A sharp, searing pain shot through Allen's chest, ripping him from the abyss of unconsciousness. The moment his eyes snapped open, his body instinctively recoiled, but another lacerating strike tore across his exposed skin.
"What the hell?!" he gasped, breathless from the agony.
He barely had time to register what was happening before a wave of white-hot pain surged through his body. He tried to move, to shield himself, but the cold, unforgiving grip of steel stopped him. Chains. His arms, stretched and locked, pulled against his raw muscles, every slight movement scraping his flesh. He gritted his teeth, but when he tried to exhale, another sharp kick to his ribs knocked the breath from his lungs.
He coughed violently, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. His blurred vision began to clear, focusing on the figure towering over him—a gaunt, sickly-looking man with sunken cheeks and a face twisted into something both hideous and sadistic. His skin was pale, stretched too tightly over his bones, giving him a skeletal appearance. The most unsettling part, however, was his eye—or rather, the lack of one. A grotesque scar ran down the right side of his face, where his eye should have been, leaving a deep, empty void.
Dressed in a military uniform, the man sneered. His dark green cap was tilted slightly to the side, the brim casting a shadow over his remaining eye. Strapped to his belt was a gleaming Glock, a serrated knife, two small spherical bombs, and the wicked whip that had already tasted Allen's skin.
"Get up," the man ordered, his voice raspy yet filled with authority.
Allen's body screamed in protest, his nerves alight with pain. Every fiber of his being wanted to collapse, to just lay there and figure out what the hell was happening. But something told him that disobedience would only bring more suffering. Swallowing his rage and confusion, he slowly pushed himself up, his muscles trembling with every movement.
As he staggered upright, he studied his captor more closely. The man—no, the soldier—watched him with a disinterested gaze, as if Allen were nothing more than another piece of meat in a long line of prisoners.
"Move," the man barked, nodding toward a metallic door a few feet away.
Allen clenched his jaw and forced himself to step forward, his body resisting every movement. The chains rattled with each stride, a cruel reminder of his captivity. The closer they got to the door, the colder the air became, an unnatural chill creeping through the steel walls. Something about this place felt... wrong.
The soldier stopped in front of the door, pressing a keypad. A series of mechanical clicks echoed through the hallway before the heavy door slid open, revealing a dimly lit chamber.
"Inside," the man ordered.
Allen hesitated for a split second, but with a sharp shove from behind, he stumbled forward, the door slamming shut behind him. The sudden silence was deafening.
He scanned the room. The first thing he noticed was the unmistakable scent of antiseptic and something else—something sickly sweet, like rotting flesh masked by chemicals. The room was a lab, though most of it was eerily empty. A single chair with thick leather straps sat in the center, ominous and waiting. To the side, a glass chamber filled with water shimmered under the dim lights, the surface unnaturally still.
Before he could process anything further, a voice echoed through the room.
"Hello, Number 749."
Allen's head snapped toward the sound. A tall figure stood at the far end of the lab, dressed in baggy clothing that obscured any defining features. A smooth, featureless mask covered their face, making it impossible to discern any expression. The voice was neither male nor female, distorted and artificial, as if deliberately altered.
Allen felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Whoever these people were, they had a plan for him.
And something told him he wasn't going to like it.