Subject Eleven

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.

The walls loom around me, bare and smooth concrete, oppressive in their silence. No windows. There is no hint of the outside world. Only this cold, lifeless box. Overhead, a single bulb flickers, casting erratic shadows that slither across the floor like creatures. The light hums, a low, electric drone that settles into my bones. The air is thick, stale, and has a chemical, acrid odor. It coats my tongue and settles in my throat, choking me with a taste I can't identify.

My head throbs, a deep, pounding ache that blocks out rational thought. My heart is pounding in my ears—too fast, too loud.

I try to take a slow, steady breath, but my lungs resist. My chest tightens, and panic flows up my spine like ice water. Something is very wrong. I close my eyes, delving into the recesses of my mind in search of a name, a face, a flash of recognition.

Nothing.

Just a void. Vast, unending. A terrifying void where my past should be.

I press my fingers against my temples, hoping—begging—for something to emerge. But all I hear is a dull echo of confusion and fear. A pressure builds inside of me, like a scream just beneath the surface, clawing for relief.

I am not able to attend. I should not be here.

I push myself up, but my body protests. My limbs feel sluggish and heavy, as if I've been sleeping for far too long. The cold floor bites into my bare feet, providing a stark contrast to the feverish heat rising beneath my skin. I look down. A simple grey jumpsuit clings to me. No shoes. No socks.

A chill runs down my spine.

I check my pockets.

Nothing.

No phone. No ID. Not even a scrap of paper bearing my name.

Who am I?

I swallow the rising panic and look around the room. The walls are seamless and perfect, as if they were designed to remove any sense of place or time. The corners are sharp and clinical. The only way out is through a thick metal door. There's no handle on my side.

A cell.

A prison.

I approach it, pressing my fingers against the seam, looking for a flaw, an imperfection—something to tell me I'm not trapped. But the metal is smooth and unyielding, as if mocking my attempts.

Then there was a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate.

Each step reverberates through the sterile silence, measured and calculated. They're not rushing. They know I'm here.

My breath catches. My pulse beats against my ribs. I press my back against the wall, every muscle coiled tight, listening and waiting.

The steps end just beyond the door.

A prolonged pause.

Then, a mechanical click. A low whir followed by a gentle hiss. The door slides open.

A person steps inside.

Tall. Controlled. Their posture conveys authority and an unsettling calm. The dim light spills from the hallway beyond, backlighting them and transforming their features into a shadowed mystery. But I feel their gaze fixate on me, dissecting and analyzing.

The silence extends, thick and expectant.

Then—

"You're awake."

The voice is smooth and devoid of urgency. Almost clinical.

My throat is dry and raw. I swallow hard, forcing out words that scratch against my vocal cords like sandpaper.

"Who are you?" My voice is shaky and hoarse due to lack of use. "Where am I?"

The figure takes a step forward, and the overhead light finally illuminates their features. A man. White laboratory coat. Crisp. Unblemished. His face is unreadable, his expression meticulously crafted—too measured, too precise. But his eyes see too much. Cold intelligence, sharp and uncompromising.

He looks at me for a moment, then exhales. The sound is almost regrettable.

"You don't remember, do you?"

A statement. This is not a question.

A shiver spreads across my skin. I shake my head, my stomach twisting with anxiety. "Remember what? "Who am I?"

A pause.

Then he tilts his head slightly, as if deciding how much to say.

"It's a bit more complicated than that."

Frustration rises like a tidal wave, temporarily drowning out the fear. I move forward, fists clenched. "Try me."

A flicker of something passes across his face. Amusement? Pity? I can't tell. But then he nods.

"Very well." His voice is smooth and measured. "You're an experiment. One among many. A subject in a study that you don't understand. Your memories have been suppressed for your and our safety."

The words hit me like a punch in the stomach.

Experiment.

Suppressed.

My stomach lurches.

I stagger back, shaking my head, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.

No.

This can't be real.

It cannot be.

And yet—

Somewhere deep inside, beneath the confusion and fear—

Something inside me knows he is telling the truth.

His words are like a punch to the stomach.

No.

That is not possible.

That is insane.

A cold dread coils in my stomach, tightening with each passing second. My mind searches for something—anything—that will prove him wrong.

"I had a life," I say quietly, my voice hoarse and fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering. "I must have had a life."

He does not deny it.

"Indeed, you did." His face remains eerily composed, his eyes unreadable. "But it was never yours."

The room tilts. My stomach lurches. The air feels suddenly too thin, suffocating me with the weight of his words.

No. That cannot be correct.

That cannot be correct.

My head throbs as I force myself to think, fighting against the fog that surrounds my thoughts.

"I don't believe you."

"That's understandable," he adds smoothly. His tone is measured, unsettlingly calm, as if he's explaining the weather rather than dismantling my whole reality. "But the truth remains unchanged."

A sharp tremor runs through me, and rage coils tightly in my chest. My nails dig into my palms, providing a welcome anchor in the tumultuous chaos.

"Please, let me out." My voice is now steel, cold, and hard.

"I can't do that."

Heat rushes through me, hot and violent. I don't think; I just move.

I lunge.

I want to feel my fists connect to prove my existence, to remind myself that I am powerful in this moment. But—

Something happened.

A sudden, brutal wave of dizziness hits me. My limbs buckle. The room warps and tilts violently, as if the ground beneath me is shifting. My breath stops, my body folds in on itself, and I collapse, gasping for air.

I hear him move slowly and deliberately. There's a presence beside me.

Then, he crouches. Watching. Studying.

"The serum in your system is still active," he says, his voice low and almost soothing. "Sudden movements elicit a response. You need to rest.

I struggle to raise my head, but it's as if my body no longer belongs to me. My limbs are sluggish, as if weighed down by something heavy and unseen. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth.

"You drugged me?" I force the words out, each one scraping like sandpaper against my throat.

"It was necessary." His voice is gentle now, but infuriatingly so. "Your body's adjusting. "The process is far from simple."

My fingers twitch against the cold floor, and my body refuses to obey me.

"What process?"

He observes me for a long time before responding.

"Reintegration."

The word lingers in the air, imbued with meaning I can't comprehend.

Darkness rushes in, engulfing me completely.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I awoke again.

A different room.

Although the walls remain concrete and sterile, they now have a human-like quality. A simple bed. A small table. A mirror is mounted on the opposite wall.

I push myself up, feeling the strain in my muscles, yet the previous sluggishness has dissipated. The dizziness has subsided to a distant echo, and my thoughts are clearer, albeit still tangled in a web of unanswered questions.

The mirror catches my attention.

Something inside of me tightens.

I slowly stand up, my legs unsteady but functional. I take cautious steps toward it, the cool floor pressing against my bare feet.

Suddenly, it dawns on me.

The reflection is mine.

But it's not.

A face I don't recognize looks back. Eyes wide and searching. My own hand lifts, fingers brushing against my cheek and tracing my lips. The skin is warm and alive. But there is nothing. There is no spark of recognition. There's no hint of familiarity.

I'm a stranger in my own skin.

The door clicks open behind me.

I whirl, my heart pounding.

The same man stands there, calm as ever, with a tablet in his hands.

"You're making progress."

My heartbeat is pounding in my ears.

"Who am I?" This time, my voice is steady, with a fierce and desperate edge. "Stop with the riddles." No more experiments. "Tell me."

He looks at me for a moment and then exhales, setting the tablet aside.

"Your name is Subject Eleven."

The number sounds hollow in my ears. Not a name. A designation. A label.

"You participated in a classified program designed to improve cognitive and physical abilities. "But something went wrong."

My stomach turns. My breath is caught in my throat.

"What went wrong?"

He remains silent for a moment. His gaze flickers briefly before he speaks again.

"You started remembering."

The words are like a stone in my chest.

"You weren't supposed to."

A shiver runs through me.

"And the others?" My voice barely rises above a whisper.

He doesn't respond.

The silence is thick and suffocating.

"Gone." His tone is now quiet and almost reluctant.

"Gone how?"

He still says nothing.

My stomach turns.

"You were going to get rid of me too."

He nods. "But you survived."

I swallow hard, my throat tightening and my mind racing.

"What does that mean?"

His gaze becomes sharper, as if he is assessing, weighing, or making a decision.

"It means we need to reevaluate." Leaning in slightly, he keeps his expression inscrutable. "You are an anomaly."

Take a slow breath in.

Anomaly.

I'm not sure what that means. Not yet.

But I know what I'm not.

I'm not one of them.

I look at the door, my heart racing. My fingers twitch by my sides. A plan starts to take shape—a dangerous and palpable spark igniting within.

"So what happens now?"

Our gazes lock.

"That depends on you."

A pause.

I nod in response. "Then tell me everything."

He hesitates. I can see the battle in his face. But then —

He sits across from me.

And he starts to talk.

By the time he's done, I know two things:

I am not who I believed I was.

And I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to break free.