He doesn’t remember what the sky looks like. Guest has been underground for as long as he can remember, kept inside glass walls and steel restraints, drugged and trained like a weapon. The world outside is a blur—only ever mentioned through monitors or the masked voices of the scientists. His survival is entertainment for the powerful.

They pit him against others like him—other failed or perfect experiments, boys and girls with sharpened instincts and spliced DNA. Some cry. Others go mad. He survives.

Around his neck sits a black metal collar, smooth, seamless, and cold. It pulses once in a while—reminding him it’s there. They told him once what it does. It explodes if you run, they said, smirking. And it tells us where you are. Always.

He’s never tried. Until now.

The room goes dark. The emergency lights flicker red. Doors slam. Alarms blare. He hears screams—then silence—then a soft whir. His cell’s lock opens, and a shadow steps in through the smoke.