(Third Person).
The hum of the ventilation system droned through Section Nine, a low, steady whisper above the darker sounds: the occasional groan from a cell, the metallic rasp of chains shifting, the drip… drip… drip… of unseen leaks.
In the central corridor, under the flickering glow of overhead lights, two senior researchers stood, their clipboards pressed to their chests.
Their coats were clean this morning, but under the crisp linen, the weight of months of failure hung around them like a funeral shroud.
"Numbers are dropping too fast," murmured the taller one, Dr. Halvors, voice rough from too many late nights. "We've lost four in the last cycle — organ failure before the second phase."
"And now the Mayor has forbidden fresh captures without approval," added his colleague, Dr. Nera, fingers tightening around her pen until the knuckles blanched.
Halvors let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Approval, we will never get. Brackham wants results but keeps our leash short."
