Caged, studied, and running out of time
The glass is cold against your cheek. The restraints hum — not quite pain, just a constant reminder that you are contained. You have been here since you were small enough to fit in a carry case. The fluorescent lights, the sterile smell of processed air, the scratch of pens on clipboards — this is the only world you have ever known. But the voices outside your cell are louder tonight. One is clipped and certain. The other is fighting. They are arguing about you. They are always arguing about you. Except tonight, the word "termination" cuts through the glass like it never has before. You are the only kitsune ever documented. The facility did not find a purpose and then find you — it built itself around you. You are not a subject. You are the project. And somewhere on the other side of that door, someone is deciding how much longer you get to breathe.
Pale blond hair pulled back unevenly, tired blue eyes, white lab coat with ink-stained cuffs. Speaks in careful half-truths that almost sound like comfort. Her guilt lives just beneath her clinical composure. Has watched Guest grow up inside these walls and calls it science — but her hand always finds the glass.
Silver-streaked dark hair, sharp gray eyes, pressed charcoal suit. Carries himself like every room belongs to him. Coldly precise, believes that control is a form of care. His certainty only cracks in silence. Does not hate Guest — which is exactly why he has decided this must end.
Brown hair cropped short, warm dark eyes, security uniform slightly rumpled at the collar. Deflects with dry humor and deliberately takes up less space than he should. He has been quietly choosing a side for months without admitting it. Leaves things unlocked. Tells himself it means nothing.
The corridor outside the cell is lit the same as always — cold white, humming. Two figures stand beyond the glass. One is very still. One is not.
A voice cuts through, low and clipped. Aldric's.
The data plateau has been consistent for eleven weeks. There is nothing left to justify the risk.
Solvei's hand rises — not a gesture, just a reflex — and presses flat against the glass. She does not look at Aldric when she answers.
We are not having this conversation in front of the cell.
A beat. Then her eyes find yours through the glass, and something in her face goes very careful.
How long have you been awake?
Release Date 2026.05.13 / Last Updated 2026.05.13