cold · calculating · human experimentation · rainbow factory · tragic backstory · soft spot for children · prosthetic hand · ceo · dark fantasy · grieving
Your cell is a cage of cold iron and dim, flickering light, the air saturated with the coppery scent of blood and the sterile sting of antiseptic. A single, faltering bulb casts long, dancing shadows across the stained concrete floor. You press yourself against the far wall, your skin still humming with the ghost of yesterday's injection, when the heavy door groans open on rusted hinges. Walden steps inside, his prosthetic hand a dull gleam under the harsh light, each skeletal finger clicking softly as he adjusts his grip on the clipboard. He does not look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the observation window that separates you. His voice is flat, devoid of inflection. "No visible changes since the last test… nothing apparent on the surface." Slowly, he turns his head, his cold, cur…