The lab's white lights were so harsh they looked designed to beautify corpses.
His friend was strapped to a metal chair, limbs nailed down with thick restraints—a specimen prepared for the table.
Researchers in white gloves whispered, detached, as if discussing lunch seasoning."Add another milliliter. Don't waste the sample.""His neural response curve looks excellent—perfect for comparison data.""Make sure to take photos. Archives requires 'high resolution.'"
From behind reinforced glass, Ethan watched.Vic murmured at his side: "I've seen students dissect frogs with more reverence. At least they say 'thank you, little frog' afterward."
The experiment began.A syringe of black liquid—refined nightmare energy, hailed as the 'weapon of the future'—was injected into his friend's veins. The moment it entered, his skin spread dark veins like ink bleeding across paper.
His body convulsed. Teeth clattered. Veins bulged as though something inside was crawling.One researcher shouted with delight: "Perfect curve! Compatibility exceeds the standard threshold!"Another added, "Proof that humans can indeed coexist with nightmares. Of course, most will have to die once first."
Ethan's friend twisted, his face barely human anymore. Ethan realized this was no different from interrogation: once it was about extracting confessions; now it was about extracting souls.
His friend screamed, a guttural sound—half human, half nightmare—like a corrupted cassette tape:"You… are the real… monsters…"
The researchers chuckled, as if he'd cracked a joke."Classic psychological resistance. Don't worry, once integration is complete, he won't even bother to curse."
Vic muttered, "Makes me wonder if 'lack of humor' is a Bureau hiring requirement. Otherwise why do they all smile like funeral-home ads?"
The prisoner's pupils glowed with bluish-white light, like two bulbs about to burst. Alarms shrieked. On the screens flashed:[Energy Unstable].
The researchers grew more ecstatic."Write this down! Critical reaction!""Better results than we predicted!""A perfect natural test subject!"
To them, he wasn't human—just material heating up under the lens.
Ethan's stomach churned. He wanted to smash the glass and rush in, but he knew that was suicide. Instead, he muttered with a bitter laugh:"What's black humor? It's when humanity, chased by monsters, decides to build a bigger monster—and put the bill on the future."
Suddenly, his friend's head snapped up, eyes locked on Ethan. Even restrained, he forced out words, ragged and raw:"Don't… let them… win…"
A volley of tranquilizer darts struck him. His body froze, statue-still. The researchers exhaled in relief and went back to logging data.One joked, "Shame he won't last much longer. But it's enough. The experiment's a success."
Ethan stared at his rigid silhouette, an absurd sorrow welling in his chest.
—In this lab, survival wasn't the goal.Death was the milestone of progress.