Caleb's wrists were bound the moment the scanner blinked red. Two guards flanked him, their smiles fixed but their grips iron. He didn't resist—resistance was suicide—but his mind churned, tallying exits, noting weapons, counting paces as they marched him away from Lena and the boy.
They took him through the inner compound, past neat rows of barracks and lit courtyards, to a gated sector sealed with iron doors. The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. Warmer. Staler. He smelled bleach, metal, and something coppery that made his teeth ache.
Down corridors painted sterile white, the guards led him into a room filled with machines. A woman in a pale coat—no nametag, no insignia—gestured to a chair bolted to the floor. "Sit."
Caleb hesitated. The guards raised their rifles. He sat.
Straps clamped over his arms and legs before he could blink.
The woman smiled without warmth. "Standard protocol. Don't be afraid."
Caleb's laugh came sharp and bitter. "You people wouldn't know standard if it bit you."
Her eyes didn't flicker. She raised a device that hummed faintly, scanning across his chest. The display pulsed red.
"Contamination markers," she murmured, jotting notes. "You've been too close to the rift events."
Caleb sneered. "We've all been close. Out there, no one's clean."
"Perhaps." She placed the device aside. "But some carry more than scars."
---
Hours blurred. Blood drawn. Questions repeated again and again. "How long were you outside? Did you experience auditory distortions? Visual anomalies? Did you feel anything enter you?"
He gave curt answers, spitting sarcasm when he could. The woman wrote everything without expression.
When they finally left him alone, he tested the straps. No give. His arms ached from the effort. He forced himself to breathe slow, cataloguing the room. One door. A vent overhead, too narrow. A mirrored wall that reeked of observation.
He wasn't alone.
He stared at his reflection until his jaw clenched. Then he spoke softly, deliberately: "If you're listening—come closer. I'll make it worth your while."
For a moment nothing. Then, faintly, behind the mirror, a sound like breathing.
---
The next session was worse.
This time, they brought another prisoner. A man younger than Caleb, gaunt and shaking, eyes rimmed red. They strapped him to the chair opposite.
The woman entered with her clipboard. "Today we test reaction thresholds."
"What the hell does that mean?" Caleb snapped.
She ignored him. She pressed a button. The lights dimmed. A low hum filled the air, vibrating in Caleb's teeth.
The other man began to scream.
His back arched against the straps, veins bulging, sweat spraying from his brow. The hum grew louder, pulsing, until the man's eyes rolled white. Caleb strained against his bonds, shouting, "Stop it! You're killing him!"
The woman simply watched, taking notes.
After several agonizing minutes, she pressed the button again. The hum ceased. The man slumped forward, drooling, his chest still heaving.
"Response acceptable," the woman said calmly. "Subject viable."
She turned to Caleb. "Your turn."
Caleb's heart hammered. "Try it, and you'll regret it."
The woman's smile didn't falter. "Everyone says that."
She pressed the button.
---
It was like being split apart.
The hum wasn't sound—it was intrusion. It crawled into his skull, his bones, his blood, unraveling him from the inside. His vision fractured, doubling, tripling. He saw himself in dozens of mirrors: screaming, bleeding, dissolving into light.
And in each reflection, Lena's face appeared behind him, whispering words he couldn't hear.
He bit his lip until it bled, forcing the scream down, refusing to give her the satisfaction. His body convulsed, but he stayed silent.
When the hum cut off, he slumped in the chair, sweat pouring down his face.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "High resistance." She scribbled notes. "Dangerous. Possibly useful."
Caleb spat blood at her feet. "You people aren't running a refuge. You're running an experiment."
Her smile widened just slightly. "Exactly."
---
That night they moved him to a cell. Small. Bare. No bed, just concrete. The walls vibrated faintly, as though the hum never truly stopped.
He lay on the floor, chest burning, mind racing.
If Zone Echo was an experiment, then Lena, the boy—all of them—were test subjects. The food, the safety, the smiles—it was bait. The walls weren't to keep the riftspawn out.
They were to keep the survivors in.
And Caleb knew, with a cold certainty, that he would never be allowed to leave.
Unless he broke the cage himself.