Jack woke to silence.
No screaming. No gunfire. No blood.
Just the dull hum of artificial light and the soft pressure of something underneath him. The air felt strange—cold but dry, filtered. Sterile. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was white.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The floor.
All of it was soft, padded — like a room built for someone too dangerous to be left alone.
> Where... am I now?
He sat up slowly, every muscle aching. His body felt hollow. The red in his vision was gone, but the pain had left something else behind — a weight in his head. Like a pressure. A crack. Something just under the surface.
The room had no windows. No toilet. No furniture.
Just four walls, a small ceiling vent, a camera in the corner, and a thick metal door with a slot at the bottom — like he was some kind of animal in a cage.
The only noise was his own breathing.
Jack curled his knees to his chest and stared at nothing for a long time. His throat was sore. His side still burned from the bullet wound, but it had been cleaned again. Bandaged properly this time.
They needed him alive.
> Why?
> What was that thing?
Before he could think longer, the door made a loud clunk.
A metal panel on the bottom slid open with a mechanical hiss, and a gray tray slid in.
On it sat:
A block of dull, grayish paste — solid, flavorless nutrients.
A clear plastic cup, filled with what looked like water… but it wasn't. It moved slightly thicker, almost gel-like. The smell was faintly metallic.
He picked up the cup and sniffed it.
> Not water.
He took a sip.
Warm. Tasteless. It wasn't meant to be enjoyed — just to keep him alive.
The block tasted like chalk.
He chewed slowly, mechanically. The tray didn't even come with utensils.
The camera above watched silently.
No one came. No voices. No orders. Just cold food and padded silence.
Jack placed the tray on the floor and leaned back against the wall.
That's when he heard it.
> "You called me."
A voice. Faint. Whispering.
Jack froze. His eyes darted around the room. No one there.
> "You called me, and I came."
It wasn't a memory. It was inside. Like it had spoken through his bones.
Jack clenched his jaw.
> No. Not real. Just stress.
But then…
> "You felt fear. That's when I was born. You bled. That's when I rose."
The voice was low. Smooth. Not angry — hungry.
Jack covered his ears, but the voice didn't go away.
It wasn't outside him.
It was part of him now.