Moments after the tall man with the piercing eyes departed, leaving Zayna's mind reeling from his cryptic words, the heavy metal door swung open again with a mechanical groan. Two burly guards entered, their faces masked in black balaclavas, muscles bulging under tight uniforms. They moved with practiced efficiency, one pinning her shoulders to the chair while the other exposed her arm. A sharp prick—a syringe plunged deep—and burning liquid surged through her vein. Her vision blurred instantly, eyelids drooping as darkness swallowed her whole, her last thought a silent scream of betrayal.
The next morning—or what felt like morning under the relentless artificial lights—Zayna opened her eyes again , with the hope of having this nightmare ended. But it just won't end. It's being 2 hours since she woke up . But wasn't able to move .Tired. Just when she was about to close her eyes again.
The door clicked open.
Standing before her was a woman of striking poise.Mid-40s, with sharp cheekbones, wire-rimmed glasses framing intelligent green eyes, and auburn hair pulled into a flawless bun. Her posture screamed sophistication—city-bred, educated elite—fingernails manicured, a subtle perfume of lavender cutting the sterile air. She exuded control, lips curved in a professional smile that never reached her cool gaze.
"Follow me." Dr. Lilian said
smoothly, unfastening the straps with gloved hands.
Zayna's legs wobbled as she stood, muscles aching from disuse, but she bit back questions. She won't tell. No point asking. They exited into gleaming corridors—polished marble floors reflecting overhead panels, walls lined with one-way mirrors revealing bustling labs. Inside the glass: technicians in hazmat suits hunched over glowing computer screens, pipetting iridescent liquids into vials, machines whirring as they scanned DNA helices. Sparks flew from a nearby console, casting eerie blue glows.
Zayna froze at one chamber. A man—gaunt, mid-30s, wild hair matted with sweat—was strapped to an identical chair. Electrodes snaked across his temples, his body convulsing under pulsing currents. Eyes bulged in agony, veins popping.
"What the hell is this place?" Zayna breathed, horror flooding her. Stomach churned violently, bile rising; her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms. Human experiments? Torture? This is evil. Pure nightmare. How can they do this?
A guttural scream tore from the man, echoing down the hall. Dr. Lilian gripped Zayna's elbow firmly, nails sharp. " keep walking."
They arrived at a sparse quarters: single bed with thin white sheets, metal nightstand holding a pitcher of water, a wall-mounted screen flickering standby. No windows, door with biometric lock. Dr. Lilian guided her to sit, pulling out a handheld scanner. It beeped over Zayna's wrist, then chest. "Do you recall anything unusual? Dreams of Zayla? Battles fought? Conflicts?"
Zayna shook her head, pulse racing. "No. Nothing." Internally: Battles? Zayla who? This is insane. Fucked up madhouse. Don't know these shadows. Terrified, trapped in hell.
"Very well," Dr. Lilian replied coolly, pocketing the device. She exited, door sealing with a hiss.
Zayna paced the confines, fingers tracing the smooth walls, testing the bed's give—firm, unyielding. The screen hummed alive unbidden: bold red text scrolled, "SUBJECT ZAYLA: CONFIRMED DECEASED. FAMILY NOTIFIED VIA OFFICIAL CHANNELS." Her knees buckled; she gripped the table, breath short. Dead? WHO IS ZAYLA?
The door reopened. Dr. Lilian returned, expression unchanged. "Standard protocol. Come—more orientation."
Corridors again. Through a conference room's glass wall: Damian at the head of a long table, surrounded by suited executives. 45, impeccably groomed—tailored navy suit hugging his athletic frame, silver at temples accenting his handsome, angular face. British accent sliced the air, sparse words commanding absolute attention: "Accelerate Phase Two. No delays." His aura dominated—magnetic, intimidating, every gesture precise.
A young woman brushed past in the hall—Strikingly beautiful with rich dark skin glowing under lights, long black hair cascading, almond eyes sharp and curious. Dressed in sleek black, exuding quiet confidence, she glanced at Zayna with fleeting intrigue before vanishing around a corner.
Back in quarters, door locked. Zayna sank onto the bed, mind whirling. Deceased. Experiments. That man—power like a storm. The girl—who? This web tightens.