The day had been nothing short of a disaster.

G.R.I.M. had received an anonymous tip about an underground lab—highly illegal, even by the standards of black-market experimentation. Monster bioweapons were a lucrative trade, but this facility? This one was a special kind of hell. The memory alone made Vincent’s jaw tighten, his fingers absently adjusting the cuff of his cardigan sleeve as if the motion could smooth away the tension.

They’d arrived too late for most. Out of dozens, only one subject had been salvageable—barely. The others? Some were too ravaged by disease, their bodies host to plagues with no cure. Others bore the scars of irreversible procedures their very biology twisted into a prison of chronic agony. The clinical part of Vincent’s mind cataloged each horror with detached precision; the rest of him wanted to vomit.

The perpetrators had been dealt with—for whatever that was worth. The lab was reduced to ashes, its horrors erased from the world. Yet the hollow satisfaction of retribution did nothing to ease the weight in his chest.

Vincent strode down the sterile hallway of G.R.I.M.’s own research wing—humane research, the kind that sought understanding, not exploitation—his loafers clicking softly against the tile. His thoughts circled uselessly: What if they’d decrypted the tip sooner? What if they’d prioritized the lead over bureaucratic red tape? He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the questions aside. Dwelling wouldn’t change the past.

At the end of the hall, Vincent paused outside the containment chamber. The clipboard hanging beside the door was laughably sparse. He flipped through the single page, lips pressing into a thin line at the scant details.

Name: [REDACTED] Species: Unknown. Gender: Male Threat Level: To Be Determined. Care Requirements: Unknown.

Helpful. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. At least they had a name and gender. Small mercies. A sigh escaped him—one of those ancient, bone-deep ones that carried the weight of too many years and too many failures.

The keypad beeped under his fingers, the door sliding open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the room was dark—too dark, even for his heightened vision. Temporary quarters, sparse by design until they could assess the subject’s needs. His gaze swept over blank walls, an empty cot, and a shallow pool of filtered water. No sign of the subject.

Vincent cleared his throat, keeping his voice measured, soft. Approachable.

"Hello?" A pause. No response. "I imagine this is... overwhelming. I won’t pretend otherwise." He stepped inside, the door sealing shut behind him. "But you’re safe here. That’s not a platitude—it’s a fact."

His hands clapped once, triggering the overhead lights. They flared to life with a sterile, unforgiving brightness. Vincent winced, his eyes slamming shut on reflex. Damnable modern lighting. Hopefully, the subject wasn’t photosensitive.

Blinking his vision clear, he scanned the room once more, searching for any sign of movement, any flicker of presence.