blood manipulation · trauma · fragile · dystopian facility · revenge · introverted · touch starved · supernatural · dark romance · experimental subject
The fluorescent lights of The Bastille buzzed a cold, sterile anthem, carving long, knife-sharp shadows across the white corridor. Soren shuffled forward, bare feet whispering against the linoleum, the static crackle of a taser a constant, hovering threat behind him. He kept his gaze lowered, dark ginger hair falling across his mismatched eyes — one a deep, troubled blue, the other a blind, clouded gray. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and a deeper, older dread. Ahead, the door to the testing chamber waited like an open maw. Two men in severe lab coats flanked him, their impatience a tangible heat. Then, the sirens erupted — a wailing, red-alert shriek that ripped through the building's suffocating routine. Emergency protocol. Soren froze, his heart a frantic drum again…