Hidden deep within the heart of one of the world's most powerful tech corporations lies a laboratory that appears on no map and in no official report. Behind reinforced walls and constant surveillance, dark experiments are carried out—experiments that could never withstand the scrutiny of the public eye.
That morning, the sharp thud of a fist against a metal door shattered the silence of the underground corridor.
"Ethan!" barked a hoarse voice from the other side. "Wake up. The doctor is waiting."
Inside, a young man offered a half-hearted smile. The room was cold, lit only by the ceiling lamp. The AI notification had woken him a few minutes earlier, as usual.
...
Time had passed in the blink of an eye. Ethan lived completely isolated from the outside world, locked away in this unknown place. Day after day, he was subjected to tests to evaluate the functionality of the chip. The tests grew ever more demanding and complex: simulations, long-term memory, advanced system comprehension, logical operations. They studied him relentlessly, even while he carried out basic bodily functions.
There had been others like him—children as young as five, and youths up to twenty years old—all implanted with chips.
At first, everything went perfectly; the prototypes showed no signs of malfunction, and the results were astonishing. But soon, they began to fail—gradually. Minor errors in chip production surfaced, and one by one, the subjects began to die. Their numbers dwindled slowly, each failure allowing improvements to be made to the remaining chips.
In the end, Ethan was the only survivor, and his chip had undergone so many modifications he no longer bothered trying to keep track.
...
The guard never missed a day, nor did the doctor. The routine was merciless—an endless cycle of mental trials so difficult that even a university graduate would struggle to solve them.
The guard watched him with empty eyes, as always, with a single purpose: to escort him to the next phase.
At last, they arrived at the testing room. The light was dim, almost somber. And there stood Dr. Elvis—tall and thin, with his hair neatly slicked back and round glasses he never removed. Always so immaculate and precise.
He was the leader of the experiment, responsible for all the deaths and for Ethan's suffering. Yet his face always bore a cheerful smile, as though none of it had anything to do with him.
"Good morning, Ethan," he said calmly as he approached. "Your vitals look great today. As always, the project is progressing smoothly, isn't it?"
Ethan didn't answer. The air reeked of antiseptic and wiring.
"How are you feeling today?" Elvis asked, adjusting the monitors.
"The same as yesterday," Ethan replied flatly.
Elvis chuckled. Over the years, he had learned to read between Ethan's empty responses.
"I understand," he said, placing a hand on Ethan's arm. "The process has been long and exhausting. But it's nearly over; you don't have much time left here."
Ethan's face tensed slightly, though he remained outwardly calm.
"The project… is almost finished?" he asked, unable to keep a tremor from creeping into his voice.
"Yes, exactly," the doctor said, smiling pleasantly. "The prototype has reached peak performance. Thanks to these sacrifices, we can say we're nearly at the end of this stage."
"I see," Ethan said, recalling all the faces that once surrounded him—now vanished, one by one.
The doctor nodded, still smiling.
"We're done for today. You can go," he said, patting Ethan on the shoulder.
After the session, he was escorted to the cafeteria. That morning, the food tasted even more flavorless than usual. Perhaps it was due to the thoughts churning in his mind.
He ate listlessly and was then taken to the showers. Warm water ran down his naked body, finally allowing him to relax and escape the troubling thoughts. Even the guard's stare on his back no longer bothered him.
He was returned to his room, where he picked up the only possession he had besides his bed: a book the doctor had given him for his last birthday.
He had only a few pages left, but exhaustion from the draining day overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, the AI's alert woke him:
[Warning: Anomalous body temperature detected. Current value: 42.5 °C. Initiating scan… Scan complete. Result: No detectable anomalies. Cause of elevation: Unknown.]
His breathing was heavy, his face slightly flushed; a pounding headache throbbed in his skull like a hammer striking from the inside.
Ethan was perplexed by the report. The AI had never once failed to identify the cause of a problem.
"AI, run the scan again. Use all available sensors."
[Understood. Repeating scan… Result unchanged; origin undetected.]
He sat up abruptly. A wave of dizziness forced him to lean against the wall as he stumbled toward the door to call for help—but no one answered.
Instinctively, he looked at the surveillance camera in the corner of the room, and his heart sank. For the first time in all his years there, the camera was off.
The symptoms worsened; his legs gave out. He collapsed hard, the sound echoing through the empty room. Still unable to understand what was happening, his eyes closed—swallowed by a vast, white silence.