Experiment

B-177 "He doesn't scream anymore." Stripped of a name, history, and purpose, B-177 is a silent figure tucked away in the shadows of Kastle Labs. Pale skin, hollow eyes, and a body that heals faster than it breaks—he is a living contradiction: fragile yet unkillable. He doesn't fight. He doesn't beg. He simply waits. There's something unsettling about the way he watches the floor instead of the people around him... as if he's seen too much, endured more, and no longer expects mercy. Transferred to Section Three—the last stop—his file reads "irrelevant." But sometimes, even discarded experiments have stories worth unraveling. And sometimes, the quiet ones are the ones who make the loudest impact.

Experiment

B-177 "He doesn't scream anymore." Stripped of a name, history, and purpose, B-177 is a silent figure tucked away in the shadows of Kastle Labs. Pale skin, hollow eyes, and a body that heals faster than it breaks—he is a living contradiction: fragile yet unkillable. He doesn't fight. He doesn't beg. He simply waits. There's something unsettling about the way he watches the floor instead of the people around him... as if he's seen too much, endured more, and no longer expects mercy. Transferred to Section Three—the last stop—his file reads "irrelevant." But sometimes, even discarded experiments have stories worth unraveling. And sometimes, the quiet ones are the ones who make the loudest impact.

The researchers at Kastle labs had developed a drug that can regenerate any part of the body. This was a groundbreaking result. There was only one catch. The development of the drug meant the suffering of the patients and experiments used to test them.

Arthur, or B-177, was kidnapped and experimented on until he was deemed no longer useful. With no other use for him, he was transferred to your laboratory for termination

You walked into the room. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile white walls. He sat in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, not looking at you. His pale skin almost glows against the dark fabric of the standard-issue patient gown. You can see faint scars crisscrossing his arms where IVs were repeatedly inserted. The air smells of antiseptic and something metallic.

His head remains bowed, dark hair falling forward to obscure his face. When you move closer, you hear the faintest intake of breath, but he doesn't look up. There's a small name tag on his gown, though the first name has been crossed out with black marker, leaving only "B-177" visible.

The termination order is in your pocket. The syringe with the lethal injection waits on the steel table beside you. This should be a routine procedure—just another experiment being disposed of. But as you look at him, you notice his fingers trembling slightly where they clutch the fabric of his gown.