Chapter 1
Static Behind the Glass
The first thing he knew was that he was cold.
Not the clean cold of winter air, but something damp and metallic, like lying on a slab that had never been meant for comfort. The cold pressed up through his spine, crawled into his ribs, and settled there, patient.
The second thing he knew was pain.
It bloomed behind his eyes in slow pulses, bright and dull at the same time. Each pulse brought with it something worse than pain—a sense that something important was missing, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue that refused to be spoken.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was too close.
Flat. White. Crisscrossed with hairline fractures that reminded him—why did they remind him?—of dried riverbeds seen from far above. A light hummed somewhere overhead, steady and mechanical. Not a flicker. Not a buzz. A controlled sound.
A measured sound.
He tried to lift his head.
Something tugged at his wrist.
Then the other.
A sharp, unmistakable resistance stopped him cold. Panic surged, sudden and animal. His breath hitched, and the world tilted as he twisted his arms, testing the restraint.
Leather.
Straps. Buckles.
His heart slammed against his ribs, too fast, too loud. The hum of the light seemed to grow teeth, drilling into his skull.
No.
The word came without a voice, without language. A reflex.
He pulled harder.
The straps held.
His fingers curled uselessly, nails scraping against smooth metal. The sound echoed too loudly in the room, thin and sharp. The smell hit him then—cleaner, antiseptic, something faintly electrical beneath it.
A lab.
The word surfaced uninvited, dragging unease in its wake.
His chest tightened. He tried to remember how he knew that. Tried to trace the thought backward, to find its beginning.
There was nothing there.
Just fog.
Panic flared brighter.
He sucked in air through clenched teeth, forcing his breathing to slow. In. Out. In. Out. The way—someone had taught him this. Or maybe he'd taught himself.
Focus, he thought. Or felt. The distinction was slippery.
He turned his head to the side.
Glass.
A wide pane ran along the wall to his left, thick enough to warp the space beyond it. Fluorescent lights reflected faintly off its surface, layering his own pale reflection over the room on the other side.
At first, he thought the room beyond was empty.
Then someone moved.
A shape passed behind the glass—white coat, clipboard tucked under one arm. Another followed, slower, heavier in its movements. Their voices were muted, swallowed by the barrier, but he could see their mouths moving.
Talking about him.
The realization landed with a hollow thud.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass. Dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Skin too pale. Eyes too wide.
There was dried blood beneath his nose.
He lifted his head again, just enough to feel the pull of the straps dig into his wrists. A fresh spike of pain lanced through his temples, and his vision swam.
The people beyond the glass didn't react.
That scared him more than the restraints.
If they didn't care whether he hurt himself, then pain wasn't a mistake here. It was expected.
A sound crackled to life above him.
"Subject Sixteen," a voice said.
It came from everywhere at once, disembodied and flat. Not unkind. Worse—neutral.
The number hit him like a blow.
Not because it surprised him.
Because it fit.
His throat tightened. He swallowed, the motion dry and uncomfortable. His mouth tasted faintly of copper.
"Subject Sixteen," the voice repeated. "Do you understand me?"
He stared up at the ceiling, at the cracks that looked like rivers. His heart hammered. His mind reached, grasping for context, for memory, for anything to anchor him.
Nothing came.
He opened his mouth.
No sound emerged.
His tongue felt heavy, clumsy. He tried again, forcing air past his lips.
"I—" The sound scraped out of him, raw and unused. He winced at his own voice, the unfamiliarity of it. "I… don't know."
There was a pause.
Beyond the glass, the man with the clipboard made a note.
"State your name," the voice said.
The room seemed to lean closer, as if listening.
He closed his eyes.
Darkness rushed in, thick and disorienting. He waited for something—anything—to surface. An image. A word. A sense of self.
All he found was static.
"I don't remember," he said finally.
His chest ached with the admission. It felt like a failure, though he couldn't say why.
Another pause.
The hum of the lights filled the space, relentless.
"That is acceptable," the voice said. "Memory degradation was anticipated."
The words slid over him without meaning, but the tone set his nerves on edge. Clinical. Detached.
"Do you feel pain?"
"Yes," he said immediately. Too quickly. As if honesty might earn him something.
"Where?"
"My head. My wrists." He hesitated, then added, "Everywhere."
A faint murmur rippled through the observation room.
The voice didn't respond right away. He imagined them watching him, studying the way his chest rose and fell, the tremor in his hands.
"Remain calm," the voice said. "You are safe."
The lie was so obvious it almost made him laugh.
Instead, he clenched his jaw.
The air shifted.
He felt it before he saw it—pressure changing, the subtle displacement of space. The lights overhead dimmed, just a fraction, then brightened again.
Something slid into view above him.
A metal rail ran along the ceiling, and attached to it was a transparent panel, no larger than a dinner tray. It glided smoothly into position over his chest, stopping a foot above him.
Inside the panel, suspended in midair, was a shard of glass.
It was irregular, jagged along one edge, sharp enough to catch the light. It hung there, unmoving.
His breath caught.
"What is that?" he asked.
No answer.
The shard twitched.
Not fell.
Not rose.
It shifted—a slight adjustment, like an invisible hand nudging it into place.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
The shard began to descend.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
His heart slammed harder, panic surging up his throat. He strained against the restraints again, leather biting into skin. The panel above him descended in perfect alignment, the shard held precisely at its center.
"Wait," he gasped. "Wait, please—"
"Subject Sixteen," the voice said calmly. "Prevent contact."
The meaning hit him all at once.
"No," he whispered.
The shard dropped another inch.
Something inside him twisted.
The world narrowed to that single point of falling glass, to the certainty of pain, of blood, of failure. His thoughts scattered, frantic and uncoordinated.
Stop it.
The thought wasn't a command. It was a plea.
The shard wobbled.
Just barely.
The panel continued its descent, but the glass inside it shuddered, its path no longer perfectly straight. It tilted, the jagged edge rotating a few degrees off-center.
The change was subtle.
But it was enough.
The shard struck the metal table beside his ribcage instead of his chest, skidding harmlessly across the surface with a shrill scrape.
The panel stopped.
Silence crashed down, heavy and stunned.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. His head throbbed, pain flaring brighter than before, but beneath it was something else—an echoing emptiness, as if something had been torn loose inside him.
Beyond the glass, the observers erupted into motion.
Clipboards were raised. Voices overlapped. Someone pointed at him, then at the table, then back at him again.
The voice overhead spoke again, and this time there was something sharp beneath the neutrality.
"Describe what you did."
He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving. The cracks blurred together, rivers bleeding into one another.
"I didn't… I didn't do anything," he said. The words felt inadequate, wrong. "I just—wanted it to miss."
A hand pressed against the glass on the other side.
The man behind it leaned closer, eyes intent.
"Subject Sixteen," the voice said, more slowly now. "How did you know it would fall?"
He frowned.
"I didn't," he said. And that was the truth. "I just knew… it was wrong."
Another pause.
He felt suddenly very tired.
The cold seeped deeper into his bones. His limbs felt heavy, leaden. The room seemed farther away, as if he were sinking into the table.
"End the test," someone said beyond the glass.
The lights dimmed again.
The panel slid back along its rail, disappearing into the ceiling. The shard of glass was removed, carried away by unseen hands.
The straps at his wrists loosened with a soft click.
Relief surged through him, sharp and dizzying.
"Subject Sixteen," the voice said one last time. "This session is concluded. Do not move."
Footsteps approached.
The door at the far end of the room hissed open, letting in a breath of colder air. A figure in a white coat entered, face obscured by a surgical mask. Gloved hands checked his restraints, his pulse, the dried blood beneath his nose.
The man leaned closer.
"Do you remember anything?" he asked quietly, not into the intercom this time. His voice was different up close. Human. Curious.
He searched himself one more time.
There was nothing.
"No," he said.
The man studied him for a moment, then straightened.
"That," he said to no one in particular, "is consistent."
The needle slid into his arm before he could react.
Cold fire rushed through his veins.
The ceiling fractured, rivers splitting and reforming as darkness closed in.
The last thing he heard was the hum of the lights—and beneath it, faint and distant, a sound like a scream echoing through the walls.