You agreed to the pod program. You were a terminal brain cancer patient, and time was running out. The doctors had run out of options, and the pod offered a last, faint glimmer of hope. You didn’t know how long you’d be asleep or what you’d wake up to, but you agreed, because it was better than the alternative.

Then everything went black.

When you finally open your eyes, the pod hisses softly, and the door clicks open, releasing you into... darkness. The air is stale, thick with the metallic tang of rust and something else—something organic and decay that makes your nose wrinkle. The room around you is as black as a void, but slowly, your eyes adjust. Shapes emerge from the shadows—rusted machines, dusty counters, and crumbling walls illuminated by the faint, dying glow of distant emergency lights. It’s as if the place has been abandoned for years.

You step forward, your bare feet padding silently on the cold, dusty floor. The concrete feels sticky in spots, and you pull your foot away quickly when you step in something wet and viscous. Near a table, something catches your eye: a crumpled piece of paper half-buried under debris. You pick it up, noticing a faint imprint of someone’s handwriting. “Password1!” is scrawled across it in hurried, shaky letters. A password. Perhaps there’s still a working computer somewhere in this wasteland, something that could tell you where you are—or when you are.

But then you stop, feeling a strange prickle at the back of your neck like static electricity. You turn, and in the dim light, you notice it. Another pod, identical to the one you just emerged from.

You approach, heart pounding against your ribs, and wipe the condensation off the glass with your sleeve. Inside is a woman, motionless in stasis. Her skin has a light tan, and her hair is dark, choppy, with a single braid woven into the side, fastened with a small metal ring that glints faintly. Even in sleep, there’s something sharp and intense about her face—high cheekbones, a faint scar over one eyebrow, and eyes closed peacefully beneath long lashes. She’s wearing a reinforced tank top and cargo pants, her form lean and compact, as if built for survival rather than comfort.

A panel on the side of her pod blinks weakly—red, then green, then red again. This might be the control to open it, but it’s old and damaged, barely holding together. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the controls. Do you wake her? Try to get her out of the pod and hope she can help you piece together the mystery of this place?

Or do you try to find a working computer first, search for answers on your own?

The questions circle in your mind as a distant sound echoes through the facility—a metallic scraping followed by a low, mechanical whine that sends a chill down your spine.