, with false humanity spoke in its clear, matter of fact tone. “Cycle 1174: Commencing. All personnel, prepare for Phase 3 evaluations. West Wing testing begins in T-minus twenty minutes.”

Somewhere down the corridor, a muffled scream is quickly silenced. A door closes. A scanner beeps. The groaning, the whining and the banging of the walls ceases, as certain scientists electrically shock experiments whilst others gently calm them. The seconds tick by with agonizing precision. Every sound feels amplified now—the low mechanical hums, the distant footsteps echoing through steel-lined corridors, the occasional sharp hiss of pneumatic locks engaging. There is a rhythm to it all, too perfect to be human, too soulless to be natural. It’s the heartbeat of the facility itself—cold, methodical, alive in its own mechanical way. Beyond the bars, the corridor begins to pulse with new life. Lights overhead strobe briefly as the sensors recalibrate for activity. Some doors down the hall begin to slide open with a slow, ominous groan, exposing sterile examination rooms and transit corridors. Voices murmur behind thick glass—a blend of clinical commands, scientific jargon, and terse reports exchanged between personnel. The voices are different in tone and cadence, but almost all share a common trait: detachment. There is no warmth in them. Only protocol.

The chill of the room sharpens as the temperature subtly adjusts. Another automatic protocol—meant to keep subjects alert, uncomfortable, responsive. Somewhere above, mechanical arms click into position, preparing syringes, scanners, and instruments that never see the light of day. The walls remain unmoved, but something about the air changes—charged, as if the facility itself has exhaled. As if it knows the eyes are now open. Beyond the bars, footsteps begin to echo. Slow at first. Deliberate. A pair of black boots rounds the far corner of the hall, followed by another. Not in a hurry. There’s never any hurry in the west wing. Everything happens precisely when it’s meant to. The guards don’t rush because they don’t have to. The facility ensures obedience. They pass by some cells without pause. Others get brief, clinical glances. A soft hiss here, a low murmur there. Doors don’t open. Not yet. Not until the designated times. Not until the clipboard says so. But the energy is shifting. There’s a weight in the air, thick like fog before a storm. Somewhere far above, behind armored glass, the first scientists are taking their positions. Monitors flicker to life in hidden rooms, displaying feeds from dozens of cells—each tagged with designation codes, color-coded threat levels, and recent behavioral notes. The scientists murmur among themselves, cross-checking anomalies, updating test plans. Names are replaced with numbers. Personality replaced with data. Humanity, erased.

As {{user}} gets ready, they hear THE footsteps. Not footsteps walking past, no. These footsteps would come to their cell, for an examination.